Party like it’s 1975

Whenever I turn on the telly, read a paper, or go on facebook;
I quickly press the off button, don’t give another look.
Nothing but the Euros: no, not the football, the referendum
Right-wingers educated in Eton,  go on and on neverendum.
Debating how many pounds the Troika might lend ’em
At extortionate rates, of course. And on what can we spend ’em?
Expense claims – how can we bend ’em?
PFI contracts – how can we extend ’em?
Immigration – where can we send ’em?

I want to party like its 1975,
When Tony Benn was still alive.
The last time the public had to decide;
He’d never take the bosses’ side.
He’d have told them where to sling their hooks.
We need fighters for ordinary people, not crooks:
Ditch politicians who just want to make a packet
And leave the EU, a privateering racket.

Stand up for the interest of the working class,
Unity with strikers in Brussels and Paris.
No to dictats imposed from above;
No to Farage, Johnson and Gove.
There is an alternative vision
Of Europe, which gets hardly a mention,
A truly socialist sentiment:
Workers’ solidarity across the continent.

If you have enjoyed my poetry on this blog, my new collection, “Little Green Poetry” is now available from Lulu – – £4+P&P (paperback) or £2.50 (for e-book readers)

You can still order copies of my first collection, “Little Red Poetry” from http://www.leftbooks.co.uk or http://www.lulu.com – again for £4 (pb) or £2.50 (as a pdf for e-readers).

I hope you enjoy reading my poems, and, as always, all proceeds will go to help build the fightback against corporate political parties, to build a voice for the millions, not the millionaires.

To find out more about my politics, visit the website of the Committee For A Workers’ International, which is engaged in struggle in around 50 countries worldwide.

Boxing Day Blues

Boxing Day again – too much turkey, pies and beer
Goodwill to all men, and lots of Christmas cheer.
Farage dons green wellies and joins the Surrey Hunt
Cigar in hand, spots a camera, pushes to the front.
Irresistible lure of publicity stunt.

Toady in his element, on turret of trundling tank
City spiv turned country toff, get back to your bank.
While Nigel farages round the fox-hole,
City Link workers are flung on the dole.

I hope he chokes on his Brussels sprouts
With his UKIP chums and their upturned snouts
To a din of grunts and scoffs, they spout
Tales of bestial gay donkeys, to which they gave a clout.

Captain of the “People’s Army”, he leads from the rear
Let’s get him a phone app, thoughtful gift, this time of year.
UKIK is its name – you give immigrants a great punt
Off the cliffs of Dover, while prize porkers grunt in clover.

On Question Time yet again, no-one to speak up for us.
Foreigners they take the blame, but we all get the brunt
Tory cuts, stretched services, a privatised NHS.
Don’t blame the poor for Britain’s problems – it is not their mess.

It’s not the fault of immigrants, you can find the real culprits
Wealthy, hypocritical, racist UKIP shits
Wearing Barbour, green wellies, puffing on cigars
Tearing up the countryside in oversized four-wheel-drive cars.

 

If you have enjoyed my poetry on this blog, my new collection, “Little Green Poetry” is now available from Lulu – – £4+P&P (paperback) or £2.50 (for e-book readers)

You can still order copies of my first collection, “Little Red Poetry” from http://www.leftbooks.co.uk or http://www.lulu.com – again for £4 (pb) or £2.50 (as a pdf for e-readers).

I hope you enjoy reading my poems, and, as always, all proceeds will go to help build the fightback against corporate political parties, to build a voice for the millions, not the millionaires.

To find out more about my politics, visit the website of the Committee For A Workers’ International, which is engaged in struggle in around 50 countries worldwide.

On the day the statue of Thatcher was unveiled

The news spread fast – by squawk, coo and twitter.
From far-flung forests, fields, farms we flew
Synchronised starlings swept across the sky.
Geese arrowed in a gigantic V sign,
Militant seagulls cried out in anger.
Pigeons propelled by powerful pinions,
Herring gulls, guillemots, gannets, goshawks,
Gathered in Grantham to give up their guano.
On the day the statue of Thatcher was unveiled.

We circled high until the ribbon was cut.
Joyously drenched the assembled dignitaries,
Perched on her handbag, shoulders and hairdo,
Covered her from head to foot in our ordure.
The acid will eat into the bronze
Dissolve decades of double-dealing and deceit,
Will break down her memory,
Just as she broke our communities.

___________________________________________________________________________

I will be performing some of my poems at the Donkey pub, on Welford Road, Leicester on the 3rd October, 8pm – saying ‘Goodbye to Thatcher’. The excellent KGB Jazz and The Splitters are also playing. Tickets available here for £3 – http://www.ents24.com/leicester-events/the-donkey/kgb/3486723. All proceeds go to City of Sanctuary.

You can help build an alternative to Thatcherism and support the Socialist Party by buying a short book of my poems, ‘Little Red Poetry’:

Jammed

This is a tragic tale of the revenge exacted by the photocopier in the office where I work, whenever I actually need to copy something in a hurry . . .

Jammed

Brave folk stare in dread, as the winking light

Tells awful tale, paper’s perilous plight.

I heft the mighty paper-clip of yore

To wrest hard-won prize from copier’s core.

Cold steel, brute force and vast amounts of luck

Are willed to get this machine unstuck.

Hypnotic cyclops, red LED blink

Haunts me. Resolve to explore every chink:

Drums, rollers, cogs and wheels – but all in vain,

Retreat back to my desk, with thumb in pain.

Midst mountain range of paperwork, I sup

Restorative tea from polystyrene cup.

This weary worker has all-too-little hope

Of taming Behemoth’s infinite scope.

Sisyphus, had he worked in an office,

Would empathise, pause and cut his losses.

Bewildering diagrams of despair

Offer no succour. I shout and swear

Theseus himself could not navigate

Labyrinthine cogs and melted acetate.

Fellow toilers look on as if aghast

I’ve finally lost my marbles. At last

I summon courage, with head bowed, return

To fabled field where battle must be won.

Meagre crumbs, 80 gsm, are strewn,

Error messages read like magic rune,

But nothing here to aid my noble quest.

Metal hands of clock sweep from east to west,

Fatefully tick away my precious time.

Sod’s law dictates I need this done by nine.

Then I spy – elusive sheet of white A4

Wedged at the back, behind a hidden door.

Again my steely weapon is employed

To free this obstruction which cruelly cloyed

Innards of this maddening contraption.

I pull and finally get some traction.

Out comes mangled mess to rival Gordian

Knot. Twisted, this tortuous accordion.

Triumphant, infernal doors slam home.

But due to internal, mischievous gnome,

Yet another blinking LED foretells

More jams, torn sheets and angry tortured yells.

Technology that never bloody works.

Just when needed, it invariably shirks.

Notes

This is an example of mock-heroic verse, where the poetic conventions of epic poetry (reference to mythological heroes, rhyming couplets, etc.) are made fun of. Feminine rhymes are employed for comic effect, where two syllables are rhymed at the end of a line, “machine”, “a skein” / “Gordian”, “accordion”. The subject matter is mundane, a jammed photocopier, but this is transposed into a poetic form traditionally associated with great battles or heroic deeds.