Gone Missing

I've lost my old dustbin.
I'd had it many years.
I feel this like a sin;
It touches on my fears.
Who took this thing away?
So much just disappears.

I won't get one as good;
All things are now cheap jack.
In this glitzy century,
Quality we lack.

Ignorance

They say that ignorance is bliss,
But it often leads to death;
If you don't know what's going on,
You may feel Dark Angel's breath.

Many things that do us harm,
Are in our daily world;
Covert danger's all around,
The innocent are culled.

Lucifer's Lies

What's that smell?
It smells like Hell.
Nothing cool will happen here
Till the Devil comes riding through.

It's time for Him to harvest the souls
Of his misbegotten fools;
Who affect to believe His Satanic lies
On the virtues of free enterprise.

They smirk and smile and prance around,
And tell us to worship cash;
We're supposed to forget too quickly
That the system totally crashed.

The system's psychopathic
Is what the psychologists say;
But the powerful are indifferent,
As long as they make it pay.

'Greed is good' is the watchword
Of Lucifer's acolytes;
But greed is really only greed,
They're a bunch of lying shites.

Joining Up

Be the best that you can be,
Fight to keep your country free,
When you're done they'll kick you out,
A useless drunk who swears and shouts.

Synchronicity Startles

I thought of someone I rarely see,
Then he was there in front of me!
Riding on his bicycle,
Across the Vicky Park.

Not much has changed for either,
In two years since last we met.
In much the same place, 
If my recall's correct.
What caused me then to recollect
An acquaintance that is slight?

He has a newish bike, 
Awesomely swift and light.
A minute's talk, then he speeds away.
Perhaps we'll meet another day;
By chance I suppose we might.

Four Holidays in One Summer!

I hear Dave Cameron is chillaxing,
On his fourth summer holiday.
While he's away, others are axing,
As he enjoys warm happy days.

Britain's finances are collapsing,
While the PM plays with zest.
His friends wax rich from rescued banking,
But swingeing cuts have done for the rest.

PS He has now returned to start a war. 

PPS ..and failed! Thank goodness. 

Warm Coffee Shop Air

Sitting in the coffee shop,
Listening to the chatter.
How this county's changed,
Meaningless dull yatter.
Toolkits, structure, focus:
A load of hocus-pocus.
She's trying to sell a training course,
Chunters on until she's hoarse,
To an audience of one,
Whose face says it's no fun.
People used to make things here,
All they make now is warm air.

Swans of the Grand Union Canal

Across the placid water they glide,
Necks long and elegant,
Poised to dip beneath a surface
That's smooth as their unruffled backs,
But dark and gleaming, holding secrets.

One looks me quietly in the eye and circles,
More in hope than expectation.
A few turns of its brown, webbed feet, 
Are all it deigns to make.
Its head ducks down, 
Comes up with weed
In reproach to my failure
To meet its unexpressèd need.
It chuckles water through its bill.
The canal remains both dark and still.

Sunday Night Traffic

What a lot of traffic on a Sunday night!
All the grim-faced drivers, making quite a sight.
They swerve and race and dash,
Looks like they might have a crash.
I hide behind the lamppost.

This took place on a traffic island on Leicester's inner ring road, where I had an

 unusually close view of high speed traffic.  People were making some dodgy lane changes.

Scientific News

A Government scientist has given us the news,
That a handful have died from over-doing ecstasy.
How many have died from over-doing hard booze?
That is something he does not say:
The State he works for is in booze-pushers' pay.

Such men of science are up for rent,
The work they do is pretty bent.
If they tell the truth they get the sack.
A scientist who has different views,
Is quite unlikely to get in the news.

The Human Condition - Part III

The human race 
Is far from grace;
Minds clouded by unreason.

We mock the manners of the lower class,
A behaviour that itself is crass;
A folly that's increasing.

We demand our privacy,
But then install CCTV;
Take comfort from sly peeping.

We claim respect for age
Then shove them off life's stage;
Allow hospitals' grim reaping.

No water for the old and sick,
They call it care but take the mick;
Their consciences are sleeping.

The last two verses are a comment on the Liverpool Care Pathway 

Also related: The Human Condition - Part II 

Murder Tales

Everyone loves a murder yarn,
The news is choc-a-bloc with them.
Shooting, stabbing, strangling in turn,
Each carried out with casual phlegm.

Whence comes our fascination
With every kind of brutal tale?
In spite of daily repetition
The attraction never seems to fail.

We care far less for other dooms,
Which really ought to matter more.
Slow changes to our environment
Give results quite like a sea of gore.

Cranking it out

In other countries they make crank,
But we're too deeply ignorant.
They make it in the kitchen sink,
Stoutly endure the hellish stink,
To get a high that's very cheap.

It seems that they know chemistry,
But Britons find that far too deep,
So we pay loads for what's nearly free
In cultured lands across the sea.

Abusing crank makes your teeth fall out,
And puts your overall health in doubt,
So maybe our stupidity
Turns out, in practice, luckily.

Crank is a slang term for methamphetamine, a.k.a. crystal meth, clear, glass etc.

I read on the BBC website that we alone don't have a problem with it, because it

is very expensive here. They suggested  this was due to unavailability of the 

chemicals. Yeah, that'll be right. You can't get chemicals in Britain.
I am advancing an alternative theory. Science and engineering are in sad 

decline in this country. Usually it's tragic, but not in this instance.

On a similar topic: Getting High 

Summer Smirr

Taking the Cemetery Short-cut on a Damp Day


Cool rain brings freshness.
Tall stones glisten.
Pattering leaves above.
I wait beneath the canopy, 
Amongst the quiet dead.
No deluge comes.
Drops cool upon my head,
Bring me no pain.
Soft summer rain.

The council cuts,
And yet does not:
Wild weeds abound.
The dead surround.
They feel no pain,
In soft summer rain.

Thin in plastic clothes,
His mind senses cold.
In shirtsleeves,
A plump man shivers.
Expectation prevails.
I don't feel pain,
From soft summer rain.

Drifting on a Sea of Nonsense

When the Zeitgeist
Is a shite geist
How to keep from really caring?

The loudmouth fools
Keep spouting bull
They can't seem to keep from sharing.

This world is cracked
It's all an act
The endless flow of cant is wearing.

Fools mock and sneer,
I smell their fear
Their lack of inner truth is glaring.

They're full of hate
Their rantings grate
To speak the truth would be too daring.

Freedom's their boast
In fact it's toast
The future looks so harsh it's scaring.

We've lost our past
It's dying fast
The young find all this crap ensnaring.

I look inside
My speech elide
The only way to hold my bearing.

I guard my tongue,
Curb thoughts far flung,
Try not to grieve at this world's faring.

"When the world is running down,

You make the best of what's still around." - Sting 

See also:Durance Vile