We just had an election…wonder if anything will change?

In honour of the election here is a special poem about politicians. I’ve posted it before but hey…it never goes out of date.

Clowns

Every few years we get the chance,
stroll down the road,
tick another box or two,
decide which toad
will screw us over for the next few,

break promises so easily made,
take junkets too,
raid our wallets with glee,
those well-dressed few
who spew smug platitudes and see

no shame in cat-calls, insults, petty
parliamentary
games – he said, she said. Lice!
You disgust me,
you clowns for whom we pay the price.

 

 

And on a lighter note I also finished the 2nd draft of the Queen of Langoria….things are moving along

Dark Nothing

This is something I did tonight – a poem to music…what do you think?

 

Oh, if only I could find a good one…

An old one but a relevant one come every election

My Futile Search

I’m told  there is talent in our political system
But I’ve looked pretty hard and it seems that I’ve missed ‘em
I took myself off through the corridors of power
It made me depressed and got worse by the hour
‘Cos all of the members to whom I was presented
Acted like kids or were clearly demented
The place was just full of these crushing old bores
The whining idealists, political whores.
When I finally left I felt soiled and stained
And wondered aloud about what could be gained
If we chucked this lot out and elected some more
But the reality was that I couldn’t be sure
That they wouldn’t just argue like immature gits
And continue to give the taxpayer the shits.

A moment…

On the run in the harsh glare
of the sun,
blinded by intense clarity,
each sense
overloaded, ears ringing,
reality decoded
in one thunderclap moment,
torn asunder
with just one revelation;
comfort’s gone
and I’m free, but it scared the shit
out of me

Economics 101

Is economics a science?
I think not, more like a loosely formed alliance
of economists and bankers,
of lobbyists and self-interested wankers
who assume things based on fantasy
to skim the cream, fleece you and me
providing for just them and theirs
uncaring as the world despairs.

Weekend Break

 

The chatter of Cockatoos

is a sure sign of escape,

they soar past the balcony

just to show sympathy

for the less fortunate,

 

the weekend wastrels

away for two days of

anything but the city

they flock together in their pity

‘You poor things. Make the most of it.’

 

Across the valley, their voices echo,

‘Visit a winery – it’ll help,’

they squawk before gliding away,

out here remote from the grey,

fading into the eucalypts

 

But with a Cabernet Merlot,

a view across the forests

pleasant company, the dull steel

spires of Perth although still real,

seem like distant ships

 

at least for now.

Fulton Farnsworth Fletcher

It’s at this time of year that I like to remember Fulton Farnswoth Fletcher … one of the true Dregs of History

 

Known to his friends as Fletch or Farnsie, Fulton Farnsworth Fletcher was a prominent figure in Yorkshire sporting circles. He played cricket, usually at the lowest possible level, as well as 23rd division Sunday morning football. His mediocre talents were spread across numerous teams, all of which tried very hard to get him to join them.

His talents were more in social rather than sporting arenas. Fletcher was an accomplished Saturday Night Specialist.

He led the drinking and visits to Indian restaurants with a passion and vigour second to none. It was not unknown for him to down 15-20 pints of a variety of real ales, follow them with rum or whisky chasers, and then consume a vindaloo curry, or perhaps two.

Fletcher was no stranger to his local job centre; he found it difficult to hold on to a job for more than a few months at a time. He lived in a small council flat in Bradford where, it was later found out, he spent his time attempting to write poetry in his brief moments of mental clarity. He specialised in his own individual version of the Japanese Haiku which he applied to the local social and industrial landscape. His seminal work is considered, by many totally unqualified to judge, to be his classic series of five haikus entitled A Saturday Night Out In Bradford.

Fulton Fletcher died early at the age of 45 in tragic circumstances. He had been out drinking copious amounts of beer and spirits and had ill-advisedly followed this with a nuclear-strength curry. The next morning, while sitting on the toilet reading the Sunday Sport, his arse exploded taking him to the next world. R.I.P. Fulton Farnsworth Fletcher.

 

A Saturday Night Out In Bradford

 

A night on the town

One pub after another

Who’s buying my drink?

 

Navigating crowds

Did you spill my pint sunshine?

Got my lights punched out.

 

The fiery curry

Challenges constitutions

A warm wind blows strong

 

Falling on pavements

Fighting the urge to vomit

Where’s my house gone mate?

 

Sat in the throne room

My arse a ring of fire

Torturous hours

This is an extract from The Complete Dregs of History which is available Here

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