Who makes capital
Of national collateral
With battle cries
And old boys’ toys
Of odious slack
And moral debt,
Applies fiduciary snide
Astride our backs –
Our children, next
And, yet,
Says Corbyn’s Labour
Is a threat.

[‘The Labour Party is now a threat to our national security, our economic security and your family’s security.’ ~ David Cameron, September 13th, 2015]

Are you better off..?

Are you better off, today
Than you were before
The Lords of Moar
Divined a world of people
Easy prey when poorer?
Feeling any more secure
Now the Lords of War,
Increase supply
Defending Peace to pieces
Expeditiously to hoard?
No, nor am I.

then there’s money

Well, there’s money
then there’s money, Honey –
and spent it all –
It’s funny, really, Darling,
how it readily exchanges
where the sun don’t even shine
– and yet it burns away alarming –
Whereas, further down the line,
it’s hard to earn for love or time
but we’ve got coffers full
for cock and bull:
there’s cash to splash on proxy agents,
business trips for entertainment,
decadent engagements
with a myriad of lobbyists.
We’ve subsidies for corporatists
and Public Service hobbyists;
there’s lashings for a futile folly;
empty democratic jollies;
funds for training frenemies
and spying arbitrarily on each
and any citizen.
And war, we can afford,
of course
but, then,
there’s always funds for killing
in the kleptocratic willing
– economic or blood-spilling –
Just there isn’t any money
for the People, any more.

The Tyrant’s Own Goal

If you have to frighten
And threaten them
To get your way;
For them to follow
And obey,
On pain of horror and of death,
Then you’ve already lost
Not only do you waste
Your time,
Your energy
And breath
But such intent,
Spent in control,
Is on your own soul
Weighed the cost.

Where Gluttony made wish

Where Gluttony made wish,
The Centre cracks,
As stockpiled clichés track
The bloated rhetoric
Of global death-cult leadership
That turned the world upon its axe
For, now its needy grip grows slack
And Propaganda holds a banquet
In the name of Peak,
On trestles creaking under
Platters piled with excess fat
And where the Body Politic
Is swarming, swollen, fit to chunder
As it feasts on friendly fire’s due attack.

War of Ever Moar

Always and ever war
Settle scores
Make some more

Proper telly

All the poor are getting restless
Now the curtain of illusion
Hangs upon its loosened threads

Fill their hunger in the belly
With a loaf of fear to quell it
And replenish the confusion
In their angry little heads

For the appetite of mongers swells
In need of ever moar
And the teat is dry and sore
Hear them roar

Mission creeping up all shores
Smoke and mirror seeping
Through unguarded doors

In the discourse
In the bourse
In the Law
Kicking up a storm

Lost cause
Cost assured

Giving welly to triumphalism
Funding fundamentalism
Doffing caps to despotism
Home and abroad

What you can afford…