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.

Borrowing a Guitar

Some hapless chap wants to play us a tune,
But he's forgotten to bring his guitar;
So he keeps on trying to borrow one,
Though he's had no luck so far.

"Get yer hands off of mine," 
The musicians all groan,
"My guitar's far too fine.
Ye should've brought yer own."

It doesn't help that he's such a noob,
A man who's entirely unknown;
No-one's willing to give this rube
A helping hand with a loan.

No surprise he's not been back to the folk club. 

Inflexibility

A man rings the pet shop, and asks for a dog.
"I've got a live cat and I've got a dead dog,"
Said the owner, "Which one will you have?" 
"I want a dog, a dog I must have,"
Said the man, "Of cats, I'm no fan."

The owner brings the dog around in his van,
Takes payment, and makes off as fast as he can.
They find that the dog will not play with the kids,
As you'd hope that a household pet should;
But - there was no reason to expect that it would.

Feynman's Fool

Nobel Laureate Richard Feynman wrote: 

“The first principle is that you must not fool yourself, and you are the 

easiest person to fool.” He didn't leave detailed instructions, unfortunately.

No-one fools you like you do,
Just as Dick Feynman spoke.
Compared to ego's potent brew,
Human insight is a joke;
Our self-perception's up in smoke.

Can we escape the self-deception
Feynman warned us of?
Become a rare exception,
Exempt from vacuous self-love,
Though ego and folly go hand-in-glove?

Tiger by the Tail

When you have a tiger by the tail,
You care the most about which way it's going;
Cling on, and hope you do not fail
To make the best of how events are flowing.

Your enemies demand that you condemn
The tiger and its every deed and act.
If wise, you'll pay no heed to them,
Focus on trying to keep yourself intact.

Darkness Lessens

Slowly winter's darkness lessens,
Solstice gloom abates;
As it does our spirit freshens,
Attains enlivened states.

Pale snowdrop blossom
Refreshes hopes,
In a landscape softened
By replenished light.

As nature quickens,
Grows lushly verdant,
Keenly our mind anticipates
A Springtime bloom that scintillates.

A Fine Watch

I was in a Kurdish cafe the other night, and accidentally dropped my pocket watch on the floor. The proprietor picked it up for me, and commented that he had one just like it, except his had a chain.
      I explained that the chain that came with mine was no good, so I had removed it.
      His was plated in fine silver, and dated from 1923.
      I confessed that mine was a cheap Chinese fake, from eBay.
      He told me he had got his from a market stall, the person who sold it only charged £2.50!
      My fake cost £5 :-(
      At least I don't have to wind it up.

Grand Dreams

'Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.'
It's a kind of wild insanity
To think that we should know it all,
Even though we are so small.

We're cousin to the hairy ape,
Yet robe ourselves in wizard's cape.
Our dreams are grandiose in scope,
Though for insight we must grope
In the dimness of our simian minds.

We still harbour aspirations,
Despite our innate limitations, 
That we can comprehend all things.
Cold truth delivers painful stings. 

The first line is, of course, a quote from one of Shakespeare's famous Hamlet soliloquies.

Comedy Festival

Can the Comedy Festival
Destroy your sense of humour?
Hour after hour of trying to laugh
Can be a bit of a bummer.

True humour comes from daily life
And has a spontaneous ring.
But monetising it is rife,
They'll suck the blood from anything.

Swans in the Night

On Mile Straight the swans are sleeping;
Only one a watch is keeping.
The others float on current free
Heads laid upon their backs.
Lost in dream,
They let the stream
Take them where it will.


Mile Straight is part of the Grand Union Canal running near the centre of Leicester.

Bacon or Sausages?

Forty-two mil for a painting
Done by Francis Bacon.
Supposed to be his boyfriend,
It looks like mangled sausages;
Which sends disturbing messages
About humanity's values.

Acceptance and Rejection

If I cried when anyone died,
When would I stop sobbing?
Six billion folk on Earth in all,
Not one of us immortal.

Tabloid papers they all say
A killer storm is on its way!
It may blow one or two away;
I won't let it spoil my day.

Headlines howl of disaster ahead,
As though we soon should all be dead.
I greet it with phlegmatic shrug.
The media's like an addict's drug,
A conveyor belt of misery.
They won't get to me today.

Crucifixion

Why crucify a tree?
Seems quite odd to me.
Yet in the world of horticulture,
This concept's very popular.

Indiscreet Display

Sitting in the launderette,
Waiting while my clothing dries.
Young girl bends to load a washer,
Her bum crack's right before my eyes!
I'm pretending not to look.

These low-cut trousers that she's got
Really do not hide a lot.
The effect holds no allure.
The friend she's with is more attractive;
No surprise her style's demure.

Jade Rabbit

Jade Rabbit wanders round the moon:
Will Chinese folk arrive there soon?
They have their eye on Luna's craters,
Are sending complex apparatus.

Is it all for national glory?
A dull old patriotic story?
Or do they have real aspiration
Toward a meaningful exploration?

Jade Rabbit is a lunar rover operated by the People's Republic of China. 

World War One (Revised Edition)

Easy to rewrite history,
Now that they all are dead.
Dan Snow's the lead revisionist,
He'll rearrange our heads.

Forget contemporary accounts,
Replace with an all-new version,
That makes the generals into heroes
And dispels the harsh aspersions.

Dan Snow has tried to 'debunk' the 'myth' that our troops in WW1

were 'lions led by donkeys'. He uses the straw man technique, and

answers a charge other than the one that was made, i.e. he defends their

courage when it was their competence that has been impugned. He 

also asserts they had been 'trained to fight small colonial wars'.

Everyone had known for years that war in Europe was likely, as is

obvious from contemporary documents e.g. 'The Riddle of the Sands'.

The basic method of trench warfare had been invented during the 

American Civil War, as had iron-clad battleships and submarines.

There was no excuse for a lack of readiness.

The General - by Siegfried Sassoon 

Snow's revisionism 

Winter in High Latitudes

The sun first rises, then it sets.
I'm not ready for it to set just yet.
But it does it anyway.

No-one Expects the Modern Imposition

People try to impose themselves
Even on our inner being.
It's not enough we let them rant,
They insist on us agreeing,
As though we must join in their chant.
Their effrontery's breathtaking.

They insist they're always right,
Want to make a new orthodoxy.
They try to achieve oversight,
Force through their notions so poxy.
Freedom was a passing phase;
We haven't got the moxie
To stand up for our rights.

Pan Semi-Sapiens

Uncomfortably poised between two worlds,
We carry on as best we can;
Too smart to be a chimpanzee,
Too ape to be a sapient man.

The title means 'part-smart ape' in English. 

Taking Literature a Bit Seriously

On a long dark Russian winter's night,
Two men have settled in
To drink and set the world to rights.
They drink so much that it's a sin.

"Poetry is the only art!"
"No prose is!"
"Poetry!"
"Prose!"
Round and round it goes.

Too many bottles on the floor,
The debate's not friendly any more.
A flash of steel,
A spout of gore;
One ceases to feel,
The other to bore.

As the poet flees through winter's night,
With a heart that's sore,
He reflects that 'twas a cultured fight,
But his best friend is no more.

A true story, from Russia with love. For culture, that is. In Holy Russia, the holes in 

people's hearts aren't always congenital:-)
I told an English friend, and he said they must have previously fallen out over 

something more substantial, like the washing up.
"They're Russian!" I replied.

Dossing in the Rain

The dosser's face holds sour indifference,
As he sits in pouring rain.
He makes no effort to seek shelter.
Whence comes this show of dour disdain?

His blanket won't long stem the dampness,
And yet he's rooted to his spot;
While others huddle in shop doorways,
He seems careless of his lot.

A long wet evening lies ahead,
A steady downpour is in store;
Yet the dosser stays in place,
Not for him a sheltered door.

Poems on the Internet

I know why the caged poet screams
Surrounded by the vulgar dreams
Of those whose verses aren't coherent
Or depend on bombast for adherents.

In broken English, they keep blowing
About love, or vogueish politics;
Praised to the skies by those unknowing
Who give their trendy arse keen licks.

Enthusiasm it is they seek
Not skill, or truth, or acuity.
How could they make a deft critique,
Since they can't use the language fluently?

In our times there's a divorce
'Tween verse and skilful reason;
Broken apart by the dreadful force
Of ignorance increasing.

So the general public's grown indifferent
To the scribblings of the poets;
It's a golden age of verse production,
But the public do not know it.

They would have to sift a mountain of dross
To find a few nuggets of gold;
Of course they do not give a toss,
The notion leaves them cold.

On a similar topic: 

Translated Verse 

In Defence of Verse 

Morning Rhymes 

Hate

People like to think their hate
Is somehow more legitimate
Than the hate of those they hate.
It is the human race's fate
To cling to this deluded state,
Until it is far too late
To find our way through Heaven's Gate.

On a similar topic: 

the-hidden-hand-of-media-moguls 

San Fernando Valley

Orange trees gave way to palms.
Straight streets of van Nuys,
Were ruled across the Valley floor.
Once paved with aviation gold,
But not any more.

Porno brought a sleazy wealth,
Hoodlums filling the top shelf
Of your local video store
With tales of sex and gore;
But not any more.

Amateurs give it away,
On the public Internet.
Far too keen to play,
Too dim to ask for pay:
The dough's not in it any more.

So now decline has come to stay,
For the lines of sheds and cheap tract homes
Baking under the desert sun.
A hot bed of misery,
Palm trees full of rats
Scuttling around the American Dream.

The unemployment rate in Van Nuys (zip 91406), CA, is 12.70%, with 

job growth of -0.87%. 
Only one small commercial orange grove still exists. In the '30s, there

were thousands of acres.

An article on the decline of porn in LA county 

On a related topic: The prurience paradox 

The Inutility of Post-Mortem Celebrity

Another dead celebrity
That I've never heard of.
The media seems to love
To exalt the near-nonentity.
When they've passed beyond the veil,
Suddenly we're told to hail
Lives lived in a minor key,
By Z-list celebrities.

It's just a little late
To grant them recognition,
When they've met their fate,
And ceased from cogitation.

If only they could have made a splash
In the media while alive,
They might have made some useful cash.

Sad it is, but also daft,
That all we want to read of them
Is their epitaph.

Streetlink (a phone number)

"Seen someone sleeping rough in Leicester?
Help us to help them."
Or are we ratting them out to the cops,
And helping the bosses to clean the streets?
Rough sleepers can ask for help themselves
If they want to sleep between sheets.
Should Streetlink really be Snitchlink?
I'm not sure what to think.

Ecological Oasis

Stagnant, green and murky
Replete with drunken remnants
Of a lout's night out:
Cans and wrappers, even road-signs
Mix with the tangled weed
In turbid water free of motile life.
This new artificial pond
Holds little but trash and twisted fronds
Of unhealthy looking plants.
The dogs have had the moorhens
In Pete Soulsby's plastic tub,
Oasis of ecology,
Which cracked and split and dried right out.
So they had to start again with a new one.

Wrath of the Barber

"Have you been cutting your own hair?"
I shrink from barber's angry glare.
For murder and rape I could be forgiven,
But from this sin I can't be shriven:
I've cut my own hair.

A crime against all barberkind,
It's seen as outright scabbery.
Useless to hope he will not mind,
He views it as sheer robbery
That I've cut my own hair.

It was getting in my way,
So I hacked at it with scissors.
Driven to distraction,
I braved the wrath of haircut sellers,
And dared to trim my own hair.

I knew a day of reckoning
Must inevitably come.
I never met a barber yet
Willing to keep mum
About me cutting my own hair.