Grain ship reaches horn, feeds old and newborn, Just in time to prevent catastrophe. Tumultuous floods destroy Pakistan, Unstoppable, it’s a catastrophe. Iodine pills handed out in Ukraine, To prevent nuclear catastrophe. Few workers get inflation proof wages, It’s a cost of living catastrophe. Rivers fill up with untreated sewage, An ecological catastrophe. Inflation runs wild as markets implode, It’s an economic catastrophe. In fact our whole sodding planet is fucked, It’s a total global catastrophe!
Nineteen Sixty Seven, Summer Of Love, Early morning Barbican picket line, A coach load of strike breaker scabs at Myton, Forced through by City of London police. Young plumbing shop steward bangs on windows, He shouts “Scab, scab, scab, dirty rotten scabs”. Old Bill grab him and drag him to their van. Powerless I watch from a ways away, Two cops held his arm, one more jumped on it, These three bastards broke it in three places. That was my political turning point, When I understood power of the state, How their force is used to smash us all down, Terrify workers, keep them in their place. I’ll never forget such brutality, Fifty five years later, still militant, I support striking comrades in struggle, I always will, until my dying day.
Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 30th August 2022
Pinocchio’s clone sits on Labour throne, Polishing his nose, now that it is grown. Last left vestiges thrown over prams edge, Slowly, one by one, pledge by pledge by pledge, Discarded easily as old child’s toy, Doing what he’s told, a cynical ploy. Silence now golden, keeps out of the way, Goes up in the polls, says less every day. Draped in shadows, it is safer back there, Keep powder dry, no more devil may care. Don’t try hard to win, move quick in your shoes, Watch Rishi and Liz help Tories to lose. This Starmer secret? No manifesto. Nowt said? Into number ten, hey presto!
Quantitative tightening almost here, Watch slump follow recession, end of year. Transitory value takes house prices down, Mortgage payers trapped in most every town, Goods and services priced beyond control, Businesses collapse, no money for dole. Once they grew rich, lived high upon the hog, Rampant inflation now, it’s dog eat dog. People spend savings in these rainy days, Bankers jump from windows damned with faint praise. What goes up must come down, we all knew that, Still we let greedy syphon off the fat. Ghosts of Jarrow march on our streets again, Belt tightening now totally insane.
It’s war, it’s war, it’s definitely war. We know exactly what we’re fighting for, Don’t we? Don’t we, know what we’re fighting for? It’s chrystal clear ain’t it, just as before? One more political hot potato, All dressed up ready to kill for NATO. Wandering, aimlessly, out in the bush, Certain conviction which button to push. Upgrade deterrent, bigger and better, Domesday clock ticks louder, louder than ever. So delve deeper into dressing up box, Ignore striking workers, and monkey pox, Fear must be created, again, again, Propaganda grows more mental health pain.
Falsely breaks dawn on hilltop once again, We marched up here with hope to ease our pain. Twenty thirty target timidly set, Fifteen pounds an hour wage, but not quite yet. Fabian swallows swoop from TUC, Comrades left outside loop, same history. Go softly forward is their battle cry, As darkly Tory clouds block out clear sky. Old miners watch centrists steal across our floor, Sellout new generation as before. We want transformation now, nothing more, Nothing less, this is existential war. These leaders, with smoke filled room policies, Should ask first, not hijack democracy.
Harry Rogers in The Red Bedroom, 25th August 2022.
Nothing is safe, nothing sacred, All we worked for stolen away, Pockets picked after taxes paid. What was once ours now belongs them, Those grubby fingered miscreants, Who openly boast greed is good. Blue sky thoughts fill faux Tory brains, “Why bother to keep things in house? We can have power positions, Without responsibility, Let them make inflated profits, Council chamber belongs to us.” Outside on streets through bleak estates Fear builds as privatisation Gluttons hoover hard earned wages With bold increased alacrity. Six million wait for treatment From health service, impossible In it’s ability to cope, To deliver without access To financial resource needs. This is genocide against those Without access to private care, Time travel back pre World War Two, It’s the American approach, Anti collective, dog eat dog, No freedom for all citizens, No such thing as society. Thatcher haunts from beyond her grave, Her students hell bent to finish Destruction of socialism.
Harry Rogers in The Yellow Room, 24th August 2022.
Abattoirs powered by animal fat, Carbon neutral answer to eating beef. Slurry spread across fields by waterside, Runoff into rivers near sewage pipes. Phosphate generated green algae bloom, Windermere ruined, no place for wild life, Pollenating insects all disappear Orwellian nightmares proliferate, Pumped strutters stride in through Westminster gates, Tightly clutching oil share certificates, I’m alright Jack, Randian battle cries, Frack our way out of energy crisis, Fuel weapon production, create war jobs. For my sanity get me out of here.
Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 23rd August 2022
Watch the rich do exactly as they please, They force poor people down upon their knees. Tories dine on irregularity, Take holidays from reality. Responsibility below power Enables life in ivory towers. Thatcherite future ghosts conjured from past, Tattered new normal flags fly from their mast. Abusive laws throw freedom under bus, Heavily touted by Sunak and Truss. Leaves wither early then fall to parched ground, Media excretes usual blue sounds. Despite Starmers Labour we’ll cut up rough, It’s time we stood tall, Enough Is Enough.
Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 20th August 2022.
Mental health trashed in Pandemonium, Yet still correct lines are more important. Revenants, wrapped in bear skin positions, Forever riding in closed carriages, Whilst others constantly doctor photos, Continue to squabble as planet burns. How heavy this mirror is now become, Weighed down by constant moral reflections, Zoomed in from dialectic directions, Hammerheads worn from driving truth nails home, Sickles blunted by failed bureaucracy. Yet still flickers emancipation flame, Where freedom and hope dance in sunset glow, Arms around shoulders, come comrades, let’s rave.
Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 13th August 2022.
Sometimes going backwards drives me forward. If I search haphazardly in dark rooms, Randomly tossing dusty detritus Into tape decks, onto old turntables, Sounds I never knew I’d lost bite me hard, Drive me down dark highways without headlights, No roadmap nor inane satnav pilot, Only chaotic bang crash anarcho Synthesis that leads on to memories Not yet formulated in my old brain. Unlike comfortable cover overcoats, Trawled from well thumbed lyric poet chapbooks, This buried treasure unheard by critics, Fuses blown circuits into new formats. These processes seem supernatural, Oevre busting creative dynamite, Eerie, scary, yet exhilarating.
Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 12th August 2022.
Spent a long time hoping revolution would come, Still looking to the future for change to happen. Ghosts from long lost past pop their heads up everywhere, Trapped in historic sludge lillies wait to float free. In those times to come, when there’s no more you or me, Will past happenings apply to reality? Everything has sped up, beyond capacity, All culture all at once blown to infinity. Our brains try hard to cope but soon get overloaded, Critical abilities over exploded. Days before technocracy filled now with appeal, Easier to survive then, much less to conceal. Place vinyl on turntables, conjure old spectres, Get out boxes of slides, switch on time projectors, Images and sounds trigger planted memories, Context is something loaded by society. Sequential chords mixed with exotic sunset scenes, Promised much not delivered, visions never seen. Everyday fades out to strains of God Save The Queen, Humanity now chained to ultimate machines. Astral planes are feasible in new metaverse, Honestly ask ourselves could there be nothing worse? All around rivers dry up, food crops lay burnt, destroyed, Whilst half the world are busy, playing with their toys. Hucksters still proclaim there is no alternative, Capitalism is the only way to live. And yet dreams still float within imagination, Ideas not as yet born can bring about salvation. Wraiths whistle tunes that stimulate new directions, It’s necessary to foster recollections, Not to carry on making same mistakes again, But to help build futures where all are free from pain. As future dream Arcanas trundle into view Will we find secret meaning as old becomes new?
Cost of living keeps going up, Time to say Enough is enough Government has sold us a pup Time to say Enough is enough No such thing as leveling up Time to say Enough is enough Learn from women who won that cup Time to say Enough is enough As our lives get rougher than rough Time to say Enough is enough Why should life be tougher than tough? Time to say Enough is enough Shout out loud Enough is enough Sing it proud Enough is enough Everyone Enough is enough Join us now, Enough is enough Bring them down Enough is enough
Dishonour meaningless in times like these, Sick, poor, hungry, young, old, watch now agog, Johnson cavorts free to fly on the breeze, Still bounces as that out of control dog. How can a leader be sacked in disgrace Yet maintain favours of privileged job? Bullingdon smirk still etched deep across face, Yet no-one knows how to dislodge this yob. He sits at his desk, exceedingly pissed, Plots out new futures, new ways to make cash, Whose names will appear on last honours list? One more mockery corrupted with trash. He burns midnight oil, quaffs Downing Street fizz, Hands on his baton to acolyte Liz.
How dare you leave us to fight on alone, Make union picket lines no go zones, Day in, day out, cast your catfishing lines, Yet we see you now behind your disguise. Abandon each pledge, each policy oath, Mimic Tory trumpet call, Growth Growth Growth. Say nothing when truth is spoke to your face, Expel any critics, you’re a disgrace. Relaunches, reboots, photo rent-a-mobs, As recession looms there are no safe jobs. Food bank queues lengthen, PFi debts mount, Somehow those past mistakes no longer count. New Labour daydreams, more blue sky thinking, Out here we’re drowning, rivers are shrinking.
Whilst u-turning on public sector pay, Favourite Thatcher clone can do no wrong, According to mainstream media polls, During this arcane, pre honeymoon, farce. What a charade as Rees Mogg leads campaign. These though are early days, worms can still turn, Buffers can be run into any time, We wait, with bated breath, for next blunder. Whilst people paint George crosses on their cheeks, Every headline reeks of nationalism, A few who still retain a modicum Of integrity are trashed everywhere. Summer used to be the Silly Season, It’s a lot madder than that nowadays.
All the fancy dress bespoke, Royalty besmirched with coke, On Cornwall’s granola choke, Oh, not this rosetinted bloke? Football mad, stood on one leg, Now buys his suits off the peg, Princes ain’t too proud to beg, Republican powder keg. Palaces and privilege Not enough atop their ridge, Perverse imps wave, cross the bridge, Life’s cool outside Windsor fridge. Present trophy, it’s your norm, Ride out this new Twitter storm, To many you’re still high borne, But now, we see, you have form. Blue blood genetic template, Cannot resist tempting fate, The Firm now must contemplate, What hell doth this king await?
Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 1st August 2022.