Misc.

Have the eclectic quirks
In people’s online heads
Replaced the curiosity shops
Wherein, among
The bits and bobs
Of whimsy and antiquity,
We browse, instead,
For random gems to spot?

Oh, bless the Torygraph!

Oh, bless the Torygraph!
You have to laugh:
It tries so hard and yet its
Credibility decreases with
Each hoist of its irrational
Flag to telegraphic speech;
It parrots pieces of old time
And stereotype – all hype in
Frilly shirts and fancy bloomers –
This old Tory crooner preaches
Supplemental sugar treats
To those who take their slop
With a more modest garnish
Than the Daily Mail adopts.
No, not for nothing does it
Cultivate its outraged face in
Subtler tracts of seeming
People-pleasing Reason
To convince the Worried Well
And Pretty Comfortable that
Anything approaching left is
Recklessness personified.

It plies the great god
Umbrage with entitlement
From battlements bespoke
And smugly reassures the
Fearful Well and Safely
Comfortable that Earth is
Surely flat and that what’s
Right and proper is the more
Ensured by their dab hands
And fossil-brained demands.
Oh bless the Torygraph –
You have to laugh – It’s much
Too daft to be highbrow and
Somehow just refined enough
To seem a cut above the smut.

Daily Mail – Junk Mail

It is because I love this land that I despise
Your dirty rag. It is because I love this planet
And humanity in all its hues that I have never
Purchased you. And yet your reputation,
So preceding is it, that I’ve never needed to,
For what you do and say is parroted from every
Right-wing quarter every day and poured into my
Eyes and ears by all your corporate, mainstream
Peers as though your narrow, xenophobic tract
Did constitute empirically known fact.

But you are everything you claim to hate –
So rabid in your enmity of citizens and State.
You make your living sieving any information
That ingratiates you to the racists, homophobes,
Misogynists, elitists and the nationalists who’d
Have us in our places. You are bigots with a
Passion for a petty use of microscopic focus;
You are locusts to the fields of understanding,
Tolerance, compassion and perspective; an
Invective to goodwill and unity and common
Decency.

You are the dumbest form of patriot, besotted
By false flags, nametags and high-horse myths
With which to moralise. It might be funny if your
Preaching wasn’t reaching the messiahs set on
Profitable power and the happy-to-be vacuous,
Enthralled and tooled up with perceived consent.
Yes, you’re a self-important vent to fundamental
Imprecision and pernicious propaganda for a
Willing and uncivil baying mob that sees a virtue in
The seizing of some value from your puritanic gob.

‘The Sun’ is Low

The Sun is low; its shadow long
And unbecoming of the day.
No disinfectant shining light,
But channelling infected rays
Of everything that’s cheap and dumb,
For really, when all’s said and done
It isn’t telling anyone a thing of worth –
It serves no useful purpose
Other than to dish the basest dirt.

It’s like that clown on Facebook, who
Takes photos of their morning poo
Because it thinks its audience needs
Updates on their crappy views.

High agenda based on sleaze,
A story only gets the limelight
If it’s titillating news on A to Zed celebrities
Or serves the Rightist angst and Might.

“Place your bets and ‘ave a voucher!
Get your bread and circus ‘ere!
We’re not a public interest platform
Don’t ya know” –

Yep! Loud and clear!
Murdoch’s minions, scribal pinions,
Corporate mouthpiece at the ‘Gish’,
May you red-shift from dominion,
Lost in permanent eclipse.

Oh, Daily Mail

Oh Daily Mail, you never fail
To hurl your hateful bile.
The lengths you’ll go to,
Depths you’ll sink to,
To divide our British Isles.

You’re like a pack of dang’rous dogs,
Snarling, salivating, even,
As you choose your Dish du Jour,
Weaving bigotry galore –
Just to voice your crass assumptions
Irrespective of the facts –
Feeders seeking mass consumption
Of your mal-adjusted crap.

So up yourselves with indignations,
Planks form in your spiteful eyes.
You take a teeny speck of truth
And loosen with dictated lies,
Then, dolloping with ill-informed
Opinion, calmly generalise.

All you know is pettiness
And gross ambition for sensation,
Signifying nothing more than
Tawdry, superficial piffle
Based on wild extrapolations –
Never missing any chance to
Incite eejits with conflation.

Braying at the cellulite; the cup size
Of some poor old cow
Spread-eagled through your poisoned print
That judges what is “public interest”
By the mileage you can mint
In spite and groundless vitriol.

Discarding all integrity;
Forsaking grace
For prejudice and other nasty schisms,
As you waive away your intellect
For bloody awful journalism.

Oh Daily Mail! You parable!
You’re fecklessness perfected!
A pedlar of our new age ills;
Pervasiveness personified;
Exemplar of the modern shill;
A very paragon of everything
That’s so defective.