Ultras Attack Donetsk

The thugs got off their buses,
Shoving each other and mouthing curses.
They came to Donetsk for a grand day out,
Eager to quarrel, fight and shout.
They meant to kick some Russki arse,
But their brutal plan soon turned to farce,
As they clashed with Russians as hard as they are.

Of FC Dnipro they are ultras,
Fighting and violence are their mantras.
Their 'Right Sector' hat was on that day,
There was no football game.
They got their arse kicked anyway,
The outing ended in shame.

Obviously, things have got a lot worse since I wrote this, Right Sector are using

guns and firebombs now. 

The Sinking of the Sewol

The Sewol is a Korean ferry which sank with great loss of life.

How pleasant it must be,
After disaster falls,
To be second-guessed by amateurs
On all your judgement calls.

To have loudmouth politicians
Piss on you from great height,
Seeking political advantage,
And burbling half-baked shite.

A proper investigation
Requires a degree of maturity,
An emotional condition
Rare in this century.

Would an earlier generation
Have had the needed wisdom
To await a Board of Inquiry,
Instead of ranting with such freedom?

The toxic media spotlight
Both pressures and allures,
Bringing out the worst in leaders,
Who act like sleazy media hures.

Occupation of Tikrit 2005

In harsh and reeking old Tikrit,
Everything smells of death, piss and shit.
Each day the bombs are in the same place,
Yet the Yanks still drive right past it.
Over and again they go off in their face;
But they never learn a thing.
They're lucky most of the bombs are pathetic.

Unwanted paper blows free on the wind.
Dogs lie decaying beside the road.
Each carcase serves as a booby-trapped goad,
To Yanks who're accustomed to tidy lands,
Freshened air, and rotting meat binned.
At least they're wise to that one.

Line 2 is a paraphrase from 'An Angel from Hell,' by Spc Ryan A. Conklin.
A ground-breaking book, warmly recommended. Very different from books
written by officers.
This poem is based on what I learned from it.

New Cold War

And so they start a new Cold War;
Just what I always wanted!
That pseudo-peace was such a bore.
So Ho! Ho! Ho! for a nuclear glow,
To illuminate our bankrupt future.

The Nazi louts bully and shout,
While Europe's leaders bow and scrape:
In old Kiev they'll be found out.

With black and red their shoulders draped,
Right Sektor rule in Maidan Square;
Have turned it into a new Wolf's Lair:
A black hole of despair.

This was actually written before Sashko Bily was shot, and the crackdown 

on Right Sector began. Their decision to contest the Presidential election

may have antagonised some of the other fascists:-) 

Sashko Bily Falls Silent in Ukraine

Right Sector are a fascist lot;
One of their leaders has been shot.
Now that he's dead I guess he's not
Going to blab to police in Russia,
About what he was doing in Chechnya.

Russia demanded his arrest,
So the killers ungloved their iron fist.
Within two days he was shot dead;
All the secrets in his head
Have passed into the mist.

In Sashko's life, violence wasn't rare;
So I don't complain that his fate was unfair.
He should have chosen his friends with more care.
It's claimed he died by his very own hand;-)
But that's not accepted by his angry band.

Right Sector riot and threaten,
Have the authorities sweating;
They menace the parliament building with force.
Some government ministers are just as coarse,
And have as little legitimacy.

What gives me pause for thought,
Is to wonder what vital info he'd got,
That meant he must fall silent.
Accused of torture and abuse,
In the Lubyanka his tongue might have loosed.

But they don't have to worry any more.

Grantrover Meadows

In England's fields, the crud lies steaming;
The landowner's new car is gleaming.
In upland meadows, sheep are grazing;
The public subsidy's amazing.

Without a handout, nowt would happen;
They tax us hard, to watch cows crapping.
For helpless townies, all is begrudged;
Range Rover man gets rich from turd.

No sign here of free enterprise,
Though ministers praise it to the skies.
Landowners live on government dole,
While affecting to despise the prole
Who gets a fraction of the dosh,
The Tories hand out to the posh.

The tenant farmer's not so flash,
It's owners who get all the cash.
A grant for digging ditches, then
A grant to fill them in again.
In fact, I'm led to understand
They get grants just for owning land.
Grants for this, and grants for that,
A grant for every beast that's shat
On England's green unpleasant land.

Osborne Flashes the Red Box

He would like to pose bluff and hearty for posterity,
But is trying to sell us austerity, 
And his uncertainty
Shows on his face: 
A man who secretly fears disgrace. 

His posture copies Chancellors of the past, 
As he tries to get some bullshit past 
The long-suffering British public; 
Relying on the support of the middle-class, 
He tries to whet their avarice, 
So they won't notice 
What he's really up to.

This is based on an exercise from a workshop. Line 1 is due to Raymond Carver.