song about drugs

 Many old heroes used to sing

Love songs about drugs

Except for a few wiser ones,

Who warned uzz

That there’s no such thing

As a free buzz.

I wanted to be like my heroes once,

Scrimped and saved to customise

My school uniform with flared strides;

Grew my hair long

Got jeered at in the street

And incited headmaster’s ire.

I wanted to experience  

the songs myself,

So, I got catnipped in squalid pubs

Until I eventually managed to buy

Some stuff that made me high.

Drugs are easier to obtain now,

A word on the phone

A touch or two on a keyboard

Then hoards

Of pills, potions, lotions, emetics and diuretics

Are delivered to my door

Where they are stored to ensure

That I never run out

And for awhile

I can hold back old age, illness and pain

But I’ll never get that high

Again.

 

LINES ON THE RESIGNATION OF BOJO

 I listened to the morning radio,

He still sat, like a blonde toad, burping latin

And exuding slime over us all.

I resignedly stomped off

To brush my teeth and wash,

And returned cleaned to hear

That Boris Notgudonov had gone.

An old age of corrupt Conservatism

Would still stagger on, perhaps;

Or is this the first stone rolling

Down a hillside before

Eventual collapse.

Walking backwards

 Walking backwards is seldom a good idea

I did it once and stepped onto thin air

Which did not support me

So, I fell ten feet

And was lucky to get up again

With only bruises to recommend

Forward motion in and into the future.

I have considered making an exception for

Walking backwards time,

But, I’m unconvinced that

The past was ever better

And anyway, I can’t even

Walk backwards far enough

To unwrite these silly lines.

platinum jubilee of elizabeth windsor

 A tidal wave of sickly sweet, opiated syrup

Pours from the radio

And fills my unwilling ears up.

With more and more and more and more

Grovelling to the crown.

This fawning flow of obsequious deference rises

Until I fear I’ll drown

Beneath an ideological edifice

That I find obscene.

Or maybe I’m just jealous

That the lottery of heredity

Did not see fit to allot to me

The genes to be the queen.

lywers

 Liars, lawyers and paying clients,

With witnesses who have not seen,

Appear, like prattling postage stamps,

Every day on video screens.

Politicians, shysters, grifters

Crawl as worms from rotting wood,

Alter words like slick shapeshifters,

Change left to right and bad to good.

Twisting truth, they try to persuade us

Make us unsure of where we stand

What we knew now seems to evade us,

We feel that we’re standing on quicksand.

But this planet cannot be glibly lied to

It’s changing because of our greeds and needs,

There’s no easy exit, yet we try to find one

But business as usual can no longer proceed.

I hate hoovering

 I hate hoovering,

Vacuuming is vile,

And mechanised suction sucks.

Most of the time,

I’m surrounded by detritus

And I don’t give a tuppeny fuck.

But once in a while,

Usually in springtime,

I catch the cleaning disease.

I notice the dust

And scraps around my feet

then I feel a pang of unease.

So, I apply a flexible hose,

Which ingests my nasty leavings

But attempted domestication

Is a deafening bore,

So I sit back down after,

To drop more rubbish on my floor.

MEDZ

 Exhausting exercise,

Invasive injections

Bitter pills

And diuretics,

To keep me pissing like a drain.

So, I piss down a drain

Before I go out

Dragging my feet

Behind my walking frame.

Every step I take,

Every move I make,

Is just another excuse

For another nerve

To blow a fuse.