you rang me at the end of the world 
and asked if I was going into war 
with the three o’clock connecting train
at Limerick Junction I threw a few punches 
down the phone and took shots 
of a mountain I didn’t know the name of
things like and how is she, my replacement? 
it was a shitty thing to say 
but I wanted to say it
make you feel bad for liking brunettes 
you pretended to take offence 
but that kind of thing is the reason you still ring me
are you ok?
there is a tenderness still there 
a care that hasn’t been harmed 
in our surrendering of arms
yours are for holding 
someone else 
and mine
well mine have gained some resolute sense 
now I just hold a pen and let the other hand itch 
for a cigarette that I won’t give it
there was a threat today 
six times the size of Chernobyl
the grass glowing yellow 
the sky an infinite blue
the mountains 
have lain down to die 
in a brown and purple hue
and every time
the world ends 
you ring me 
to provoke me 
into reminding you 
of what it was all for
and why
we can’t describe love 
without the language 
of war.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: <a style="color: #999999;" href="https://unsplash.com/@ekarchmit?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Ernest Karchmit</a> on Unsplash</pre>

purple mountain_ernest-karchmit-33FlT2A83H4-unsplash

Poem: Shots at close range

after Charlotte Nichols MP
I didn’t know the meaning 
of &#8220;incursion&#8221; or “dealt with” 
the negative connotation until this morning. 
Didn’t realise the possible definitions 
of “parasite”, “rubbish dump”, “bad human material”. 
Didn’t know until this morning the connotations 
of “dismantle”, “pikey”, “assimilate”. 
The negative meanings of “scum”, 
“child thief”, “branding iron”. 
Didn’t know “dirty”, “asocial”, “expel”. 
The connotations of “a people involved 
in the manufacture of human freaks.” 
Didn’t know the meaning until now 
of “Rahoonery”, “pollutant”, “Pharajimos”. 
The problematic side of those over the age of five 
being taken away and civilised. 
Didn’t know the meaning of “The Devouring”, 
“The Cutting Up”, or “behind concrete walls”. 
The negative connotation of “whoever kills one, 
shall be guilty of nothing.” 
Didn’t know the meaning of “deport” 
until I saw it done this morning, 
clean as a Police Superintendent’s signature 
or a Councillor’s campaign for re-election.

Poem: The Candidate Explains

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

If this boy had been more prudently 
dropped into life on, say, a street 
with trees that throw out their annual yellow 
to make a welcome parade for the sun; 
had as childhood neighbours a Circuit Court Judge 
whose front door had no letter box, 
a Garda Chief Inspector with an opinionated 
and over-confident dog; 
kicked a ball up and down summer evenings, 
dead apart from the occasional well behaved bee, 
with the boy next door (but one) who blossomed 
into a political correspondent 
and now gets to make up truth, 
another way would’ve been found.
But for coming at Gardaí 
with a chemical imbalance, 
what some people are calling 
a machete 
and a totally inappropriate 
post code, 
the only sentence 
was that ethically administered, 
democratically accountable, 
bolt action firing squad.
The eminent and learned 
bottoms we employ to sit 
on the inquiry into this 
need not fret the task ahead of them. 
For their report is already written.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: <a class="owner-name truncate" style="color: #808080;" title="Go to Paolo Trabattoni's photostream" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/mctraba/" data-track="attributionNameClick">Paolo Trabattoni </a>/ Flickr</pre>

Garda Police

Poem: The Case of George Nkencho

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

for Susan
Whenever I show them the Future, 
they refuse it; 
say: this future has bad hair, 
waves its arms around too much, 
is too Jewish, 
or not Jewish enough, 
too not-a-woman, 
or the wrong sort of woman.
This Future has a face that one day 
might raise the corporate tax rate 
by zero point five percent, 
and is a little too insistent 
that poor people be allowed live, 
give or take, as long as the rest of us. 
That sort of thing scares the people we dine with 
nights we’re not dining with you.
I ask the barman for more finger food, 
picture the ocean raging into the restaurant, 
and them still sat there muttering at the chicken goujons: 
the people we talk to won’t vote for 
such extreme solutions. No one wants to live in Cuba, 
one of them says, as she’s washed out the door.
I pray, when all the futures 
they’ve turned their noses up at 
are safely in the mud 
and the men in boots and leather come 
to escort us all to the Processing Centre 
in the back of a truck 
that I be shot, cleanly through the skull, at the front gate, 
so I don’t suffer their groans 
about the quality of the gruel, 
and how that last beating one of them got 
was clearly in breach of the Human Rights Act 
and worthy of a curtly worded, 
but still civil, letter to The Observer.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: <a style="color: #999999;" href="https://unsplash.com/@henniestander?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Hennie Stander</a> on <a style="color: #999999;" href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/barman-restaurant?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></pre>

Kevin Higgins_hennie-stander-O3oIr1j65EM-unsplash

Poem: Our Posh Liberal Friends

Look closely when the Central Line spits 
you out into a river of impatience, 
and you’ll see that angels’ wings are made 
from shop-doorway beds – cardboard.
Drill down into your listening and you’ll hear 
a heavenly voice asking for change to spare, 
above the guffaws of the comfortably numb, 
swilling their pints on the pavements of Holborn.
From time to time, pause under the lights, 
and slowly inhale these squares and streets. 
You’ll sometimes catch a faint seraphic scent, 
through the death stench of asset management.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: <a style="color: #808080;" href="https://unsplash.com/@daveast?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">David East</a> on <a style="color: #808080;" href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/homeless-london?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></pre>

david-east-unsplash

Poem: Look Closely

after Walter Benjamin
A barrel of industrial waste poured into a suit 
donated by a casino owner who knows people 
with a tangerine tea towel tossed strategically on top 
because it was the only available metaphor for hair 
was running for re-election as CEO of South Canadia 
against an old coat with holes in it.
The barrel of waste was trailing 
histrionically among professors emeritus 
whose brains were in the process of being dismantled 
by lethargy and time, and among those 
who, as and when the stock market permits, 
take a year off to celebrate their dividends 
by doing good works among brown people in far countries 
not lucky enough to have stock markets or dehumidifiers. 
Such people agreed with each other that the barrel of waste 
made the raging boil on the nation’s privates 
way too obvious, and hoped by throwing 
the old coat over it they could again 
forget it was there.
The barrel of waste said the old coat couldn’t deliver 
on the promises he wasn’t making, 
and maintained good leads among morticians, 
pimps, and police informants 
and had the total bastard vote 
ninety nine percent sewn up &#8211; 
in essence everyone except the late John DeLorean 
and perhaps Alan Dershowitz.
There was a minority faction who wanted the boil 
on the nation’s privates given free antibiotics, lanced 
with a big needle imported from Sweden 
and then cauterised. But most people found 
though they were in favour, in their hearts, 
of lancing the boil, 
in practice they were for 
allowing the boil to grow redder, angrier, more toxic 
under the old coat with holes in it.
So the minority extremist faction 
who wanted the thing treated 
were sentenced to the echo chamber 
to argue about whether the old coat 
with holes in it really 
was the lesser evil.
The midwife of history, 
grown bored with the year twenty twenty, 
had decided to play one of her jokes.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo Credit: <a style="color: #999999;" href="https://unsplash.com/@jontyson?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Jon Tyson</a> on <a style="color: #999999;" href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/trump-biden?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></pre>

jon-tyson-Lmy2OAZlwb0-unsplash

Poem: The Joke

My butterfly net, 
mindful archive for this Alchemilla leaf 
with its mercury raindrops.
Late on my pillow 
I swipe into the blue light, 
into a mycelium of new smiles, 
endless as waves on the sand.
They say smart. 
But smart enough 
to remind us that the hilltop, 
and the crowded art gallery, 
request our presence, naked-eyed?
to remind us that fingertips are for skin?
We stay smart, 
if we sift the blessing from the curse: 
Foot-soldier of dystopia, 
indispensable encyclopaedia of life; 
bridge, 
wall; 
superstore of infinite shelves, 
leaving nothing to the imagination.
&nbsp;
<pre>Photo: <a style="color: #999999;" href="https://unsplash.com/@yanneskiefer?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Yannes Kiefer</a> on <a style="color: #999999;" href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/phone-train?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></pre>

yannes-kiefer-mu7wzbdVlMg-unsplash

Poem: Smart Phone

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>