They’re redecorating the White House
in washed-out tones of white,
Moon Shimmer and Frosted Dawn,
Rock Salt and Morning Light.
Bleached Lichen in the kitchen.
The bedrooms – White Mist’s the plan.
The Oval Office is Absolute White.
All painted by the Du Lux Klan.
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.
How blessed am I
to live beneath a strong and stable sky
and the warmth it enables me
from a sun that shines down,
strongly and stably.
Me, with these strong and stable legs,
that take me past the queues
of people – long unable to be fed –
waiting to give thanks
outside the strong and stable food banks,
and beyond where the library once was,
now strongly converted
to stable a private medical centre,
that makes the sick (but financially abler)
stronger and stabler.
And further on, the school
strongly lacking in staple equipment –
whiteboards, books, teachers –
all signs of a strong and stable commitment
to the dismantling of lives.
I thank the government
for such strong and stable times
then wander to the park, alone,
pausing to watch a cricket match.
I bend to sit upon the bench,
and fall through its rotted slats.
We interrupt this poem to bring you reports
of an explosion
of wild untruths and other signs that the news
is broken.
Early indications from those who were first
on the scene
have led to widespread fears of another Sweden
or Bowling Green
and that peace might erupt at any moment
in other places.
It is believed that amongst the rubble of reality
were found traces
of humanity and an understanding that stretches
beyond borders.
Many experts predict this will lead to a new wave
of presidential orders
for such trumped-up charges form part of
a familiar pattern.
But back to the poem: we’ll bring you more news
as it doesn’t happen.
Searching
inside his cranium,
looking for
a brain to rack,
he found the word
“uranium”
and launched
an unclear attack.
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.
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.
I am sorry but I cannot accept the post of Prime Minister,
For there is little in my history that’s suitably sinister,
No financial irregularities, no offshore accounts,
No stock-piling of wealth in ever larger amounts.
No public school background, no Oxford, no Cambridge;
No late night liaisons with the head of a pig.
My character’s flawed also, it pains me to say;
I lie – at best – only three times a day,
I have shown compassion, empathy, contrition,
So I’m afraid I am unsuited for this position.
I am sorry but I cannot accept the post of England Manager,
For whilst I tick the box entitled ‘well-meaning amateur‘,
I worry that my grasp of tactics is too strong,
That I might be able to understand what is wrong
And how to change it. I can also be meticulous
In my preparations, a trait which would be ridiculous
In any manager. I have a track record of winning games,
By creating teams, not just picking names,
And getting them to stick the ball in the goal,
So I’m afraid I am unsuited for this role.
The careers of politicians
consist of three main positions,
which I shall now supply:
they stand, they sit, they lie.
