Brexit

Announcements

Assorted Poems, Some poems

We would like to apologise for the delay.
This is due to the wrong kind of deal,
which indeed is any kind of deal
that might make your forward journey possible
at this time.
 
Passengers are advised to seek
alternative countries
where available.

We would like to apologise for the delay.
This is due to a mechanical fault
in the machinery of government.
A team of engineers is working to fix this problem.
We hope to continue on our journey
in the autumn of 2055.

Passengers are advised
that a government replacement service
will not be operating on these routes
at this time.

We would like to apologise for the delay.
This is due to leavers on the line.
A buffet car serving refreshments,
including hot and cold snacks,
will not be available.

Passengers are advised
to somehow keep their sense of belonging with them
at all times.
 
We would like to apologise for the delay,
signalling failure
at this time.

Hold my hand while we jump off this cliff

Assorted Poems, Some poems

‘Let’s jump off this cliff – it’ll be fun! A right laugh!’
urged all the people (well, I mean just over half
of those who had bothered to speak up at all).
I peered down at the rocks; it was a long way to fall.

I said, ‘This cliff’s more than three hundred feet high
and my doctor tells me if I jump I will die.’
‘Cliff-jumping’s fine!’ they said. ‘Don’t trust doctors, trust us!
We read all about it on the side of a bus.’

Worried, I met up with my local MP.
I shared my concerns. He was forced to agree:
‘Why the rocks below would smash you to bits!
Where did you get this idea of jumping off cliffs?’

‘It was the will of some of the people,’ I said
and his expression changed to another instead.
‘I think,’ he revised, ‘you’re being melodramatic.
The problem is you. You’re undemocratic.’

On the clifftop, we waited. In silence we stood.
Then a voice: ‘Remind me, why is cliff-jumping good?’
But we looked down at our shoes, baffled and stumped.
Then, out of embarrassment, we held hands and jumped.

A Brief History of the #

Assorted Poems, Some poems

#barcamp #hashtag #FF #best
#wordgame #punfun #trulyblessed
#dingdong #romcom# #HaveYourSay
#pingpong #nomnom #EdBallsDay

#haiku #selfie #squadgoals #hope
#OneDirection #favouritesoap
#BlackLivesMatter #ReachOut #JoinIn
#Sponsored #Starbucks #BurgerKing

#JeSuisCharlie #LoveNotHate
#Strictly #Cecil #Oink #PigGate
#Bowie #UKIP #FoodbankQueues
#Brexit #AltRight #Trump #FakeNews

#Putin #Brexit #NorthKorea
#Trump #Covfefe #GrowingFear
#GBBOonChannel4
#Trump #RedButton #ThirdWorldWar

#Pyongyang #Seoul #NewYork #Berlin
#Brexit #Beirut #Beijing #Turin
#FallOut #Famine #DeathCount #Violence
#JeSuisEarth #JeSuisSilence

57 Varieties of Brexit

Assorted Poems, Some poems

Hard Brexit. Soft Brexit.
Wave-your-arms-aloft Brexit.
Quick Brexit. Slow Brexit.
Eat-it-on-the-go Brexit.
Smooth Brexit. Rough Brexit.
Creamy-powder-puff Brexit.
Damp Brexit. Moist Brexit.
Putting-Britain-Foist Brexit.
Fat Brexit. Thin Brexit.
Bear-it-with-a-grin Brexit.
Sliced Brexit. Ground Brexit.
Decline-of-the-pound Brexit.
This Brexit. That Brexit.
Hold-on-to-your-hat Brexit.
Black Brexit. White Brexit.
Shove-it-in-your-pipe Brexit.
Ant’s Brexit. Dec’s Brexit.
What-is-coming-next Brexit.
Which Brexit. Why Brexit.
Big-bus-with-a-lie Brexit.
Rich Brexit. Poor Brexit.
What-was-life-before Brexit.
Wet Brexit. Dry Brexit.
Makes-me-want-to-cry Brexit.
Broke Brexit. Bruised Brexit.
Clothed Brexit. Nude Brexit.
Doomed Brexit. Dead Brexit.
Can’t-get-out-of-bed Brexit.
Brave Brexit. Weak Brexit.
Despair-by-Clinique Brexit
Tim Brexit. Pam Brexit.
Why-is-there-no-plan Brexit.
Bruised Brexit. Broken Brexit.
The-People-Have-Spoken Brexit.
Arthouse Brexit. Absurd Brexit.
Just-think-of-any-word Brexit.
Sponge Brexit. Punk rock Brexit.
Flip-flop-hip-hop-chip-shop Brexit.
Donald Brexit. Brexit Brexit.
Brexit-Brexit-Brexit Brexit.

As I Grow Old I Will March Not Shuffle

Assorted Poems, Some poems

As I grow old
I will not shuffle to the beat
of self-interest
and make that slow retreat
​​​to the right.

I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist
marching with the kids. I shall sing
‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing
homemade placards that proclaim
‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING’.

I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,
and build unscalable barricades
from bottles of flat lemonade,
tartan blankets and chicken wire.
I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.

I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,
armed with a ballpoint pen
and a hand that shakes with rage not age
at politicians’ latest crimes,
in strongly-worded letters to The Times.

I will be a centenarian centurion
and allow injustice no admittance.
I will stage longstanding sit-ins.
My mobility scooter and I
will move for no-one.

And when I die
I will be the scattered ashes
that attach themselves to the lashes
and blind the eyes
of racists and fascists.

Have Yourself a Brexit Little Christmas

Assorted Poems, Some poems

Have yourself a Brexit little Christmas
and fill your days with fun,
because we know our troubles will have just begun.

Have yourself a Brexit little Christmas
and drink your days away.
From now on, our troubles will be here to stay.

Here we are as in olden days,
so-called golden days of yore.
Failing those who are near to us
for they are dear to us no more.

So just say auf wiedersehen to Europe,
au revoir and ciao,
then hang a tattered flag upon a lonely bough,
and have yourself a Brexit little Christmas now.

Halloween, 2016

Assorted Poems, Some poems

This Halloween, I shall dress as the year 2016
and emit a frightful, fulgent sheen
from my orange-pumpkin-Donald-Trumpkin head.

I shall adopt the gait of Theresa May’s Living Dead,
and howl like a slithy Gove under a waxy moon.
My chest will be scarred with Brexit wounds.

I shall visit all doorsteps across this haunted land
with a leer on my face and a beer in my hand,
like a phantasmal, sharp-fanged Nigel Farage.

A dagger will be sticking out of my back
(the Severed Hand of Boris will still be attached).
And there, trailing behind me, poor fools,

will be the ghosts of the heroes you’d pinned to your walls,
all those pop stars and comics and actors
who filled up your lives with music and laughter.

Alongside them will be the bombed and the drowned,
the beheaded, the starved, the blown-up, the gunned-down,
from American nightclubs to Syrian towns.

So Trick or Treat! Happy Halloween!
If you’re not in when I knock, no fear;
I’ll be here all year.

Brexit in Pursuit of a Bear

Assorted Poems, Some poems

Please look out for this bear. Thank you.
He’s been getting ideas above his station.
If found, hand him in to the Home Office,
Section: UK Visas and Immigration.

He is wearing a blue duffle coat,
red wellies and a wide-brimmed hat
in an attempt to look like one of us.
But do not be fooled by that.

He’s one of those funny foreign types
who try to come here nowadays,
to take our homes and steal our jobs
and eat Our Great Nation’s Marmalade.

It is thought he has terrorist connections
and may be planning to do us harm.
So please beware of his hard stare,
not to mention his right to bear arms.

Also reported in this area:
illegal economic migrant,
Great Uncle Bulgaria.

Pigs

Assorted Poems, Some poems

Truth had it coming, if you ask me.
All those drab facts,
that dull insistence upon
looking at things as they really are,

shoulder-barging
the stories we would like to hear
out of the way like that.
It’s a surprise it lasted so long.

Far better now
that we can wrap ourselves
in untruth, and emote our way
through the days.

I like to tell one untruth
before breakfast,
then three more by lunch,
with a further seven by bedtime.

No, I never said that.
Yes, I did declare all my income.
Yes, I know exactly how you feel.
No, I did not eat the biscuits that were in the tin.

And should any so-called ‘expert’
point at the crumbs
which nestle in the corners of my mouth,
my bottom lip shall tremble,

and I shall say, pity me –
for, since my neighbour moved in,
these crumbs represent
all I have left in the world.

Every night I hear him
sneaking into my home
and helping himself
to another handful of biscuits.

And I shall say these words
with such passion
and such conviction,
over and over and over,

until the pigs
begin to sing in the trees,
and my untruth
becomes a kind of truth itself.