The Lady Turned

there’s no refuge there now for the desperate poor
nor the masses huddled by their fuck-off golden door
nor wretched refuse dashed upon America’s shore
homeless still ‘neath Liberty, with freedom no more

in the ending of days enshrined within the colossus
the lady turns to shun the tempest-tost homeless
adopts the mantle of the immoral and the callous
inhumanity writ upon the bones of the hopeless

Advertisements

Putin v Croquet

If I could get up on a stage
I would be up on a stage,
saying,
Putin is a killer
and he should be in a cage,
the truth in this
is that he has shat
all over the Syrian plight,
a madman spoiling
for an easy fight.
Syria fits the bill.

See,
he likes to ride horses
with theatrical bare chest,
so we’ll think he’s strong.
Wake up Vlad,
put your vest back on,
you think
killing children
makes us fear you?
It’s clear you
believe you’re not mad?
But
you are.

You’re like a mad dog
hiding it’s mad bone
while the whole world watches
you digging your hole.
You must be smoking something,
“Vlad the inhaler”,
chunking weed
while training your lizard,
to spit on demand,
an emotional failure
with weed in your hand,
Go home Vlad.

If only he was a man of his word
we’ve heard the shit he says.
It means nothing.
On he goes
while the world plays
self interest croquet.
It’s them through the hoops
while he plays with his troops
and trains his lizard
to spit on demand.

The Grind

Take care of the days as they pass you by
Like gentle waves on your shore
Becoming the afterglow of a life less lived
Like shadows of the days before
The grinding path collides with the shoe
Life passing you by beneath
Another mile of the same old journey
Driven by the same old belief.

Change your step to change your direction
Resent the waste of your verve
Deny the passing of unloved, unlived days
Living less than a life you deserve
When the uneven path fits your ungainly gait
Felicity in stride and pace
You’ll be travelling to a different somewhere
Living life within your new space.

Coming of Age

He was just a boy, growing young,
He was just a mother’s son
Wanting too soon to be a man
Where the end began
When they gave a boy a gun.

A child who plays games no more
He’s looking for different fun
Like tossing shoes
And paying dues
Because they gave the boy a gun.

Some days a child becomes a killer
Today is his day to become
His mother’s pleas
Are love’s debris
From when they gave the boy a gun.

Some days the killer becomes the victim
When all the killing is done
Shoes are thrown
Someone unknown
Please, don’t give that boy a gun.

Trolling For Supper

Illusory anonymity on the wild, wild, web
Turns to wild words much too easily said.
The meek make requite with pent vitriolic,
Saintly in the sunlight yet secretively toxic.

The licentious lead the mob in their agitation,
Superficially moralistic verbal masturbation.
Then, returning to the bosom of social propriety
Behind a mask of reason and benign normality.

The sickness sleeps. Awaits with dark intents.
For honest stumble made fat with cold offence.
The pack descends to the feast with filthy ire.
To drag the prey away to their faux-anger fire.

Suddenly sated, they turn toward their other life,
Reasonable man. Joyful paragon. Loving wife.
In mirrors they see a proud, crusading saviour,
Kept hidden like a closeted, offensive whore.

Cancer

please don’t ask me
to be the strong one
I can’t fight the falling rain
I’ll stay the storm
‘til the day is done
or the sunshine rises again
strength may come
or strength may go
maybe my day will never rise
I’ll wait and hope
and salve my sorrow
as we say our long goodbyes

Career

You start with

a place upon the driven isle

fingers finally feeling

paltry purchase.

The machine

starts to do for you

even as it sees through you

as you fall 

for its foolish charms,

for the 

cultured dreams

of success.

Feel the machine 

begin to throb beneath you,

instil belief to 

reach 

and ride 

and ride

feeling the hours roaring,

days dawning like

an annual morning,

a time warning

the machine whirring,

spinning,

thinking you’re beginning 

to get there

where 

it stops,

and you find

you’re sitting at

the same place,

 

different fucking chair.