Poem number 48
Garden gnome with funny beard
Lives out on the lawn
Not as twee as I had feared
But slightly more folorn
Mournful in those dungarees
A man who’s hope has died
Made to live beneath the trees
Condemned to live outside.
Poem number 70
My mind is tired, my body’s weak
My throat is far too dry to speak
I need some food, I need some drink
I need some rest as well, I think
And yet I sit here, still-life scene
Staring at the dratted screen
Just rip the damned thing from my hands
Let time restart, let’s make some plans
Addicted, suckered, tethered, lame
Forever there. Just one more game.
Poem number 157
Donald Trump’s A Fuckwit
Donald Trump’s a fuckwit
He has but half a mind
His head is full of bullshit
Of the total fuckwit kind
He’s such a fucking fuckwit
But he’ll probably win the race
And sit there in the White House
With his stupid fuckwit face
Donald you’re a fuckwit
And you’ll always be the same
Such a fucking fuckwit
Fuckwit Donald, that’s your name.
Poem number 187
The Ambulance Of Justice
The Ambulance Of Justice speeds along the dusty trail
With its siren screech a banshee, drawing near
Stopping seldom, always swiftly, as the light begins to fail
Over victims who are paralysed with fear.
A stamp of brakes, a skid of tyres, a momentary pause
Then a booted foot emerges from within
A figure clothed in shadows, six foot high and lantern jawed
A machete, metal handcuffs and a grin.
A languid lunge, a snatch, a slash, a slam of double doors
In a cloud of dust the Ambulance moves on
Leaving nothing at the roadside but a bloodstain on the floor
As a hint to where its latest prey has gone.
If you’re walking by the roadside on that dusty, lonely trail
Pay attention, stay alert and keep your head
Lest the Ambulance Of Justice, with its banshee siren wail
Picks you out, and hits the brakes, and makes you dead.
Poem number 265
The Curfew Rings
The pavement is littered with severed heads
It’s mostly teenagers today, there must have been a party.
Typical teenagers, out when they should’ve been in their beds
Safe and sound well before Curfew.
Perhaps they thought that they would be spared
As so many others have not been
But the Curfew Rings have no mercy and cared
Not for the youth of the miscreants.
For the Curfew Rings are but machines
Sent out to do another’s bidding
As is Fredbot 3.0, who now cleans
Up the pavement in the light of the new sun.
Fredbot 3.0 with his suction tubes and grinding plates
Removing the heads from the street
Before Centre opens up the gates
To give the citizens permission to leave for work.
And here lies a Curfew Ring, amongst the heads on the ground,
Pulsing spasmodically – a victim of depleted energy cells
Its saw-teeth still coated with the blood that it found
And then released, from the neck of a miscreant
So graceful in flight, glowing blue and soaring
Through the sky with its fellows,
Alive to the sounds of pulsing hearts and veins, drawing
Ever closer to the miscreants below.
But here in the sun drenched morning, cells depleted
It is nothing. A metal hoop with a serrated inner edge
Lying, helpless, amongst the justice it meted
Out with such machine-like efficiency.
Fredbot 3.0 snags the fallen Curfew Ring and drops it into his charging slot –
By the time he gets back to Central
It will be fully powered up, ready to be shot
Out at midnight, to deal with more miscreants
Ready to fly through the city in search of those who flout the Rightful Law,
To lasso itself around their necks then contract, squeeze,
Sever, as it spins its metal toothed jaw
Through the raw flesh and bone beneath, before moving on.
And tomorrow there will be more heads on the ground
Empty eyed, hair stirring in the morning breeze
And Fredbot 3.0 will come around
Once more, to clean the streets for a new day.