I can’t hug the past anymore,
Just picked my heart up from the floor
Cwtch me as I walk through your door
Cwtch me like you used to before

Cwtch me in the now
Where I long to be
I will Cwtch you back
Like it used to be

Cwtch me in the now
Cwtch me in the now
Cwtch me
Cwtch me
Cwtch me
Cwtch me in the now.

There’s no going back in my memory
I’ve lost the road map back through history,
I can’t remember where we used to be,
Saw faded photo of you cwtching me,

Cwtch me in the now
Where I long to be
I will Cwtch you back
Like it used to be

Cwtch me in the now
Cwtch me in the now
Cwtch me
Cwtch me
Cwtch me
Cwtch me in the now.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 31st October 2021

Age of Opportunity came and went,
Only a few people on the inside
Had any inkling of its existence.
Those that did filled their boots, and their pockets
In an anti-competitive frenzy,
Contracts dished out to friends and family
With no hint of any monitoring.
Levelling up on a slippery slope
Where long covid lurks awaiting more prey.
Pale, invisible to hard working folk,
Ready to remind us of when Joe sang
Of Thatcher’s career opportunities,
D’you remember? Those ones that never knocked?
And Johnson claps like a clockwork monkey.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom 28th October 2021.

You say “I will survive”.
You spout out loud “I’m fit, it won’t kill me”.
Revel in “I’m alive”.
Freedom of individuals to say,
“Do what thou wilt! OKAY?”
“For it is me, not you, I care about,
There is no other way”.
Stand high on platforms, surround with cyphers,
Know they believe your “truth”,
Swim in your chamber pot filled with echoes
Of shite from Q Anon.
Watch pandemic roll behind COP 26,
You say it’s all over,
Now it is time for proper Christmas,
Don’t bother with fake jabs,
Strut in your “Masks off, let’s be real” tee shirt,
Invite all to party,
Into new normal at dawn of world’s end,
It’s the Randian way.
Waltz as only pandemoniacs can,
Spaced out on disbelief,
Where the whole of our law is meaningless,
Even now you don’t know,
You’re the epitome of selfishness.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 27th October 2021

There’s a red list of species gonna die
Heat will kill them no matter what we try,
There was this thing that made me sit and cry,
When we said bye bye to the last Aye Aye
Bye bye to the Aye Aye
Wave bye bye last Aye Aye
Bye bye to the Aye Aye
Couldn’t save the Aye Aye
As spiders destroy webs in an eclipse,
Elites pick up fiddles whilst we all burn,
Blonde bombshell splutters piss poor Wall Street joke,
As his cabinet sells new pig in poke,
Kerala houses crushed in mud slide cloak,
Whilst spun out spads chop out new lines of coke.
The last Aye Aye wheedles out the final grub
Masked up congregation piss up in pub,
Give not two fucks for Aye Aye,
Soon we’re all waving bye bye,
Burn coal, pump oil, wave bye bye,
Our fate same as the Aye Aye.
I pour one last smokey malt,
Toast bye bye to the Aye Aye.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 23rd October 2021.

Ghosts of beano revellers ride waltzers,
Howling as they wave their kiss me quick hats,
Drunk on Essex bought milk and alcohol,
They rave towards new end of the pier show,
In latest brightly lit city of dreams,
Built on whelks, cockles, mussels, jellied eels,
Candy floss, ice cream, pink peppermint rock.
Wraith like charabancs queue at the Kursaal
To ferry the hoards of cockney spectres
In and out of phantasia on sea,
To and from the greatest pubs of London.
Equality now achieved with Clacton,
The feel good factor rolled out so quickly,
After murder of MP in Southend.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 20th October 2021.

This is no time now to consult the past,
These times are pressing on down,
Small steps are not what we need to save us,
When we’re running out of time,
Slowly slowly gets left further behind,
As lighting strikes heavier.
To run around with our hands in the air,
Deny we know what is true,
Ask all and sundry what is to be done?
Console ourselves that it takes a long time?
How long? How long? How ‘king long?
Tell truth, spread news, help people help themselves,
This is what needs to be done.
Recognise that the hour’s getting late,
No time to procrastinate.
No time left to start all over again,
Actions speak louder than words.
We’re here, in the heart of catastrophe,
The toffs have to level down.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom 16th October 2021.

At first water tickles as it trickles
Over river edge along stone fissures
Through muddy pools towards rock strewn gullies.
This titillation lasts but a minute
Soon swollen Teifi torrent overwhelms,
My green pathway quickly unpassable.
Millions of gallons of brown water
Swept on for miles from Strata Florida,
Llanbedr Pont Steffan, fields in between,
Washes dark soil from roots of mighty trees
Before tossing giants into maelstrom
Thence on to pile up at Henllan Bridge.
Many storms have ravaged my thoroughfare
Over hundreds of wet millennia.
Black agricultural plastic sheets drape
Leaf stripped branches alongside tattered white
Supermarket bags, orange nylon ropes,
Drowned sheep, smashed creosote stained bothy walls,
All carried irresistibly forwards
In this rip roaring Pandemonium
Into a new rock crushing existence.
Coracles and kayaks no more will ply
Gentle eddies and lazy green shallows.
The full force of Global warming horror
At last, finally, fully realised.
I am one defiled valley of many,
Where humans will never walk dogs again.
This is how life inevitably ends,
Sadly mankind did bring it on themselves,
I grow deeper through sedimental rocks.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 12th October 2021.

Scene Red played at the Book Launch of You Are Still Here, a poetry collection by Harry Rogers, on 6th October 2121. The night before we rehearsed in Harriboy’s Hut and I recorded the session on my OnePlus 6 phone. Here is an EP of the Scene Red songs we played now up on Bandcamp.

Everywhere we all wait for
Start of breaking good,
Time when there is threat no more
In our neighbourhoods.
As patriots turn stupid wars
Into Hollywood
People cheering  outside their doors
‘Cos they think they should.
Stand and watch a self chosen boor
Do what Tony would,
Spill centrist bile across the floor,
Just because he could.
In Liverpool now evermore
Kier’s blown it for good,
Words in The Sun stuck in our craw,
They boil up our blood,
We’ll burn them by the quire for sure,
On bonfires of wood.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, October 3rd, 2021.