If William Owens caught sight
of the monstrous tugging at
the heart strings of the Chief
Theatric Officer Trump & the
so cheap & cynical little
throw-away line of "The
Bible teaches us ..."

& saying Owen was likely
happy in heaven because
the chamber "broke a record"
for the length of its ovation,

would he be happy to see
his death & his mother's
desperate suffering used
by a shallow vain opportunist
as backdrop to his coming
out as so presidential?

& whilst orchestrating grief
for the folks at home but then
"They lost Ryan" is thrown
out there because heaven
forbid Trump could take
any responsibility for this
soldiers death,

heaven forbid.

Sure as heck wouldn't fall
for that "Oh its my favourite
book & I keep it by my bedside
trick" & gather chubby Christian
flunkeys to pray over & anoint
a fascist idiot child,

Would see right through using
a grieving widow as a prop for
a photo-shoot extravaganza,
& then talk of record applause
lines like this was America's
Most Talented & he was a cheap
*** promoter milking the crowd,

Wouldn't for a second fall for
the Syrian children carry an
infection to the nation & must
be denied entry because you
never know but of course we can
because deranged white folks are
more of a threat,

Sure as **** could tell the difference
between a good apostle & that
scheming White Supremacist
Bannon & the bald dude who
endlessly talks of his overlord
being obeyed or **** sure you'll
all be for it,

Would most definitely not need
a golden crapper to rest his fat
white *** on & a golden stroller
for his special one & lacquered
mirrored sitting room that looks
like a hillbilly wet-dream version of
of 'how rich folks dun live rightly,'

Would most definitely not be seen
wearing that stupid red hat which
more than hints at a long gone
world with shades of whiteness
& exclusion & don't come knocking
on my door you pitiful wretch you,

Would never in a million friggin'
years have voted Republican &
sided with a lying, duplicitous
con-man with all the shades of
darkness that usually are reserved
for the actual Fallen Angels.

Eating Cadbury's chocolate handed
to you by sultry Amazons as you
float gently down the river Seine
in Paris while accompanying Frenchmen
in berets gently play their harmonium
thingy as the younger Brigitte Bardot
lets her blond hair tumble gently over
your face as she softly hums in your
ear songs by Smokey Robinson,

& meanwhile Hendrix's long sweet jam
Voodoo Chile blasts from enormous
banks of speakers being towed alongside
by Viking longboats crewed by Republican
politicians & overseen by the ladies of
***** riot now free from the prison cells
of Siberia,

as Tommy Cooper performs magic tricks
& near extinct animals, birds & insects
mate freely among floating clouds of
vapoury spring dew,

while deliciously gorgeous Thai ladyboys
slowly peel grapes for me before setting
off in a fluttering cloud to use their wiles
& charms on Republican conventioneers,
as you relax & smoke ***** & share a
hot-tub with God.

Joy.

He's all smirking with his
secrets that he knows &
we don't but he's going
to bless us with their
presence as if the ****
he's all Wikileaking
wasn't already guessed
at & yes, thanks Assange
for helping elect Trump
you Libetarian-crypto-fascist
you,

with your all-knowing
Liberal airs that have just
helped make the world
worse in actual objective
fact,

well the CIA watch us all!
heck thats news to me,
not as if I didn't know
that as a 14 year old in
England 46 years ago.

& so when you sit in your
comfy chair in your
Embassy exile please
remember that I cannot
for the life of me fathom
how helping elect Trump
is in any way a good thing,

to hell with you Julian Assange,
you pompous self-important
rat.

Just because I think it would be a beautiful
idea if Trump & Bannon could be strapped
down in a Rocket aimed for the outer
reaches of the infinite starry galaxies
doesn't mean I wish them gone,

& just because I'd love to see Julian Assange
work the mines in the deepest bowels of
the high Ecuadorian mountains
doesn't mean I wish him ill,

& just because I'd be so satisfied by Mitch McConnell
pimped out on a Detroit street in mid-winter
while his man keeps an eye-out from a
warm & very smooth cadillac nearby
doesn't mean I wish him a tough evening,

& just because I'd be real chuffed to see Paul Ryan
in all his 'What Me Worry' shallow smile
earnest do-gooder front be flown to Calcutta
as shock-therapy & made to clean the wounds
of leprous beggars,
doesn't mean I'm sensing justice,

& just because I really am down with that oh so
sincerely evil David Duke being forced to perform
street cleaning duties in darkest Baltimore
doesn't men I'm feeling righteous,

& just because I'm very, very o.k. with the idea &
then the actual practice of some sort of natural
justice doesn't mean I'm being unrealistic,
a dreamer, or need to relax awhile.

These are my dreams folks.

Just in case,
you know,
just filling you in,
a word in your ear,
having a little
mention
& such,

Muslims breathe air,
like snacks,
wear clothes,
bite into apples,
make babies,
just like us.

Some like soccer,
Monopoly,
Spongebob Squarepants,
even going for
a short walk,
actually
just
like us.

They too marvel
at the starry night sky,
caress soft fur,
love their children,
read books,
like music,
which is
just
like us.

The fact
this needs
pointing out,
is a tragedy
of such proportion
that my poem
just ends
right
here …

Kissinger's in the House today,
trailing choking ****** fumes
kicking aside limbless tiny bodies
too, too innocent by far,
all dripping entrails & shattering
dry bones gladly underfoot
as he lopes horrendously
all death rictus grin & such
as he once again justifies
to St Peter at the gates
the millions crushed, obliterated
blown into tiny misty red fragments
as he played his all-mighty diplomatic
history lessons on a helpless, distant
once green & fertile land.

Forgiveness? Ha!

Kristina Palten walked ...
yes, walked,
through the Islamic country of Iran
an ancient land & a journey
of 1144 miles on foot,

day one she cried with fear
& yet as day followed day
she was met by strangers
giving food, water & offers of
shelter for the night,

she shared breakfast,
lunch & dinner with
Islamic families from
an Islamic country,

& Kristina Palten
leaves me with a
genuine feeling
of warmth & sincere
respect,

Kristina Palten
I am in awe
& send my
very best greetings.

Come on down
right on down now,
a brand new car,
deluxe washer dryer
brand spankin' new
& all ready to go,
spin that wheel,
turn that square,
answer that question
& gamble that dollar,
Donald J. Trump
has come to town,

the Dealmaker
the Best of the Best,
the All American
gettin' it done
wise & wicked
grinnin' fat cat,
who'll somehow
keep an eye out
for all you smaller
folks as he swings
those roundabouts,
& crosses those t's
& cashes his chips,

Donald J. Trump
will make that dollar,
dig that coal &
bury that pipeline,
negotiate that better
ditch that failure,
scrap that law,
watch out for
that business
& surely curb
those watchdogs,

& money will be
made but not by
you or I or Shirl
or Bob but those oh so
connected & Sheldon's
& Coke Brother's &
Investors & Directors
& Oligarchs & Overseas
Accounts & the select
few who always,
always, seem to
do just fine,

& the pitiful irony
if you will of all
this Making Great
Again & victory
for the Little Man
is that the little
man cast his lot
with someone
who never gave
the slightest ****
& Earl & Nancy
once more get
the short stick,
the bad apple,
the *******
without
the prize,
the pathetic hat
& the broken
soon faded whistle.

"The realization
                                not the knowledge,

for this wasn't verbal or abstract,

         but the DIRECT, TOTAL AWARENESS, from the inside,

so to say, of LOVE as the primary & fundamental cosmic

          FACT.

I was this fact;

or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that

this fact occupied the place where I HAD BEEN."


Aldous Huxley, English writer, died 1963.
A quote respectfully, deeply so, arranged on the page by Martin B.

Leslie Howard
as the Scarlet Pimpernel
is a pure joy
to watch,
all big-collared foppish
tight-trousered dandy
& dainty eyeglass
peering,

& there’s scheming
from the glum & slightly
hunch-backed Robespierre,
weeping aristocrats,
in tumbrils,
& innocent playing
children,

oh so-tailored families
all huge-coiffured hair,
cravats & handkerchiefs
& cocky young jackanapes
playing chess,

the cheering crowds
all coarse & ugly,
with knitting bonneted-crones
anticipating as the drums roll,
& the blade falls,
to a mighty
cheer,

we can see
our own bewitching
Marie Antoinette,
our own sly & whispering
Rasputin,
our gold-folly Sun King,

but I cannot say
I want Madame
La Guillotine
to be set up,
in the square
this time,
no …
no that,

but a victorious
cheering mob,
does sometimes
haunt my dreams,
I confess
to say.

“I send them to the guillotine for the future happiness of the human race, but I do not allow torture.”

Robespierre

The beautiful children
holding lengths of thread
with large hornets
attached,

tied by one leg
and flying again
& again
around
their heads.

Trump rallied today
which in plain language
means he absorbed the adoration
of a large group of white folks all red-hatted
& sign-waving as if the election was still going
on & Gods Chosen walked among them one more
time just for the fun of it,

& he trotted out the usual enemies of their illusion
& his incompetence & blatant lies,
the press …

for if its daily being pointed out that you fail,
lie & basically don’t know what the hell you’re
doing then labeling those who point this out as
‘enemies of the people’ is I guess one way to
handle it,

& he played the tunes & he pontificated & simple
minded angry Americans praised him to the skies
& felt better about life as The Great Leader promised
better days even though he’s basically done very little
to help your average folk & the courts have challenged
his attempted edicts & his wall is still unfunded & his
tax cuts essentially give more money to rich folks,
but never mind,

‘Make America Great’ resounded through the stadium
as the white common folks found their voice, their man,
their savior & the rich get richer, & the seas get higher,
& the ice melts, & the innocent get deported & Planned
Parenthood gets defunded & we essentially enter a new
age of barbarism, ignorance & good old down home
flag waving victory of the deluded, fooled & just plain
simple.

Sweet, sweet tea of the morning
& a glass of old-style
Kool-Aid I insist
cos its summer
& we'll need it,

& then we stroll on out
down Main Street
& over the bridge
just past the station
to the old
Baptist Church,

where I suggest
we rest awhile
just to take
the weight off
our feet,

& we sit all
relaxed & resting
& there's a
slight discomfort,
I can feel it,

oh relax I say
just enjoy
the quiet,

& I feel it myself,
the waves,
the shimmering

& the colors
from the glass windows
shine so brightly
& we talk
so objectively
about this,
all logic
& such,

but then it hits
& you all get nervous
& wonder what
is happening,

& I confess
to the plan
& say just
go with it,
go with it,
all will be well,

& light talk goes on
all thought & surmise
& the figure so sweet
all compassion
& sacrifice
grabs hold
& we still chat
but slowly,
slowly,

& Look at the Windows
I say,
& we gaze so
way up there
and the jeweled
light cascades
all reds,
yellows,
blues,

& from inside
after the chit-chat ebbs,
comes flowing
the grace
& the love
& the power

& the Divine
is with us now,
right here
from us
right now,

& we weep
& God is Love,
& we weep,
& we weep

Martin may have been
******* by the Trump,

no matter what words
he strings together
the other side
holds trumps,

& Martin's only human,
but the other side
seem of baser
matter,
fabricated out of
cast-offs & junkmetal,
empty gourds
of echoing nothingness,
aching voids,
fathomless chasms,

with truncheoned guardians,
subservient menials,
boot-licking lackeys,
fawning & scraping
Goebbel-like go-fers,

Trump might have ******* him
cos Martin is plumb
tuckered & its
only day 30,

but of course
Martin has the luxury
of not being from
South of the Border,
a very poor man,
a junked-up hillbilly man,
a desperate man.

Martin can give in
to his so-heavy fatigue,
that could be
his choice,
& he's lucky
that way.

******* I'm so tired
of this idiocy.

Meals on Wheels feeds needy
old folks & house-bounds,
its not some sort of luxury blue-apron
celebrity-chef at your door in minutes
creme-de-brule & lobster fricasee,

its basic nutritious food that many needy
folks depend on to help them get through
each day,

but Trump & his Republicans have decided this
is, what, a luxury that promotes dependency,
an unnecessary largesse on the part of a near
socialist dictatorship,

that bringing food to the needy is just way, way
too beyond the financial abilities of the mighty
U.S of A,

but of course there's a billion dollar wall to be built
to hold back brown people,
there's more tanks, bigger ships, fancier airplanes,
oh & what ... Mar-A-Lago golf trips to pay for,

& security for every Trump spawn out there
rock & rollin' their way around the world making
money & just a makin' more money,

& once more I say unto you,
the fact this man feels the need to ****
in a golden crapper fills me with such a
sincere & deep loathing that at times I can
barely sleep.

Feed the Needy!

Meals on Wheels
costs about $7 a day
& an administration
that would deprive its
elderly, home-bound
& perhaps blind citizens
of simple sustenance
because they say “there’s
no proven results” or
a “waste of your money”
has to my mind lost
all sense of basic moral
decency & deserves
no less than our complete
scorn & utter contempt.

Can I say it any louder!

& a president who can
sit down to his steak
dinner with prawn hors
d'oeuvres having signed
off on such a callous &
inhumane proposal while
mentally ticking off the
money he's put in the bank
today should be removed
from office by any means
necessary & ideally
today.

Can I say it any clearer!

Dappled             smooth

marble stones
                             falling,

onto a heap of feathers
              
                              slowly.

A train of bones.

Sharks ...

                             swift & deadly.

Jose Escobar, 31
Deported: 2 March, from Houston, Texas

Jose Escobar, from El Salvador,
has a son, Walter, & a wife
Rose Marie Ascencio-Escobar,
a U.S. citizen,
now home alone
in South Houston,

Jose Escobar moved to the US legally
from El Salvador with his mother
when he was 15,
and both qualified
for protected status.

His mother erred in filing
renewal paperwork when he
was still a teenager,
his protected status lapsed.

Mr Escobar spent years trying to
sort out  his status and received
a stay of deportation
from a judge in 2012.

But with Trump  
the deportation process
started up again
& he was detained
at his check-in with Ice
& flown to San Salvador.

His family is devastated.

"I'm begging President Donald Trump to look
into my case and see if my husband is really
destroying America,"
his wife told reporters.

Well that was last week
& this is now
& yes …
it actually is
to him
This President of the United States
who has just endorsed
an accused
child-molestor …
…
THE PRESIDENT OF THESE HERE
UNITED STATES
HAS ENDORSED
AN ACCUSED
*******!
…
“He denied it”
says Trump,
of Roy Moore
this man who has 8,
yes …
8 women accusers …
together with witnesses
from the time,
& corroborative evidence
from the time,
& tears …
from the time,
& fear …
from the time,
…
& if there’s special
place in hell
let it house
Trump
& Moore
& Moore’s enablers
& Republican justifiers
& equivocating TV hosts
& the Evangelical apologists
…
& as for Trump
& as for Moore …
the moral bankruptcy here
leads me to simply say
in anger, disgust & horror …
may the dark pitiless depths
of a sulfurous burning pit
be their’s for eternity,
…
or close to.

Playlist by the fire
as we drink tea
& roll one,
circa 1983.

The Cure & Talking Heads,
Big Youth & The Congos,
Killing Joke & Dennis Bovell,
Patti Smith & Misty in Roots,

Mike stroking his long
long beard,
Kim always up & down
like a yo-yo,
I hung loose as the guy
from next door put his
head round the door
to see if we had anything,

he was a laugher that one,
used to watch the snooker
on a small black & white
tv with the sound down
while he listened to Keith
Jarrett play his piano,

nice guy.

Well ...
that's it then,
we're officially done,
game about over ...

life as we know it now forever
changed by some ignorant
two-bit hustler in the White
House who signed off today
on a 'freeing from regulation'
something Capitalists have a deep
yearning for, look it up, & thus leading
to 4 years of pollution, toxic gases, rising
seas, dying wildlife, flooded villages & soon
worldwide shortages & drought & death ...

but America will be o.k. with it's hamburgers,
beans, & Doritos ... so I guess its just tough for
the rest of you's cos we'll be just dandy in this
here Land of the Free.

******* you Republicans till Hell freezes over
& the humble bear hunts for the last time.
... coming sooner than later after this morning.

Mama's on her iPhone
checking out
'Worst Places to Live in America'
heck
I guess anywhere's
better
than here.

The youngster's all a tiz
& teary because
his new bracelet making
thingy is actually
a real drag
to work with,

& me,
I'm all a glaze-eyed
looking at my bank account
& its negative
$35,

oh,
& did I mention
there's now a hole
in my boot
to match
my socks,

ha!

Trump sure knows how to
share the sacrifices,
spread that butter a little thin
on his own toast,
as say ...
when he weekends
at Mar-a-Lago,

that opulent palace-like estate
with its Flemish tapestries,
lavish oriental rugs,
& a Louis XIV-style ballroom,
with $7 million in gold leaf
on the walls,

one-more-time ...
$7 million in gold-leaf
on the walls,

& it is here that he relaxes
every weekend
this Sun-King of ours,
this Oriental Potentate,
this Pasha in crushed velvet,

the cost of these jolly
jaunts is $4 million
each weekend,
oh … & there’s $4
million a month for
Melania & Barron too,

poor young Barron,
who one does
feel for
in a way.

So … at the risk
of sounding like
an early 20th century
Bolshevik & drawing
attention to inequalities
& injustices & wealth
& rank luxury at the
very time when hungry
& lonesome old folks
are to be deprived
of basic nourishment,

I'll say:
"The revolution is not
an apple that falls
when it is ripe.
You have to make
it fall."

As the fingerless *****
grasps my hand
in a gesture of friendship,

persistent groups
of ***** children
tug at my sleeves,

whilst pink-eyed in the sun
the lone albino
stumbles
in the gutter,

in which the starving dog
furiously devours
fresh human waste;

& the helpless young man
withe the twisted limbs
lies gazing at the pitiless sky,

where the red & blue
paper kite
sways slowly in the breeze,

above the huge white cow,
sitting placidly
in the middle of the road,

beside which
the family of five
begin their evening meal.

Kind of the same passion as the last priest hung
by the guts of the last capitalist only a touch less
ruthless & surely with a bare-breasted damsel
waving a black flag so high,

kind of a storming of the Tower by the raging mob
of whom a few have fallen 'neath the clubs & guns
of security but like warrior ants crossing a flowing stream
merely give themselves for the all to gain entrance,

kind of a pillaging of said tower with luxury furnishings
all sashaying upon gaudy, liquid thighs, gold this & gold
that all crowbarred & levered just right on out of there
to turn up all in bits & pieces at the 42nd St. Pawn Store,

kind of loading of the treadmill with those false narrative
propagandists for an old-fashioned milling of the poor
folks flour, grinding of the pulp, & a pounding of the fiber
for a deserved clothing of the cold & fragile,

kind of a revolution of justice, elemental & deeply satisfying,
of an ideal revenge, a reckoning, a pitiless, near merciless settling
of accounts with the poisoners, the exploiters, the fork-tongued
liars, the cheats, the merchants of a slow, silent death,

kind of a joyous, rapturous end-of-the-war drinking & embracing
moment of pure contentment & sense that actually all is well
in the world & that good does eventually overcome & that the
meek shall inherit one day & that come what may in the end
there will be an ecstatic blossoming roar of sweet & ultimate
victory.

From the street below
comes drifting
into my
scented room ...

to grow
& grow ...
the sound
of many voices
harmonious
in song,

unable at first
to comprehend ...
but then realizing
"Om Namah Shivaya"
is being repeated
over & over ...

a hymn of praise
from the mouths
& hearts
of women
& girls
to the Great
Lord Shiva,

& it will continue
all evening long.

It is called 'The Painting'
& begins with a line
containing the word
black,

which made me think of charcoal,
which then led to the drawings
composed by students
when I modeled
in art school,

& then the poem goes on
to speak of
'a delicate lock of blond hair'

& I picture the fair-haired girl
who I never spoke to
but whose shy & inviting smile
haunts me now,

& I wonder how it might have been,
our friendship.

As evening comes
we drink tea
& all watch
as a blind man
approaches slowly
along the beach,

feeling his way
amongst us
to ask
for the same
as the tape-deck
plays the song
"Helpless ... helpless ... helpless."

“How these gals came up with this,
I don’t know.
They must have had some
sweet dreams somewhere
down the line.”
…
Oh yes for sure
Pastor Earl Wise,
sweet, sweet dreams
of violent ****** assault
in a locked vehicle
in a dark car park
behind the diner
in the dead of night,
…
“Plus,
there are
some 14-year-olds
who …
the way they look,
could pass for 20,”
…
Oh I know
just take a little
look at that
little 14 year
one over
there’s,
easy to see
as 20,
so easy.
…
“I don’t know
how much
these women
are getting paid,
but I can only believe
they’re getting
a healthy sum,”
…
Oh yes,
perhaps George Soros,
or some secret Jewish
liberal slush fund,
or perhaps those
homosexuals,
wouldn’t put
it past them,
no sirree Bob.
…
Earl Wise is a Christian,
just to let
you know,
just in case …
you were wondering
& such,
him being a Pastor
& all.

“We’ve been dreaming of this since
you and I were drinking out of a keg.”

Oh how sweet it must be,
how sweet the moment,
as it finally arrives,
oh so breathlessly,
so eagerly
anticipated.

This idea whose first
beautiful dawning
came as a bunch of
youthful, oh so youthful
& ambitious conservative
white boys shared some
beers together Saturday night

& dreamed
that one day,
one day,
poor folks would be
kicked off Medicare
... oh how sweet it is ...
the realized ambitions of eager
& principled youth.

For the sake of a spherical
leather football & pride &
power & vanity,

for an ultimately absurd
game of running here
charging there,
& brute force,
touch this
& down that,

all morality ceased,
all those who knew
kept silent ...

all those who could have
helped before more
were hurt
chose not to,

for the sake of pride, power
& vanity,
& a shiny leather ball thrown
around to produce numbers
on a scoreboard.

May you all be cursed till the end
of days & may whatever God in
whichever Heaven or Hell rain
down swift, merciless & unrelenting
judgement.

******* you Penn State.

I'm a little funny looking
I must confess,
all chunky boxy & truck-like
with 2 big old horns
that look quite deadly
but really we just
use them for show mostly,
oh & digging around
in termite hills,

I do hear though
that you humans
really cherish them
for folk cures &
help with your
***** & such,
you know
important
scientific stuff,

but then again
we can make a fearsome
fearsome charge
at a land-rover
full of folks
all with their
cameras & such,

at least we used to
till we became
fucken extinct!

Did you see it?
That brother can do it
oh yes indeed he can,

like a young trout at dusk,
in a sweet still lake,
like a pouncing cheetah,
from many yards out,
like Wille May in the outfield,
for a soaring high ball,
like the most monstrous of great whites
rising from the dark depths & exploding
out of the ocean seal prey all clenched
in its merciless jaws,

like a cobra after transfixing its quietened mark,
like the most glorious of lithe pole vaulters,
like the most dandy of sweet young gymnasts,
like the great bull Magic Johnson springing over all & slam
dunkin' that rocketed ball as the whole court is helpless & the
people rock & its more points on that board,
that brother did it

just tore that Southern Hate right on out
of their White Pride hands,
brother just plain did it.

If you wish the sympathy
of the broad masses, you
must tell them the crudest
& most stupid things,

& it is quite a special secret
pleasure how the people
around us fail to realize
what is really
happening to them,

& make the lie big,
make it simple,
keep saying it,
and eventually
they will
believe it.

& all propaganda must be
popular and its intellectual
level must be adjusted to
the most limited intelligence
amongst those it is
addressed to,

& history comes around
& many of the tried &
trusted methods for
running things just
keep on making
that eternal return
don't they.

Leaping & striding
comes a passing chaos
of ashen men,

adorned in chalks
of blue & grey,

glorious in cloth
of red & gold,

with a tiger-skin
glimpsed rippling
upon shoulders bare,

& as royalty
perched atop elephants,
beasts lumbering & bedecked,

ancient people
their mouths to shell & trumpet,

to announce
the moment
this late
afternoon.

The Dalai Lama may not approve
with my pinching the Pure Diamond
phrase which is of course usually
in reference to some Buddhist moment
of utter clarity & profound insight,

but that's as close as I can get in reference
to Our Illustrious Leader and his need to sit
on a golden crapper in his opulent & dazzling
suite overlooking Manhattan & oh so high in
the blue, blue sky,

because when I hear of Meals on Wheels cuts
& After School Program loss in West Virginia
& the myriad other ways counters have
found to save a few bucks at the same time
as they reduce taxes on the very rich,

the fact that he does sit on a golden crapper
becomes perhaps a lightning rod for all that
is wrong with Republican ideology & its talk
of cost effect & proven results in regard to
a simple feeding of a hungry person,

its not rocket science or flying to the moon
its a simple social program that helps older
folks & small children get through the day

& a government that talks of building a billion
dollar wall, building more planes & warships
led by a man who desires a golden crapper,

just plain fills me with a Pure Diamond Loathing.

Its hard for me
to quantify
my loathing
of the NRA,
but one example
comes to me
like Sherlock
and his enemy,

at Reichenbach Falls,
Lapierre and I
would tumble
into waters raging
foamy white
& crashing angry,
& in his ear
I would whisper,
as my clutch
it grows yet tighter,

the names of all
the fallen children,
sisters
brothers
sons
& daughters,

Jenny,
Patrick,
little Michael,
Darnell,
Malcolm,
Sophie,
small Tyrell,
and when I'd
reach the very end,
I'd begin again
my tragic list,
all interspersed
with curses true
with ****
and ****
and ******
you!

6 Muslims
were killed
in Canada
in one day
last week,

this is
a higher
figure
than that
of Americans
killed by refugees
over the last
20 years,

the killer
was a white guy,
a Supremacist,
and as far as
I know
Trump has shared
not a word
of sympathy
or condolence
on this tragic
crime,

as of today,
not
a
single
solitary
word.

Republican Jesus is not all that keen
on feeding the poor
to tell the truth
food-stamps lead to dependence
don't they,

Republican Jesus winks & nods
at wives on the side
third wives
& trophy wives
oh good luck to you son
on that one,

Republican Jesus hates softness
& gentleness
& just plain kindness
it reeks of communism
& caring
& sharing,

Republican Jesus will **** for Christ,
sleep with his guns,
caress his ammo
his lock, stock & barrel,
tongue bullets
not wafers,

Republican Jesus loves money
loves money a whole bunch
gets excited
over money,
caresses himself
while watching
Lives of the Rich and Famous,

Republican Jesus has a private jet
with gold commode
& caviar,
sips the very best
of everything,
& feels no pain.

Republican Jesus has flipped it all around,
all the love for the destitute,
the feeding of the five thousand,
the humility,
the simple loaves & fishes,

Republican Jesus has the ethics of
a hyena
& the honesty of
the cuckoo bird,
the warm-heartedness
of a hungry great white,
the vision of a mole,
& the promise
of a golden future
built upon the backs
of the less
fortunate.

Republican Jesus is the real deal
isn't he!

The Republican Party's moral
center is proving hard to find
these days with some saying
its similar to El Dorado or Noah's
original Ark which means actually
not there at all & nowhere to be
found really just a dark echoing void
of pure unadulterated starless blackness
at the very centre of an infinite depth of total
& absolute & echoing despairing well of utter
pitiless heartless opportunist depravity much like
a starving hyena coming upon a lonely dying lamb.

Or words to that effect.

A Great America they want
not that quaint Amusement Park
in rural Illinois,
but an Old America
a Previous America
an America
to be over
& done with,
to be honest.

A scared America
a haunted America
an America with
all the colors
washed out,
sun-dried,
bleached,
truth be told,
a White
America.

Republicans.
Are they human?
Do they breath
the same air
as we do?
are they born of woman
or ooze & shimmer forth
from some dark
pitiless depth
that is leagues
upon leagues
under the earth?

Republicans, do they eat
as you and I?
Need sustenance,
liquid nourishment,
shoes on their feet,
shirts for their
backs?
and how do they sleep?
standing in closets?
passive in coffins?
prone in tombs?
on their backs
hands across chest,
as Knights of old
in the ancient
countries?

Do they walk like me?
Ponder fragile things?
Feel love for the
tender daisy?
Weep tears in the morning sun?
Wet their toes walking
in the dew?

Smile as the sun sets
oh so gently
crimson red
& blazing
in the west?

Are they human?
These folk I walk this earth with,
share the air,
the wind,
the rain.

Republicans, are they human?

Are they human those folks out there
who gut legislation to protect us all &
each & every breathing life-form on this
fragile Earth of ours?

Are they?

Does their blood flow as you & I or is
it replaced at night by limping hunch-backed
servants as they rest stiffly at night in
lead coffins secure under oh so normal
looking suburban ranch houses?

Does it?

Do they eat as we do by which I mean
placing food in their mouths & biting
down or is some weird looking dry
space-man looking powder flown in
daily from the planet Zarcon to be
diluted with strange lethal brews &
sipped stealthily at midnight?

Do they?

Do they reproduce by means of some
hideously ***** placing of certain parts
in other certain parts while gathering in
naked groups at certain designated rural
retreats from which even the males leave
pregnant & ready to pop after only 7 days,

Do they?

Are they human these vile creatures more
akin to loathsome phantoms from a deep inky
black darkness that is a child's feverish
nightmare in that they move on two legs
but suddenly you realize as they close in
that Sweet Jesus what the **** have I
encountered late at night in this dark alley?

Are they?

And do they mutter in a low vibration too dense
for normal folks to catch a solemn hymn of praise
to some Dark Overlord or All-Powerful unforgiving
master of theirs who resides fathoms deep in
a sullen barren cave of ignorance & cynical
pitiless laughter?

Do they?

Republicans ... are they human?

So good with the ethics,
the caring, considerate, oh so
compassionate Christian way
of getting things done ...

the looking out for the needy,
the helping the helpless,
the following the words of
their saviour thing they've
got going on here,

its curious to say the least or just
simply stone cold hypocritical
how the political party
most mouthing out
the words of God,
most concerned with
prayers & such,

seems quite comfortable
if not , well almost gleeful,
at the prospect of a tougher,
harder life for the elderly,
the sick,
the impoverished.

Have they read the same Jesus texts as me?
Sermon on the Mount lets say,
& how is your Christianity weighed
I wonder?
God helps those who help themselves?
God pays back those who pay the preacher?
God doesn't really believe in the very idea
of 'help' in any form whatsoever?

What give Republicans?

Once more I ask this fundamental question.

Republicans, are you human?

You may all think Matthew is perhaps up all
night reading Das Capital for fun
& spending odd days in his chair
pondering class relations in
late 21st century Capitalism,

or just plain transfixed by newsreels,
earnest learned scholars,
smiling breezy interviewers,
fooled or entertained
by an opinion about
this, a diversion about
that,

& that Matthew sits hunched
over a computer screen
fuming at life's repugnancies,
odious & loathsome actors
in the Politics Game,
desperately berating liars,
despising sycophants, cursing
till the end of days the evil-doers,
ill-wishers, & apologists,

that Matthew in pure Bolshevik-
style takes no prisoners, accepts
no quarter, tidies up after the revolution
by filling shallow graves with the still
warm corpses of the enemies of the people,

well, actually you'd be on the right track
in some ways to be perfectly honest
but still ...

Matthew loves a good soccer game, caramel
ice cream, bananas, bacon sandwiches,
watching pelicans at the lake,
children playing,
old folks chilling ...

he's not really some kind of Iron Man of the
People all Medalled with the Order of
Proletariat First Class ...
fanatic, without humor, obsessed,
despairing & fuming & just plain
at his wits end,

he actually has faith & can take a step
back & curse the fool while enjoying
the wind upon his face,

Matthew loves the play but hates the
lead actors & in the Old English
tradition shouts out from the stalls
"Look out behind you!" as he takes
a lick from his sweet vanilla cornet.

The rich get it good
oh yes they do ...
they don't send their
boys to die in foreign
wars that are usually
being fought in response
to some pressing $ value
for them & their friends
despite all the lies &
justifications coming
your way,


& they own the tv folks
that you & your buddies
absorb & who tell you of
a world that they wish
you to see & by design
also teaches of how others
are coming for you & you
are best off by voting
for another very rich man
who obviously can best
represent your interests
... quite obviously,

& having fooled you into
believing basic compassion
is communist in nature &
that really its every man
for himself in this vicious
world & that coal is good,
& climate change is cooked
up by the biased intelligentsia,
they can continue their base
pursuits & just keep on raking
it in,

& continually stressing that
anyone from this shining city
on a hill can make it big-time
like Riche Rich ignoring of course
basic facts such as class & race
or where you were born & into
which family of what colored
skin they have again succeeded
in their narrative of oh good
god how wonderful are we!
& lets just a keep on with the
way it is cos there's no alternative
really & any its close to Maoism,

& whilst all this is going on
they manage quite stealthily
in a way but perhaps also in
that great American tradition
of the sly feelgood huckster
they get you all seeing Jesus
through a salesman's eyes
as if Christianity was negotiable
in trade-offs & reservations &
justifications for bigotry, bias,
profit & shallow mercantile just
plain someone else making
a buck of you all,

& rich people get the best of
everything don't they really,
schools, hospitals, retirement
plans, all of which they fool you
into voting to cut, cut, cut,
which leaves you poorer folks
worse off & those rich folks
with just more gold coins to add
to their piles in off-shore accounts,
fancy real estate, & investment
portfolios,

its all pretty simple really,
they pretty much own
your *** & you keep
on a handing it
to them
don't you.

The redwoods were so immensely
present and just plain there! ...
as we stood at the base
and looked up & into
the filtering bright
sunlight and
the high, high
branches,

that I wished I was
seventeen again & that
I could take some Acid
& just plain put my
arms around them
& oh so softly weep,

it would have been a beautiful
moment that I would cherish
forever & lord almighty would
I have felt so much better
about all & everything.

"I think if this country gets any kinder or gentler,
it’s literally going to cease to exist."

Trump chatting it up with
******* gave us that sweet
gem of philosophical &
political wisdom,

Oh kindness ..
that communist conspiracy
cooked up by that bearded longhair
Leon Trotsky & close to a bacillus
that threatens the goodness
of the nation & thus simply
treating each other nicely
becomes the equivalent
of Red Guard fanaticism,

as if niceness was a Leninist
conspiracy & looking out for
strangers was an underhand
ruse & the first station on the
way to the Siberian Gulag
& children informing on
their mama & papa,

as if gentleness was a sin
close to ****** & a defect
solved by drastic measures
somewhat akin to re-education
camps in the steamy jungle
morning,

as if looking out for one
another came with a
guaranteed negative
for the giver & thus
wasn't at all a good
deal & heck isn't a
thing I'd sign off
on thats for ****
sure,

as if brotherly love & simple
common solidarity in the
face of life's trials & harsh
tribulations was anathema
to the 'real' man who sure
as heck won't give an inch
if he thinks the other dudes
gettin' one over on him,

as if compassion was an
elitist liberal virtue & caring
for one another was mirrored
by the Manson Family & sure
by golly gee we're not taking
that road you must be kidding
seriously now,

as if love was not a Christian virtue
& as if trust revealed you as a
taken rube & as if letting your
guard down & giving a ****
meant Satan had taken hold
in your heart & you were now
a direct threat to all we hold
near & dear & sacred.

Just be nice ...
Its not so much to ask.

Somebody Else's Babies ... or a poem for Steve King a Republican
Representative of our esteemed governing classes who recently
came along with another jaw-dropping piece of White Supremacist
******* ...

'Somebody else's babies'
grew up in this green &
pleasant land to go on to
fight & die in the American
War in Vietnam, & the two
unforgivable invasions of Iraq,

which is far more than you
did Steve King,
you draft-dodging,
tough-talking patriot you,

so when you next wake up
calling out 'our destiny' maybe
you'd like to visit some graveyards
& pay some respect,
you empty-headed
Republican fool,

oh & glance back through history
awhile & even cheat a bit by using
google quotes & get some sense
of who else in the history of the
20th century crowed about
'our destiny' ... you malignant
fascist you.

Calling it today!

Subtle rhymes
are my forte,
raised on Pound
& Belafonte,

succoured on Yates
& then Bukowski,
slept with earphones
tuned to Count Brodski,

the other kids
they loved me so,
for all the places
my rhymin'
dared to go,

taunting teachers,
mocking dads,
laughing at those
silly fads,

& in the playground
I would rap,
my friend Nigel
doing taps,

& as I stepped down
from the bus,
boys would cheer
& shout & fuss,

Rhyme us!
Hit us!
1, 2, 3 ...

Martin's here
all fancy free.