FOR ALL WOULD BE POLITICALLY CORRECT LOVERS OF PEOPLE OTHER (SUCH AS, OF COLOUR)

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FOR ALL WOULD BE
POLITICALLY CORRECT LOVERS
OF PEOPLE OTHER (SUCH AS,
OF COLOUR)

I wonder
if when you
make love
to a person
other
(say,
of colour)

whether
political correctness
does not
jam your
difference settings
make you unnecessarily stiff

copulating like an android
with fully
robotic movements

and as
for
the
poetry, the
mouth-musical
soundtrack
there your
carefully programmed care
would make
a Dalek sound
like
Baudelaire

yet
your tin
heart
so in
the right
place
(perfectly
straight-laced)

DEATH OF DEMOCRACY

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DEATH
OF DEMOCRACY

it’s the death
of democracy

I came
to administer
last rites

you came
to put the boot in
one last time

BONKERS BRIDGE

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BONKERS BRIDGE

bonkers bridge
bonkers bridge

big and booming
on the draft board

but will it not
sway crazily
to every
whim of Nature

jump like a
swimming rope
in every
gale force breath
of God?

and in
act of crossing
darlings
what will you wear?

wheels and rails, clamps, rivets
and very high suspenders

cross-
dressing essential

should you
fall out of style

tumble from grace

BADLY

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BADLY

MacBeth
trades his bloodied armour
for a bloody clown suit

what masqueraded as his honour
(carefully cultivated media profile)
he has pawned

after the XXX exchange
with the witches
all bets are off

and once his lady let that reptile
into her brain
she could not feel
him inside her
without thinking “dagger”

and quite fortuitously but
predictably
night is here

will get blamed, will be
the black scapegoat, deemed
personification of evil

and all this just
for the moment to
take in the world on
an upward swing, from
the
high point of the seesaw

Oh this isolation, that filling the most,
this raising the drawbridge, dropping
the portcullis

filling the channel with a fog
a mist quite enchanted, yet
pea-soup thick

and those words that echo in the native langue
to be banished, excommunicated, dutifully excised
as
sometimes has been our
custom, habit so
oddly
self-defeating

absurdity begets absurdity
MacBeth begets Beckett

power is emptiness, chimera, fiction
delusion

but as these go
it is only one we have, only
one worth having

not worth
the tiny trouble of
soul damnation

not worth a damn and
yet it is
inescapable

the fiction of such a castle
the dream of the blood circus as
forever merry-
go-round

Jan Kott
reading your mad declarations in
through a sheet of ice (summation
so much
freezing history)

the factory inside, deep in
magical forest, real witch territory

now factory of terror
all the red in the signage
human blood (what
else
could they think of)

and black-death bibles whizzing through
the fatal presses
so much history to burn
both text
and flesh of it

thumb through the preface, words gathered there
red-hot for a burning

Heine
the poet telling us

the forest moving has
confined the prophecy that what leaves burn
leave clothes, spectacles, essentials,
gold in
teeth just
there for the taking

and Kurosawa’s tragic character (into
samurai world so
creatively translated)

falls
pierced by arrows

the clown
last relic of the past on stage
to underpin the philosophy of empty
hubris of man
in face of our nothingness

always
ending badly

Nietzsche’s two lovely gods
setting seal with their royal stamp

ESCAPE

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ESCAPE
“now wouldn’t that be sweet?”
Gwen Stefani

the puppets and the
Muppets have all escaped

are making their way
down to the zoo

for photo-opportunities riding
lions and tigers

and
polar bears and
laughing – hyenas

before they build
their great bouncing bridge
up to the Moon