Phones can blow your mind, Phones can make things worse.
Phones can be unkind, Phones for metaverse.
Phones bring new Twitter, Phones are not secure.
Phones make life shitter, Phones Elon manure.
Phones will destroy time, Phones will listen in.
Phones weapons for crime, Phones turn ears to tin.
Phones, ubiquitous, Phones now rule our lives,
Phones will ruin us, Phones are our archives.
Phones when we wake up, Phones next to our beds.
Phones bring each shakeup, Phones fuck with our heads.
Phones give fake pleasure, Phones keep small folk small.
Phones are false treasure, Phones control us all.
Phones can send us blind, Phones? Algorithms.
Phones aren’t what we find, Phones, modern prisons.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 31st October 2022


Farewell Shaun

He said he’d make me forty Chelsea Buns.
Forty Chelsea Buns for my birthday.
I asked him how much, he told me no charge.
We talked about dietary needs,
I said there were some vegans coming.
My seventy fifth birthday party came,
Shaun arrived with one hundred Chelsea Buns,
One hundred Chelsea Buns for my party.
He put them all in Small World kitchen.
Said he couldn’t stay, Kate had got Covid.
I thanked him, we hugged, and then he was gone.
Everyone who ate one said these are great,
Best Chelsea buns they had ever eaten.
Now he’ll never know how much we loved them,

Or him!

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 28th October 2022.


He strides back into shite filled back bench bog,
Where his cabal of hyenas reside,
This laughable upstairs downstairs throwback,
Mister ridiculous Jacob Rees-Mogg.
He’ll skulk in corners with Nadine Dories,
Where they’ll suck their teeth as they plot and scheme.
They’ll do all they can to lay rocks in roads
As they flog that dead horse that is Boris.
This Eton bred skunk, bringer of Brexit,
Over top hat and under hand practice
Treats all around him as lesser beings,
His is sweetest of all these new exits.
Now his star has fallen, he’s out to grass,
Rishi has kicked him straight out, on his arse.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room 25th October 2022


We watch in disbelief disrupter Liz
Recite her version of her history.
Triumphant in defeat she smiles throughout,
Apparently uncomprehending of
Responsibility for misery,
Fear, paranoia and fiscal turmoil.
Her twisted lectern echoes her logic
Both of which now leave office forever.
Trussonomics lie trashed in rain sodden
Heaps of soggy unforgiving newsprint.
She and family march defiantly
Past media hordes, heads held proudly high.
In a couple of hours a new lectern
Will appear, new acolytes there will cheer.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 25th October 2022.


Hokey Kokey Johnson has gone again,
He has slunk off back to cocktail beach bar.
To misread signs in Liz Trusses entrails
So badly demonstrates total lost plot.
Disruptive days now over, tide has turned,
Assets can become liabilities
In less than an iceberg lettuce shelflife.
All his cabinet stooges now scramble
For a position under new regime
In exchange for solidarity vows.
Headlines will shriek of “Start Of Something New.”
Welcome to start of austerity two.
In bamboo Shangri La paradise bar
Boris licks his wounds, as some shout “hurrah”.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 24th October 2022.


We must have a General Election.
Keith and his TINA brigades demand.
A new reset general election
With blue sky centrists in rampant command.
I lie, smashed up beneath pink campaign bus,
Alongside Palestine, Corbyn, and truth,
Thrown there by party machine animus,
Who act without rhyme, reason or proof.
We, who are hated for being leftwing,
Are still expected to get out and vote.
Somehow it’s become quite the broad church thing,
Deny debate, stab strikers in their throat.
Ghastly spectacle grows ever greater,
General Election? See you later.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 24th October 2022.


He’s back like a jack in Pandora’s box,
Flown home from holiday to spout bollocks.
This sham shit show is not democracy,
It’s one step removed from ochlocracy.
Media outlets would have us believe
In a pandemic of amnesia.
Usual suspects spouting to deceive
In vain hope that their words will still cream ya.
Oh what a month and it’s not over yet.,
Double quick panic to fill number ten,
Everyone knows the score but they won’t bet,
On who’ll creep beneath shadows of Big Ben.
Passengers booed as he got on their plane,
For fuck sake hope it ain’t Boris again.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 23rd October 2022.


Pragmatic assassin destroys allies
Whilst she apologises for her zeal.
There are no scruples in self survival,
No account taken of how people feel.
Austerity mark two hoves into view,
Delusional zomboid sociopath
Spews inarticulate leader babble
Whilst her own colleagues splutter aghast,
Meeja vampires ask how long can she last?
Food banks struggle on, almost overwhelmed,
Samuel Smiles self help is trotted out again
By BBC consumer advisors,
It’s make do and mend all over again.
Oh well, at least they got Brexit done, eh?

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 18th October 2022


Photo by Ben Burke

The Pub doors were locked

They were drinking after time,

A dozen demi mondaines,

Drinking beer and spilling wine

Their heads were slightly spinning

As they laughed and joked

Meanwhile in the corner Josie

Sat and quietly smoked.

I stood drying glasses,

Slow but sure

I just turned eighteen,

She almost thirty four

Her eyes met mine through

The blue grey haze

I knew that she was married

But I could not shift my gaze

Slowly the moon went down

Over the power station

Yeah, slowly the moon went down

Over the power station

Patiently she waited till

I finished all my chores

I put down my towel

She headed for the doors

Outside in the street

Standing in the cold night air,

The wind was gusting

Messing up her hair

I came out the door

she took me by the hand

She squeezed it tightly

She made me understand

Heading for the Thames

We crossed the road together

Cuddled closer

Forgot about the weather

(and we)

Could see the moon going down

over the power station

Half light seeping, through the town

Gently stroking the nation

We reached the house

Where she lived with Arthur

He was up in Scotland

A long distance lorry driver

Fumbling with the keys

She puts them in the lock

I look down the street

See someone walking round the block

Climbing up the stairs

I put my arm around her waist

With the inside of her wrist

She caressed my face

Passing quietly by a door

I saw her baby in a cot

That was when she asked me

To be her Lancelot

And then the moon went down

Over the Power Station

It went down, down, down

Over the power station

(Repeat to fade)

(Harry Rogers 20-10-1980)


Guy Debord’s subliminal ghost flickers
Reincarnated on our backlit screens
As spectacular events multiply
In permanent anti revolution.
Whilst workers make weapons that kill workers
We wring our hands and plead out loud for peace,
Royals drip with medals, children lay wreaths.
On our smart TVs all is black and white,
Enemies set up, morning, noon and night.
Old men outside cafes sip lukewarm beer,
Grateful that those bombs are not dropping here.
City based armour clad police forces
Smash protesters running from their horses.
Non stop coverage rolls on, on, and on,
Media star newscasters sing their song,
Most people know not where do they belong,
Futures are uncertain, it all feels wrong.
Security profers a thin veneer
Of hope that it will never happen here,
Whilst we watch bombed out kitchens globally
Strewn across bodies laid out in their streets.
This normality, that we all accept
Along with our toys, still not too much yet.
Cameras keep rolling, show must go on,
World Cup is coming, it won’t be too long.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 11th October 2022.


My poem about Operation Julie mixed in The Red Bedroom October 8th 2022

Froggy and Moley woke up one morning,
They went walking through Llandewi Brefi,
There were no hippy friends giving warnings,
That their breakfast drink might turn out heavy,

They watched the spider crawl from the drainpipe,
He weaved the strangest web they ever saw,
Rainbow shaped, it hung against bright blue sky,
Whilst Julie knocked loud on back wooden door.

They spied the water come from kitchen sink,
The sun warmed their blood, as police cars came
Both of them thirsty, stooped and took a drink,
They did not know they’d never be the same

Froggy and Moley
Never be the same
Froggy and Moley
Never be the same

As old bill finished their search of the house,
Moving rainbows appeared, in all of their eyes,
Every human, cat, dog, insect or mouse,
Froggy or Moley, tripped, none to the wise.

Lysergic crystals permeated all,
Quietly opening perception doors.
Operation Julie began the fall
Of hippiedom to repression led laws.

Froggy and Moley?
They ended up dead.
Cut into pieces,
On dissection bed.

Froggy and Moley
Were never the same,
Froggy and Moley?
Just pawns in the game.

Chappletown, April 2017.


“Easy peasy this lark innit son?” “Money for old rope dad.”

Feathered hats await prince and king on pegs,
Along with embroidered cloaks of darkness.
Order of garter, secret society,
Designed to circumvent democracy
Through rampant, archaic, pageantry.
Naked effrontery of imposition
Of spanking new Prince of Wales, in mourning.
No thought to ask people their permission,
Just announce job done as if accepted,
No debate, nor vote, it’s automatic.
Now we await further state flummery,
King’s coronation, Will’s investiture,
More drive bys, hand shakes, flag wags and curtseys.
Talk of republic repressed, as ever.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room 8th October 2022.


Anti Growth Coalition born today,
When Prime Minister Truss brought it to life,
Is now likely to bound into being
Right across society as a whole.
Her yobbo hooligan challenge sounds like
“Come on then, if you think you’re hard enough.”.
She will take on all comers, so it seems.
Crash gains momentum as house prices fall.
Yet still she persists with her same old song,
Turns out it’s herself that is wrong, wrong, wrong,
Currency weakens, and belief drains away,
Everyone’s worried yet she smiles all day.
Where’s A.G.C. office? I’d like to join,
I’ll float my pen along dotted line.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room 6th October 2022.


In Downing Street a soucouyant sucks blood
From people already almost bled dry.
Matters not to her that we break and cry,
For in her chest beats cold heart of iron.
There in her lair we can find neither care,
Nor succour for those trapped by her actions.
Her party, split into warring factions,
Now torn asunder as she boldly rants
Her newly learned, ill prepared, platform script.
There is already a strong whiff of change,
As wannabes parade indecently
Across fringe meetings with “Look at me mum”
Speeches designed to promote their talent.
Crisis? What crisis? Election soon comes.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, 5th October 2022.


Tyres scream on cinder strewn Tory racetrack
As machine executes a handbrake turn.
Not quite a complete donut but almost.
Glazed, unapologetic, ghastly grins
Punctuated by explosive silence,
Leaderene Mark Two destroys her debut.
Maggie’s bastards are back in Birmingham.
Growth discovered on Chancellor’s sphincter,
Now lanced, enables bullshit to flow free.
Broken backed economists are called forth
To babble on across rock strewn airwaves,
Laud entrepreneurs, praise profit mongers,
Proselytizers for their own theories,
Their words destroyed by Borgen style U turn.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 3rd October 2022.