I find
waking
at 2am
provides
a convenient window
for two or three hours
of pondering
on my myriad shortcomings
as a husband,
father,
teacher,
writer,
musician
and human being

Conveniently uninterrupted
by the slightest opportunity
to do anything
about any of them.

Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart

When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!

Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.

This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve

Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”

Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop

These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”

So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light

Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.

So many of us
beaten, heart-wrung care
we share
our hopelessness
our impotent despair
our seismic horror
mounting terror
as nations pile mistake
on fatal error
How do we act
as casualties mount
how do we hold our blighted leaders
to account

We trawl through history
and weakly portion blame
make claim on pointless claim
to show that we began this game
That this was us, and that was them
but all this does
is set the process off again
And little comfort,
stating that we cared
in lieu of just confessing
we are scared

Scared that in the loneliness of night
a sneaking voice
might say this choice was right
that self-defense
is justified
that editors and leaders
can't have lied
that evil really stalks us,
really walks our streets
plots our defeat, prepares
to hoist black flags
into the air.

It does, and always has.
The name may change
but nothing of this crisis
is so strange.
Cry anarchy, revolt
pledge blood to the republic
**** the vote
don masks and balaclavas,
meet in shade
believe this is the place
where deals are made
And soon, to fan eternal conflagration
someone will bring a god
to the equation,
proclaim a nation,
proclaim the right of judgement,
who should live
and who should die
And in the dancing flames,
raise eyes
to thank the empty,
mindless sky.

But what is worst,
among the frantic, wretched cries
is that our comfort
lets us view it with surprise
our safety, compromised
exposes this malignant myeloma -
we feel that we
should never die.
We should not suffer,
should exist
in numb, eternal safety,
empty bliss
no cold, no hunger,
conflict frowned upon
All struggle gone -
we should go on
and on
and on.

But breathe.
Feel echoes, ripples, tremors -
close frightened eyes
and just remember -
this is the road that we are always on
We found it on arrival,
leave it when we're gone
but our survival
is unhindered.
While fools break splinters
from its rugged bones,
we still lay bigger, stronger stones.

This is the world.
Love fiercely, dare
to shout in anger,
weep in care, do all you can
to help your fellow woman,
fellow man
to shatter walls, to build
together, better, wiser things
Prepare
to sacrifice, to will a world as one
and know that evil done
can be undone

Do not succumb
to cold, immobile fear
but shout, in righteous fury,
"We are here!"

After the act,
where do you go?

Plans, meticulous plans
executed expertly.
Comrades martyred,
wheels in motion,
all is as expected.

But you.
Commander no more.
Comrade no more.
Those who groomed
and trained you,
are on to fresher meat.

Hunted, hated
you run,
but where?

Me, I could trust
to bold humanity:
could hope for help
in darkest need.
This is simply
what we do.

But you are broken,
and I wonder:

Does your faith warm you
in ditches?
Do rain and hunger fade
in the light
of your great sacrifice?

At three a.m.
does the fact that you,
like any fool,
can **** with a gun,
compensate for barred doors,
cold windows,
closed faces glazed
in baffled fury?

No touch
but a fanatic's.
No love
unchained by dogma.
No hope.

My poor brother.
No hope.

The bombs will **** only the guilty.

This time,
the destruction of schools and homes,
of roads, hospitals and libraries,
will be instantly forgiven,
because we will acknowledged by all
to be the good guys.

This time we will know
what happens next.
We will have a plan
and we will execute it
with wisdom, compassion and skill.
And it will work.

This time no vested interests will lurk,
grinning, in the shadows,
waiting to lap sustenance
from spilled blood.
We will have none of that.

This time, our victory will prove
our moral superiority,
not merely that we spend more
on armaments
than they do.

This time, violence will beget peace.
Violence will beget forgiveness.
Violence will usher in
a new and loving age.

This time,
history
has nothing to teach us.

Four feet by six feet,
good black soil
in a good back garden.
I stand, transfixed.
When I was six,
this plot was purgatory.
It could swallow
a sunny afternoon
without mercy.
It stretched, relentless,
an Amazon of weeds
with no beginning
and no end
and I would spend
hour after miserable hour
merely looking
at the horror ahead.
Punctuated here and there
with a desultory dig,
a scrape at the surface,
dock or dandelion
briefly inconvenienced
as the whole, howling,
heaving hoard
of grinning, gobbling green
grasped me, held me
in sticky-willie stasis,
a chickweed choke-hold
between buttercup buttresses.

Today it's tiny.
I could sweep it clean
with three good strokes
of the ***.

So I stand, at once
amused and wistful
lamenting not
the verdant self-pity
but wishing I was still
so easily convinced
of eternity.

Behind one door of course
is a giant room, indistinct
colours coming into focus
shapes forming meaning
patterns establishing
coalescent understanding
huge, oh huge!

Another door reveals
hard edges, firmer lines
things to lift and move
a catalogue of voices
swaying rows of figures
regulated, rigorous

Now a third door
opens on a shared space
merging pictures
hybrid hopes
budding, blooming
memories of the first door
memories of the second door.

Many more passed
and one more opened
on a tiny room
senses shrivelled
fog and white noise
an anteroom, a cell
grim and hopeless, sure

But always, the corridor.