Only Fans

my dog stepped on a bee

grandma killed a drone

with the most excellent pickles

yet I live within

feeding on

Binley Mega Chippy

watching with tears

the people of Ukraine

punished by the despot

as we have our own

tin pot dictator

of inflationary no comprise

parties more of a preference

champagne eton mess

vulgar shits

believing covid in retrograde

the poor keep dying

on the pyre of debt

chancellor grinning

utility meter spinning

on his cosy yacht

let them eat cake

but even that we cannot afford

food bank serenade

whilst they last

until nobody can supply them

we need tractors

to steal tanks

so I can live

and you all can smile

maybe a grimace

a death masque to society

Civil Disobedience

Martin Lewis , money saving expert stated that food shortages lead to civil disobedience, and how ironic as seen by my last post is that the food riots of 1799, 1800, 1801, occurred under a Tory Prime Minister the Duke of Portland already rich and lived beyond his means , there was war with Napoleon and he believed in high taxation and coercion of the poor, this sounds all too familiar and it saddens me that nothing in history is learned from , the Tories especially , they govern in the elitist trickle down way that assists no one or lift them from a governmental enforced poverty, Boris Johnson deflects as a jolly gentleman , which he is definitely not , nor is any Tory there disregard for pandemic rules , in fact any rules Rishi Sunak wife a non dom and when he became chancellor still had a free card as a United States citizen and his wife citizen of India long distance love I guess , I say these things as my opinion and how I measure the temperature of society as a poor ordinary working class man trying so hard to fight for his family like so many others and those even more worse off who struggle to keep warm or feed or even clothe themselves .

I love my country but it’s destructive political and monarchy class system that means only the rich survive

It is so wrong …….

All this week in London consumer history, 1800: Bread rioters force the City’s Corn Exchange to close

In 1799, 1800 and 1801 widespread rioting broke out throughout England. Most of these were food riots, provoked by scarcity and soaring prices during…

All this week in London consumer history, 1800: Bread rioters force the City’s Corn Exchange to close

Wondering in 2018

Events have occurred , political intrusion by government Trump or May that have dissolved our lives into a caricature farce that is dark and sadistic so I wrote this…

curious

in a time I never realised before

those blindly blinking

people

heads down

could be swallowed up

by forces unseen

and never know

monuments fall

governments tirade

without distraction

I was a beggar in life

seizing the moments

that never seemed to come often

thoughts and a voice

but nobody would listen

media’s bluster

without so much as

whisper

of human account

cut me into wounds

moral abstract slices

of nevermore and decay

will we be saved

on this exhausted hulk

called earth

or will I shrivel

into that carbonised carapace

and tomb

that is called death

Hollie McNish -Embarrased

In The Scheme Of Things

gutless form of

grey flannel

and bowler hat

tapping briefcase

with finger

pencil callused

autocratic directions

of how the

shapeless should fit

tailors chalk on cloth

decisive lines

to trim or sew

mouths stitched so

neatly shut

limbs severed so that

the fall of material

should be so suitable

old money new money

contra entries

that become the washerwomans

laundry

in colonial towns

with brighter sun

and sweated brows

grey flannel choke

and soft eton tones

cruciform stretched

with benefits denied

g&t cold pink lemonade

taking canapes on landscaped lawn

take a bow doff your cap

grateful for what you

don’t receive

inbred subservience

of the golden age

long shadows

keeping us in the dark

mouth torn open

begins to shout

blood on lips

blood on tongue

strike a match

to cauterize

and light the beacon torch

flannel shadows

cannot keep us hidden

or denied

we have voices

as we are many

and you are few

 

copyyright Chris Lawrence

 

 

Kay Sutcliffe – Poem By A Miners Wife

John Cooper Clarke – TWAT

TWAT

Like a Night Club in the morning, you’re the bitter end
Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend.
You give me the horrors
too bad to be true
All of my tomorrow’s
are lousy coz of you.

You put the Shat in Shatter
Put the Pain in Spain
Your germs are splattered about
Your face is just a stain

You’re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag.
Do us all a favour, here… wear this polythene bag.

You’re like a dose of scabies,
I’ve got you under my skin.
You make life a fairy tale… Grimm!
People mention murder, the moment you arrive.
I’d consider killing you if I thought you were alive.
You’ve got this slippery quality,
it makes me think of phlegm,
and a dual personality
I hate both of them.

Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay.
Please, please, please, please, take yourself away.
Like a death in a birthday party,
you ruin all the fun.
Like a sucked and spat our Smartie,
you’re no use to anyone.
like the shadow of the guillotine
on a dead consumptive’s face.
Speaking as an outsider,
what do you think of the human race

You went to a progressive psychiatrist.
He recommended suicide…
before scratching your bad name off his list,
and pointing the way outside.

You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart.
You’re heading for a breakdown,
better pull yourself apart.
Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss.
Your attitudes are platitudes,
just make me wanna piss.

What kind of creature bore you
Was is some kind of bat
They can’t find a good word for you,
but I can…
TWAT

Birago Diop – Diptych

The Sun hung by a thread
In the depths of the Calabash dyed indigo
Boils the great Pot of Day.
Fearful of the approach of the Daughters of fire
The Shadow squats at the feet of the faithful.
The savannah is bright and harsh
All is sharp, forms and colours.
But in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds, neither hollow nor shrill,
Rises a ponderous Mystery,
A Mystery muffled and formless
Which surrounds and terrifies us.
The dark Loincloth pierced with nails of fire
Spread out on the Earth covers the bed of Night.
Fearful at the approach of the Daughters of Shadow
The dog howls, the horse neighs,
The Man crouches deep in his house.
The savannah is dark,
All is black, forms and colours
And in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds infinite or hollow or sharp
The tangled Paths of the Mystery
Slowly reveal themselves
For those who set out
And for those who return.

What began in 79

when your home is not
a protective shelter to dignity and heart,
where government scythes away
public voices in favour of a few,
nervous rattle of doors
closing on opportunities
for those we should cherish,
disabled now disenfranchised
workless sanctioned and berated
for just existing,
statistics and targets
media fodder,
minimum wage hunter gatherers
chasing food bank trails
as rent arrears accumulate,
things are getting brighter
economy booming,
so some say
a cautious tale of cynicism
is needed to chew on this pill
of crushed realisations,
we have awoken
but not awake

written in response to the Conservatives taking victory in the elections and Cameron claiming power again