Atomic Ironic

They asked us to build
An island to build a base to
Build a gun on
They asked us to build
An island to build a town on
To get blown up
They got us to build these
Far from home
On the other side of the planet
An impossible task
Taking miles of man hours
And costing an aeon of money

We spent our time
Breaking the codes of the atom
Building the biggest
The wildest, the newest
Securing our seat
At the side of the mighty
Wasting our atmosphere
Nuking the air
To check
That no further threats
Grew anywhere…

Why we poppy

A red flower on your breast
Feeding thoughts of war
A century of life lost young
Defending freedom

In European mud the first seeds
Bloom among youths’ blood
Ensuring rights and laws upheld
Defending freedom

Yet wars and wars again
Beset our Earth, doom our kin
Piling dead poppies on the pain
Defending freedom

As a century of poppies passes
Blurring right’s, a little out of focus
Battles reign for Aurelian
Defending freedom


The Gods have awoken
and they are smiling!
Not at you
but – for sakes scream – with you!
And you Whoop!
For now is the real time
of recompense.

Hear that noise

Standard background sound radiation
perforating your life with hum
No screaming panic
Nor muted fear
Your lucky ears, in safe warm heads
Collecting your
Connected thoughts
Your fucking lucky ears

And in some world –
not far enough away from here –
Built of a soundscape you may not bear
Our brothers and mothers
Tune in daily
To that other mess
The daily execution
of sheer abhorrent sounds
A torrent of noise

Shooting stars

but it’s not their fault!
Animated droids
steeling the screen
with silver-tongued tales
rattle at minds…
To furnish the soul?

A hundred times and more a day
A thousand radio waves
are beamed
To a million open eyes
Each simply charmed by charming ways!

David says all information
is great for building a common nation.
So he’s pleased to see this fairy notion,
is backed by newsreel allegations:
That ministers’ – leading the restoration –
weigh heavy in fear
of mass publication!

So gleefully mass ignorance
is fed and bloated by conglomerates
Sealed with affection
by celebrity
and cooked – till black
then hid away!

On the streets,
on these sleepy streets
Chat is rife with the tales they tell
our TV’s, monitors, papers are full
of well written tales –
They tell them so well.


Standby you!
Can’t get enough of that magic you do!
Stocks are broke
Oil’s all down the drain
you too get the feeling you’re here once again?
Standby – hold tight –
We’ll shoot when it’s time
wait for the clamour of bangs on the line.

Here’s the latest
broken news
We’ve forgiven Iran
The Soviets too.
Out of their madness and out of their heads
Our greatest have failed
to lead us to death.

Standby anxious
You’re not due yet
There’s time to drop bombs
Our gods hedging his bets
Stately you wait on
The pride of good taste
Please be in no hurry
to rush with the race.

Short Song

Skyline beasts which beat
This pretty tune to death
Where loves crawled out the back door
And life’s lived short on meth.’s
How vacant and enticing
A story for the soul

Silent films once flickered
With warm thunder as a crown
When once beauty caretakers
In turns would bear the throne
Would this be dreams of starlets?
Could this be mornings’ due?

Opposable Thumbs

Carved Hand High Elms

Hey pink fingers
Long on your hand
Do these fingers of fortune
grasp the plan; understand?
Digits of the damned
there’s a reason your curl
closes in on the hand.

The wrath you unravel
and pains
your points start.
The same ‘why?
That placed you so far from our heart.

On the other hand though
’tis sweet caress in your palm.
How can this pink bearer
still action such harm?
As hate leads the pointing
and love guides the strokes
is this balance of power?
Or lust,
or both?
At least with 10 choices
your options are broad
With five left for teasing
You’ve five for the sword!


Injections of objective retention,
recondite, a bile-like-ripe lifer.
Can profane living
give rise to oblivion?
Give re-issuing license to losers?

Outstanding, derivative pleasurer
found lighting the end of a fuse:
Warnings abounded about her
moreover land closed in around her!
Still silence in mind,
expletives well timed,
I’d rather live lightly than longer…

A moaning most maudlin disgruntler
caught slinking and loudly around me.
These sorry sad Sinbads,
these bored boring bastards.
All fellow food-fighters forever!

Bo Ditty

You cannot save this, we haven’t time
I don’t even know, the problem’s not mine
Bring your ideas to the panel enquiry
We’ll hunt a scapegoat and write a story

With not enough hours left in today
To possibly find a possible way
Our enigma’s lost in convoluted drama’s
We’re busier than Barrack Obama

Weighted down by the rush to push
Never quite close enough to close, leaves
A feeling of ambiguous feebleness
Far from any routes culminating at Trust

Each of us in all life’s stations
Knows there’s more that can never be known
Moments die to a beat so sinister
Being busier than Barrack Obama

And right behind you
In your warm footprint
Another soul flairs on a familiar sprint
Repeating, reflecting, what you half captured
Still busier than Barrack Obama

At the Edge of the World

At the edge of the world,
Where only power and influence survive.
The ‘greatest’ of men collide.
Teasing nuclear envelopes
The way kids round our way, tease creepy-crawlies.
And just as this mighty cloud of wealth teeters on the brink…

A loud voice, deep in the midst of our crowd,
Remembered the bosom
(the soft cosy curve of sweet breast) out loud.

You’ll never believe that one shout saved the world!
Or rescued our leaders
From their throw-away plot
To blow us all up,
But you’ll have to believe that it’s true.
And as she shouted again, I’ll tell you –

So sudden this rage and shame fell
Like a shroud
As each nutter revisited
Memories of real warmth
And worth.

Put in the boo tin

Golf car
Gulf war
calf gore
golf war
wolf car
Wolf wore
calf sore

In our shapes of desire
Even chased dreams tire
And cows and wolves flee
From the roar of free machinery

A ‘their’ crisis

The same see-saw of political woe
Tips again, sending Europe low
Incongruous savagery glitters in eyes
Drowning those caught in Mediterranean lies

As Persian calamities blossom their fruit
Following Western confoundings stamped red under boot
Where opportune bastards enjoy their destruction
The shores of South Europe lap with waves of disgust

It’s impossible, isn’t it, to see through the sea
This chronicled tangle of bloody hypocrisy
Lost on the minds of those leaders of fame
What smirks of confidence, for re-consciencing blame…

“It’s here” say the moppers who soak up the blood,
Whether northern beaches, whether the south
“We are to blame” call the lefties in Putney
Even while they choose here (“Arab murderous thugs”)

Glorious, pointless, baseless waste
Leaving no solid grounds for dissent except an onerous taste
Even while oil fields burn far distant skies
Ingenious savagery glitters in eyes.


Clarity arrives, in from the rain
just as the nurse jabs a prominent vein.
Glibly you joke on the weight of the rain
and quietly – in solitude and briefly –
you’re allowed to reflect on the weight in those veins.

Coolly these fabulous drugs run their course.
Deeply they permeate down to the cause.
Gooey and caustic, all reaching of course,
by killing you slowly – from inside and minutely –
the medics explain that they’re killing the cause.

Just as the last drops of drip flow within
I’m drawn to the bruise that remains on a skin.
To ponder the reason and drive that’s within,
where to find a direction – and place to direct
the future of you, once clean to the skin.


Don’t give me the runaround As you dumb down The home crowd I need your stiff touch As you coat those around me With the dim brush

Don’t leave me here thinking While you hop on Crowning those blinking Don’t miss out this brain As your nightly dance Tip-toes past all my world again

I yearn for swift idiocy Please lead this mind to bliss Why – catching every other bean about me – Do I escape again stupidity?

So now’s empty my head time Soft scoop behind these eyes I’ll stop this complaining When you leave me unwise.

cut red cabbage

image: bujons cabbage, video: Alan Watts, via Omega Point