The tributes amass, the media chimes 
out the pre-rehearsed phraseology: 
“a life of service &#8230; a man of his times”
and woe betide anyone who begrimes 
with a smear of truth this man’s memory. 
The tributes amass. The media chimes
its dull carillon of state-approved rhymes: 
nobility &#8230; dignity &#8230; history &#8230; 
a life of service. A man of his times,
a racist lording it in foreign climes, 
the natives expected to bend the knee. 
The tributes amass, the media chimes:
world leaders weigh in. Their quotes are sublime, 
teleprompter whitewash used liberally: 
a life of service, a man of his times.
Flags at half-mast. Follow the sad clown’s mime, 
black-armband a myth, mourn self-consciously. 
The tributes amass, the media chimes 
a life of service, a man of his times.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: <a style="color: #808080;" href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Unveiling_Young_Darwin_statue_HRH_Prince_Philip_2009_Christ%27s_College_Cambridge.jpg">Wikimedia Commons</a></pre>

Unveiling_Young_Darwin_statue_HRH_Prince_Philip_2009_Christ&#8217;s_College_Cambridge

Poem: A Man of His Times

Ominous opening credits theme ebbs 
to silence. Fade in: shaky-cam footage 
from various news agencies; a montage 
establishing time, place and the threat
unfolding unstoppably on a global scale. 
Headlines whirl. Graphs and charts stamp 
stark projections onscreen. Editing ramps 
up urgency, drama, the stakes. The tale
about to unfold is one of humanity 
at its worst and best. The selflessness 
of carers and keyworkers put to the test 
and emerging heroic. Cut to: the inanity,
the dithering, the bullshit of those 
in high office, the Etonian provocateurs 
bluffing and blustering, pitifully unprepared 
for a crisis that can’t be diffused
by three-word slogans and posh-boy jeers 
during PMQs. We’re on shaky ground. 
Any half-aware test audience crowd 
would demand a hero they can cheer,
not some Greek chorus of doorstep applause 
curtailed in the second act as too political. 
This floundering narrative is antithetical 
to mainstream cinema. It’s like Star Wars
from the POV of an admin assistant filing 
the performance review of a storm-trooper 
who got shot two scenes ago, or the blooper 
reel from a public information film on tiling
or basic plumbing for beginners. It’s not 
the film you paid your money to see. 
You didn’t pay to watch the idiot-in-chief 
ignore the science, grin deathlessly, toss off
some half-arsed soundbite, execute 
a soft-shoe sidestep from responsibility. 
Whither the nurses, shop workers, delivery 
drivers &#8211; the real heroes? Let’s reboot
the project, focus on them; let’s weave 
multiple stories, Short Cuts style, celebrate 
the under-appreciated, the underpaid; 
let’s give the audience a reason to believe,,
a grand finale. Let’s put a Hollywood spin 
on this year-long real-time clusterfuck, 
flip the narrative, double-down on feelgood; 
rewrite, recast, re-edit. We can do this thing.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: Andrew Parsons / No 10 Downing Street</pre>

Boris Johnson Coronavirus Update Conference

Poem: The 2020 Movie

Look! There it is, your civic pride 
back from putting an X in a right wing box, 
back from egging on a bigot down the ‘Spoons, 
back from trolling Facebook, Twitter, 
giving it all lives matter and I’m not racist but, 
back from Incel 101, back from dude, bro, 
brah, one of the lads, excitable boy innit, 
back from awright darlin’, only havin’ a joke, 
fuck you then, femiNazi, PC gone mad, 
an Englishman can’t speak his mind anymore.
Look, here it comes, full of The Sun, full of 
The Daily Mail, full of easily disproved scare stories, 
full of somebody else’s rhetoric, full of hate. 
Here it comes, your civic pride, blaming it 
on the blacks, the Asian (BAME? what’s BAME? 
fuckynell, PC gone made innit), blaming it 
on the Scots, the Welsh, the Irish, blaming it 
on the Jews, the Muslims, the Catholics, 
the Protestants, the Hare Krishnas, blaming 
it on anyone who looks different, sounds different, 
buys the Guardian or reads books on public transport.
Here comes your civic pride, barely able 
to articulate what “it” is but shrieking blame 
blame blame like a demented character 
on a Sunday evening BBC melodrama.
Civic pride with a hard-on for World War II, 
civic pride with a collection of military insignia 
bought off the net, civic pride with back issues 
of Guns &amp; Ammo and a second hand paperback 
about the SAS. Civic pride down the pub 
giving it our lads, Churchill, Union Jack 
(glass in the face for the smartarse who mentions 
it’s only a jack if it’s flown on a ship). Civic pride 
at chucking out time giving it Thatcher, Falklands, 
Port Stanley, Belgrano. Civic pride giving it 
bring our brave boys home and send in the troops 
and not really seeing the difference or the problem.
Civic pride with a union flag bumper sticker 
on a German or Italian or Japanese car, 
civic pride with a union flag tee-shirt 
necking a pint of Heineken, a pint of Grolsch, 
civic pride with a moby in a union flag case 
ordering an Indian, ordering a Chinese, 
settling down to an America cop show.
Civic pride advocating Buy British. 
Civic pride wanting British jobs for British people. 
Civic pride saying Britain first and not seeing 
the problem, and not seeing the problem. 
Hatespeak and division and not seeing the problem. 
Parroting media barons and not seeing the problem. 
Blaming the gays and not seeing the problem. 
Blaming women and not seeing the problem. 
Blaming the jobless and not seeing the problem. 
Blaming the victims and not seeing the problem. 
Being part of the problem and not seeing the problem.
Look! Here it is, your civic pride, 
breathless from pegging it over hill 
and field, from glen to glen (oh Tommy boy, 
the dog whistle politician’s calling &#8230; ), 
hammering through the hamlets, the villages, 
the towns, the cities, full-tilt heads down 
see you at the end through this green 
and pleasant land, screeching up 
just in the nick of time like Jim Dandy 
to the rescue only it’s Tommy innit? Tommy this 
and Tommy that. Ought to give him a statue.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: FCO via <a style="color: #808080;" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/foreignoffice/41642401391/">Flickr</a></pre>

St Georges

Poem: Civic Pride

Normality has come to 
an impasse. The world shrinks 
to a small web of streets, 
everyday life to these 
four walls. Everything 
beyond the window is empty.
Empty streets, cars empty 
of passengers. Buses, too: 
with everything 
closed down, travel shrinks 
to supermarket trips. Those 
bustling city streets
are silent now. Streets 
grim with shutters, empty 
windows. How many of these 
places will reopen, and to 
what custom? Income shrinks 
across the board; everything
looks bleak. Everything 
seems surreal, streets 
not even gusted with the shrink- 
wrappings of litter, empty 
premises hung with signs to 
the effect of “these
are temporary measures”. These 
measures might not be. Everything 
depends on those to 
whom the man on the street 
is expendable: the empty- 
hearted politicians who shrink
from responsibility, who shrink 
into the bluster of these 
post-truth times. Empty 
of empathy, they forget: everything 
is microcosm. These are streets 
the privileged don’t belong to.
Everything shrinks 
to these 
empty streets.
&nbsp;
<pre><a style="color: #808080;" href="https://www.nottinghampost.com/news/local-news/gallery/coronavirus-time-stands-still-pictures-4074440">Photo Credit: Nottinghamshire Live </a></pre>

Neil Fulwood