Putin v Croquet

If I could get up on a stage
I would be up on a stage,
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.

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?
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.


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


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 


and ride 

and ride

feeling the hours roaring,

days dawning like

an annual morning,

a time warning

the machine whirring,


thinking you’re beginning 

to get there


it stops,

and you find

you’re sitting at

the same place,


different fucking chair.


Tell Me Why

The worst of evils can be visited upon
A fragile child
Think about that suffering now
The foulest of the vile
That would turn a sturdy heart to dust
Played upon a smile.
Tell me why?

Man, in power, may torture and debase,
Subjugating a strong soul
With rank and fetid violent degradation
Break them to a base control
Through “mysterious ways” despite their pleas
Left to face their hell alone.
Tell me why?

A supposed god watches this evil done
His “ways” aren’t ours to know
Yet this supposed god, planning his miracles
Chooses who to sponsor so,
Leaving others to suffer horror unremitting.
Answer, or hush yourself and go.
Tell me why?
Tell me why?
Tell me why?