The Earth is rare,
And there’s rare
earth there
With long
dead forests
To frack,
drill and mine
To warm the
world
And poison the
air
Until all
the carbon’s done.
Then we’ll
dig up the lithium
Whilst those
who still live
Can get irradiated
By the
nuclear waste
That we’ve created.
It’s like
watching a toddler
Put a finger
Into an electric
socket.
Such a
beautiful planet
With so many
idiots on it.
Today was one of those
Days, I suppose.
It got right
up my nose,
Like a greedy
maggot
Crawling towards
my brain.
I had to
painfully pick it out,
Throw it on
the floor
And squash it
into organic mess;
Which was
what the whole day was,
Total shite.
Bored man
Waiting for
a van
That never
came.
Definitely total
shite.
But at least
I saw a red kite
Regain its
ancestral place
Skilfully flying
Forktailed over
London.
When things
go wrong
Sometimes they
can be put right again.
Disrespectful parakeets squawk in the garden,
Washing machine
and radio mumble on,
The first
washing away biological evidence with soap,
The second
erasing dissent with propaganda.
And so a
dynasty rolls on over me,
Like a
driverless tank,
Or a blind
elephant with a felon chained to its foot.
Whatever I think
or say,
I’m still
subjected to having to be a disloyal subject.
The mundane
morning sounds erase
My republican
dreams.
An immaculately dressed assassin
Stands beneath
the red leaved tree.
Her beautiful
suit
Of grey and
brown feathers
Perfectly fitting
and subtly understated.
She bows her head and plucks
The breast
of her victim.
A pigeon pinned
down
By her sharp
taloned feet.
I have seen the
angel of death.
God was sexually aroused, thus
The sky gushed uncontrollably,
And the drought broke.
It was all very un-English,
Like climate change and garlic.
It caught me out,
So, I sheltered in a grey plastic shed,
Which matched the sky.
There I ate an orange,
Whilst visited by a lone robin
And many frogs
Dancing in the deluge.
When that slackened
I went out and pulverized one slug
On the concrete garden path,
Picked spinach and tomatoes for my supper,
Then got back to dry under tiles.
I had been praying for water for weeks,
Now, I am hoping that my roof doesn’t leak.
You can have too much of a good thing,
Some say,
I disbelieve,
Rain brings relief.
I keep a pad of paper on my desk, prepared
For ideas,
thoughts, memories and half-remembered dreams.
Any of those
Are seeds
which can be grown,
And some may
become odes.
I don’t try
to force matters,
I know these
things can happen
As if by a
will of their own.
Then, one
day, I looked at my pad,
And saw than
all I had written were codes,
Account
numbers, website addresses,
Passwords,
computer links.
I had been
expending my ink
No to reach any human being,
But so that
machine can communicate to machine.
So, feeling
old and obsolete,
I go out and
sit in my garden seat.
The swifts have
gone,
The grass
has burned dry brown,
And clouds
and clouds and clouds pass overhead,
Like ideas,
thoughts, memories and half-remembered dreams.
The garden
needs rain
But none
falls
Perhaps I did
not write down the correct code.
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.
