RIDE A BLACK SHADOW

Astride a black shadow, head into the night,
Hand on the throttle, you open it wide,
Wind tugs hard at your hair, you are in flight
Away from yourself,  unconscious suicide.
This is the ultimate, final night ride
Into the Autumn forest of your life,
Where there is no point in trying to hide
What you can’t cut with a selective knife.
Misspent  youth memories  used to be rife,
They fall from fading branches of your trees,
The last clear picture of your loving wife,
Lost in crisp yellow brown up to your knees.
Still you roar into the darkness unknown,
Speeding up, now you’re finally alone.

Harry Rogers: Aberbanc – In the hut. 24th November 2016

abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee – Spenserian Sonnet
Subject – memory/dementia

Q AROUND THE SQUARE

I saw that Q a forming
On a hot Saturday morning,
Without too much of a warning,
They gather in Trafalgar Square,
They hug and kiss without a care,
Mass selfishness truly laid bare.
Watch as pale rider gallops through,
It searches for carriers new,
Infects tin hats and fascists too.
Rumours of hype and hoax are spread,
They freely mingle without dread,
No care or thought of future dead,
On Nelson’s head there sits a bird,
Immune, unlike this gathered herd,
He swoops down low and shits a turd,
Anti vaxers sing same old song,
Conspiracy feeds on and on,
I spy the British Q anon.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, September 21st 2020.

BUBBLES

Sat here, I dream, in the half dark
Of you, blowing bubbles all day,
On that hill, inside Greenwich Park,
You blew all our troubles away.

See our children, they come running,
Try to catch all those rainbow globes,
Swirling before bursting, stunning
As earings that hung from your lobes.

Red ball above onion rises,
The tide turns below Bugsby’s Reach,
You’d not know there was a crisis,
Upon that far flung Cuban beach.

The Sun reflects pale orange pink,
On last dreg bubbles up quite high,
Silently drift towards the drink,
Then, float away, broke bubble I.

Harry Rogers, Pencnwcau, Aberbanc, 2nd December 2017.

DON’T MINGLE DOWN THE DINGLE

Whatever you do don’t mingle,
When you walk your dog through the park,
If there’s six friends in the dingle
Don’t dwell for some sport or a lark.
If you want to go kill a grouse
With gundogs on a Scottish moor,
Plus twenty knobs from the big house,
You’re OK, that’s within the law.
Go buy yourself plus four britches,
And a fluffy checked woolen cap,
Drink whiskey with hounds and bitches,
Be a killer so full of crap.
Toddy toasts sat on shooting stick,
Sets bougeois hearts all a tingle
But if you’re no upper class prick,
Whatever you do DON’T MINGLE.

Harry Rogers in the blue bathroom, September 16th 2020.

GRASS GRASS GRASS

It’s open sesame today,
Parliament has had it’s say,
Home secretary stirs the pot,
Soon we’ll be banged up for,
Calling out the government.
No carping against the leadership,
His words are sacrosanct.
Get it all done, don’t ask questions,
Spread the fear, ball of confusion rolls again,
On a daily basis, the spads furiously churn out,
Aspirational propaganda,
On a daily basis.
Stay frightened,
Obey,
Grass, grass, grass.
The left wing smart ass intellectuals
Are the enemy,
Grass, grass, grass,
Stay scared,
Don’t believe anyone but us,
We are your friends,
We are all in this together, Except for grouse shooting parties,
They can, as usual,
Do what the fuck they like.
Grass, grass, grass.
Effectively,
On a daily basis.
It’s a World Class System.
New Normal,
Informal informing,
Stay safe,
Grass grass, grass,
We wash our hands, of responsibility,
We keep our distance from you,
It’s for your own safety,
GRASS, GRASS, GRASS.
Stay scared,
We’ll say anything necessary,
On a daily basis,
We’re the best in the world,
You voted us in,
Thanks.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow room, September 15th

ALL THE PRETTY PICTURES

Pretty pictures hang skewed on ruined walls,
Their scorched frames stark against blackened plaster.
Burnt out shells of cars buried as ash falls,
Four five visits photo op disaster.
One more failure to accept evidence
Of chronic climate change on the West Coast.
Once more spouts total anti-state nonsense,
Blame people on ground, his latest false boast.
There’s no global warming. Does not exist.
Problems of management not lack of rain,
Scientists lie, their research is fake mist,
Perfectly coiffed ogre on steps of plane.
Waves as daylight obscured by umbre dust,
Golf cart awaits, so it’s In God We Trust?

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, September 14th 2020.

HARK, I HEAR A LUNAR SHOT

Wwhhhaaaattttt the heck is happening?
One hundred billion pounds?
For something not invented?
Can’t they see how this all sounds?
Are we run by lunatics?
Which spad came up with Moonshot?
What, like shoot the fucking moon?
This ain’t nineteen sixty nine,
We’re not taking giant steps,
More like gross leaps in the dark.
This absurd fake lunar shit,
Is it full moon, or blue moon?
What kind of moon will we be
Shooting into our raddled veins?
Every day change the rules,
Hold out possibilities
That perhaps things will improve,
If we all wait a few months,
Life will get back to normal.
Not the old normal we loved,
But a new shiny normal.
A normal where we can be
Sure there’s no society,
Where Atlas has truly shrugged,
Where all phones are really bugged.
When was the last time we used
Cash to pay for anything?
Capitalism? What’s that?
Barbarism, new normal,
New rules, New Randian ways.
New zombie apocalypse,
Created to confuse us all,
To convince us that we’re small,
And big, rich, poor, sick and well,
That this is no living hell,
Each new day moonbeams glitter,
Spad vampire bats do flitter,
Take a moonshot in your bum.
This IS Pandemonium.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, September 13th 2020.

GREEDVILLE

Welcome to Greedville where dinosaurs thrive,
On top of towers are sharks that survive,
Oppulent décor that oozes with gold,
Tasteless faux artworks purport to be old,
Divorced from real worlds, sultans on the take,
They have the gall to say we’re fucking fake.
Family lords it, like they’re in the know,
Strut in their threads, some throwback freak show.
The leader’s a ghoul too big for his pants,
Surrounded all times by sick sycophants.
Today radio comes on with the proof,
Knew, but did nothing, obscured the truth.
As all the alt right suckle his nipple,
He looks for next state service to cripple.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, 10th September 2020

BACK TO NEW BIZARRO NORMAL

No party raves in the front room
Friends and neighbors have got to go.
Reapers again clean weaponry,
New wave rolls on in Autumn sun.
With speed of light crash now arrives,
Us boomers, isolated still,
Watch fearfully behind curtains.
New normal unfolds fitfully,
Tory game unravels, full pelt,
No deflection can close our eyes
No political alibis,
Their spin has spun, we see through lies,
Watch piggies in Westminster stys,
As they place blame upon us all
Charades and faux walls start to fall,
They can’t placate us with football,
Where’s the people’s clarion call?
The whole facade is out of hand.
You need a test? Go to Scotland.
Don’t own a car? That’s your lookout,
Spads now deaf as we scream and shout.
Understand what it’s all about,
The immune herd, the truth is out,
Statistics no more carry clout,
Their information counts for nowt,
Nobody listens anymore,
To those who do not know the score,
Boris seems to be having fun,
Smirking as he gets Brexit done.
Glib postures won’t seal up the crack
Through which the knives fly to his back,
Thrown by his own, through smoke and flack,
This then the cost of being slack.
Tomorrow we go to the sea,
Must get away from misery,
Spend precious time with family,
Time flies, we might be next, d’you see?…….

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 9th September 2020.

A TOUCH OF THE VAPOURS

Brexit is back on the box
Truly electrifying,
No Deal is braced on the chocks
Soon Boris will be flying.
Hide pandemic behind cloud,
Move back onto safer ground,
Shout Get Brexit Done out loud,
Spike 2? Let’s not make a sound.
Tariffs just round the corner,
We eat our pudding and pie,
Pull out plum like Jack Horner,
Meanwhile we’re all gonna die.
Pritti is all in a twist,
Extinction comes true this time,
Freedom and truth will be missed,
Rebellion is now a crime.
Djocko headlines the papers,
The virus hides on page four,
I’ve a touch of the vapours,
Feels like we’ve been here before!

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 7th September 2020.

BURNT MIDNIGHT BBC OIL

BBC to only set agendas
That fit with the government of the day.
Forget tenets of democracy,
Just tell us what ministers have to say.
There is no such thing as journalism,
No research to look behind fake news,
Faux presenters wheeled out to parrot,
Scripted burnt midnight oil advisor views.
So rarely, if ever, pop a question,
That puts royals or generals on the spot,
Always put a shilling in the meter,
To make socialism’s collar nice and hot.
This is how it’s always going to be,
At the bourgeois preserving BBC.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 4th September 2020.

DON’S BLOOD RED MASQUE.

Citizens emerge from the woodwork and claim the right to bear arms against anyone they deem to be not on the same page as them.
These villainous vigilantes place their freedoms above all other rights and obligations.
Even above the ten commandments of Christianity that most of them claim to believe in.
The whiff of cordite is in the air, threatening to usurp the alcoholic odour of hand sanitiser.
Boogaloo boys and others wander the streets of US towns and cities dressed in paramilitary clothes and armed to the teeth with outlandish weaponry.
As tempers flare over racist atrocities, so the orchestrated insanity gains in intensity.
All of this plays to the crude theatre of the surreal that American politics has become.
I can hardly bring myself to tune into news bulletins for fear that the madness has been further ramped up.
I try to occupy myself with distractions, today I finally framed two Japanese ink paintings that I made in 1999.
Whilst I looked for pins to fix picture hooks to the wall with I came across a gold wedding ring in the bottom of a tin of assorted DIY bric-a-brac.
I have no idea how it came to be there, nor who it belonged to.
I’ve not opened this tin for a good twenty years, but this piece of 9 carat gold weighs in at seven grams.
Scrap 9ct gold currently fetches up to £18 per gram so that’s a cool £120 I never knew I had.
Luck it seems is unequally distributed around the globe.
I cannot stop the thoughts of bullets severing spinal chords that enter my fevered brain. Not even this joyous piece of serendipity can supplant the feelings of horror that overwhelm me as I watch Trump’s Red Death Masque unfold minute by minute, lie by lie.
The situation is grossly obscene, somebody or something, please take me out of this mindset, away from the pornography of ritual anti democracy and unconstitutionality as performed by four five and his perverse family on a daily basis.
Unfortunately I know that when I awake tomorrow it won’t be over.
Sure enough I wake to news that a seventeen year old boy has opened fire on unarmed protestors in Wisconsin.
I worry for all my good friends in America.
The fork tongued ghoul exhorts his followers to call for twelve more years. Twelve more years to wage war on his own people, sow division between wasps and everyone else.
The first lady glides onto my TV swathed in khaki and delivers the most egregious speech calling on people to pull together whilst her husband sends in the national guard.

Reason, democracy, trust,
These things lie trashed in the dust,
Bile poured by unbottled djins,
State fabric smashed like ninepins,
All the rednecks drink it up,
Yet they too lap hemlock cup.
Empire’s end, never pretty,
Nihilists bring mendacity,
One aim, protect privilege,
Rob, lie, burn, spurn tutelage,
Announce new normal, rain chaos,
Wave sweet reason adiós,
Dream’s over, now demons bask,
In light from Don’s blood red masque.

Harry Rogers, ranting in the Yellow Room, 27th August 2020.

PALE GYMKHANAE

The pale rider saunters into the car park at Tesco’s.
She fiddles with her pearls as she observes the obedient socially distanced queue who, in turn, wait patiently to purchase their fuel for the future.
The rider hides her identity behind a cloak of invisibility, dismounts from her temporary steed, and slides microscopically along the line in search of a new carrier.
Most of the people deny her entrance because they have taken the precaution to bar the way with masks and bandanas, but there, almost at the front of the queue, stands a non-conformist.
Unmasked, proud of the T Shirt he wears with the slogan Masks Off, Let’s Be Real emblazoned across his chest.
The rider does not hesitate, she wraps her wispy tentacles around his head and pulls herself sinuously into his sinus cavity and awaits his next breath to carry her deep into his unsuspecting lungs.
He remains haughty and unaware that he’s been chosen.
Inside his lungs the rider leaves some seeds and then departs on the next exhalation from which she floats languorously back to her invisible charger.
She remounts and they slowly trot past the front of store security guard and amble by the table with the hand sanitiser dispenser and paper towels, on into the fruit and vegetable section.
She rides up and down the aisles, she deliberately follows the red arrows marked out on the floor, and, once, spurs her mount to leap over the shelves straight into the midst of a family group as they gently argue about ice cream flavours.
More seeds are sown and eventually the rider leaves for pastures new.
She spurs her invisible horse down to Aldi.
Another hotspot, more human receptacles, the breeding goes on.
Meanwhile other riders await starter’s orders in a variety of situations.
Waves lap gently, waiting for the inevitable rollers to break on winter shores.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 27th August 2020.

HEAR SKYLARKS SING

Soon your tower gonna fall
I heard your whippoorwill call
Shreiked in the middle of night
Now it’s time to put things right.
You tell lies the easy way
Like Jimmy McGill they say
Two hours on make up and hair
Spread snake oil everywhere.
Better take off your golf shoes
Listen to reckoning news
Go downtown and take a look
Put away Goebbels playbook.
Young folks are your nemesis
They can’t stand your wind and piss
Your shallow state is not free,
Hang you from Joshua tree
Pittsburgh rusts on in the rain
We won’t hear your voice again
Whimper beyond your last scream
As we end your bad daydream
People on the streets will jive
After the fall of four five.
Once more hope anew we’ll bring
Then we will hear skylarks sing.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 24th August 2020.

INFLATABLE KAYAKS AND SUNSEEKERS

Two young refugees paddle a kayak,
Watch as the flycatchers circle this craft
Not a high spec sea going pro kayak
Able to cross over English Channel
Only a cheap inflatable kayak
For recreation in pool or still lake.
Only a faux imitation kayak.
For two to try and paddle such a craft
From Calais to England is sheer folly
Embarked out of utter desperation
Resulting from unjust situation.
One boy drowned the other demoralised
Meanwhile millionaire British bankers
Circle the globe in super yacht Sunseekers
Fifty four metre luxury cruisers
Tell me, where’s the fucking justice?…..
Where?…..
Where?
Human Rights?
What are they?

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 24th August 2020.

CALEDONIA PIZZICATO

This, the ultimate expression
Of complete social distancing
Is now open public knowledge.
The Sunday newspapers are full
Of column inches about yurts,
Staycations, fences and trespass.
Photographs of Prime Minister
In Knitted wooly bobble hat,
And hipster lumberjack checked shirt.
Just another ordinary
Geezer on summer holidays,
Cut off from civilisation,
Plucking strings so pizzicato,
In private Caledonia.
Have his grades gone up or down?
Are his algorithms working?
Kitchen spad cabinet smirking,
As we are played again for fools.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, 23rd August 2020

EAGLES FLY NO MORE

A Welsh golden eagle dies in the hills,
Student high fliers well know how this feels,
Llywodraeth have failed to act fast enough,
No wonder young voters will cut up rough.
Demise of justice, first ministers fault,
Education system not worth its salt.
Meanwhile, on his jollys, Johnson’s away,
So nobody knows what he’s got to say.
The Brexiteer Reich grinds close to it’s end,
Cummings events? Dear god, heaven forfend.
Control slips away, they go round the bend,
It’s all got too much for this lot to mend.
Whilst bailed MP deletes his twitter feed
Pandemic chaos is too hard to read.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 18th August 2020.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 18th August 2020.

MAKE YOUR OWN HONEY

I wrote this for a friend who had a falling out over social distancing.

MAKE YOUR OWN HONEY

Covid, Brexit, Marmite, Starmer,
There’s always gonna be something.
Art and music, TV, Fashion
Humans all have different views,
Sometimes things flare up with passion,
Heard from the pews, or on the news.
Sometimes one has to stand ones ground.
Go dancing to a brand new jive,
Be the one with the coolest sound,
Fly home each day to your own hive.
Life can be sad, can be funny,
Press on and make your own honey.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 14th August 2020.

NEW, NEW, NEW.

New normal in
New New Labour,
Where new general secretary
Implements new instructions
From new leader
To newly depleted CLPs
On the new scenario
For new style meetings.
This is the brave new world
That new centrists have created.
New old ideas from
New old prognosticators
No new debates
On new reports,
Or new expulsions,
Lead to new lows in membership levels.
A new party may come soon,
This is nothing new.
Will a new day dawn?
I wish I knew.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 13th August 2020

IS IT WHAT IT IS?

Click picture to hear this as a song.

I watch the Axios interview
Special with Four Five
Not seen American president
Tell so many Lies.
Shuffles papers, points to fake graphs,
Checks manuals and books,
Four five reads ghost stats, no one laughs,
Not even white house crooks.

“If you test more, you find more,
We test more than most
Fake media lie about the score.”
He believes his boast.
The one fifty K?
He shrugs his shoulders,
“It is what it is.”
It is what it is?
Is it what it is?
Is this what it is?
This is what it is,
So four five told us.

Now we know for sure
Know he does not care
About the people and the poor,
Neither the rule of law

Sociopaths play politics
Promise greener grass
Smash young people with riot sticks
Gas them on their ass.
This is what it is,
Naked Fascism.
It has come to this,
This is how it is,
It is time for change,
Four five got to go.

Harry Rogers, In my hut, Thursday, 6th August 2020

FOOL’S GOLD

How are things in El Dorado,
Now that the curtain has drawn back?
Have you found all of the fool’s gold,
The meth, the cocaine and the crack?
There’s nobody left to score it,
Since Corona came down the track.

Fool’s gold
Fool’s gold
Y’all been chasing
Fool’s gold

There is no more Ambrosia
To feed your artificial gods.
All your rock stars and their shite words
Have been devoured by techno hogs,
Power brokers now rule nothing,
The people have let loose the dogs.

Fool’s gold
Fool’s gold
Y’all been chasing
Fool’s gold

Things now can change for evermore,
Behind the masks we all get real,
If we want to love each other
We tell the powers how we feel.
We stand together on the streets
Shout it loud, we will never kill

Fool’s gold
Fool’s gold
We will not chase
Fool’s gold

El Dorado
El Dorado
How are things in
El Dorado?

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, midnight 3rd August 2020.

S.N.A.F.U.

New new Labour with new leader spouts new policies about new normal and yet nothing new happens. Just the same old same old from the same old crew, whichever way they dress it up, there’s nothing new!
New direction from new Boris, reborn post covid, new baby, new diet, new phrasebook, new lies. Soon the thing they set out to do will be done, we’ll be gone from the EU, with no deal. For me and you there’s nothing new!
Same old same old from the same old outlets. Normally the level of anxiety remains static at just above normal but in the new normal anxiety levels are abnormally high. No matter what we normally do there’s nothing new, only more of the same.
S.N.A.F.U.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, Wednesday 29th July 2020

BROKEN FAN

Today there was so much shit in the air,
That old fan finally gave up the ghost.
Careerist lawyers have all blown a fuse,
Now their shenanigans are in the news.
Stand by my window, look up at the stars,
Focus on Mars, try to collect my thoughts,
Is this the moment for left versus right,
To smash socialism inside the courts?
Parliament’s empty of popinjays,
They have all gone home for their holidays.
BBC scrabbles round for bones to gnaw on,
Comrades stand firm now, there is a war on.
All the lost jobs, through Covid and Brexit?
Yesterday’s chips and nobody gets it.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 1.00 AM 25th July 2020.

AFTER NEW NORMAL IS OVER

(A DYSTOPIAN VISION)

After new normal is over
Where will there be birds left to sing?
After new normal is over
Will we believe in anything?
When tundra has melted away,
On the brightest hot April day,
Too late for singularity
To be born in time to save us.
Clocks have already struck thirteen.
No time to dream of could have been.
Pristine armour, unused truncheons,
Boxed up bullets, racked up rifles,
All locked away and useless now.
Empty roads, nothing on TV,
No internet, nor mobile phones,
Not since daily temperature
Got stuck at one hundred and four.
Somewhere, in an air conned bunker,
Inexorably almost dead,
Dwell the last of the bourgeoisie.
Everyone else already gone,
Victims of Covid-fifty three.
Only cephalopods remain
To see the beauty of sunsets
Across darkening smoke filled skies.
We had the choice to abandon
Fossil fuels, but we just blew it.
One chance, and we didn’t take it.
Evolution is ironic.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, midnight 21st July 2020

Recorded in my writing hut.

SPORADICITY

Here come sporadical lockdowns,
The latest order of the day,
Leicester one day, your place the next.
What powers are needed for this?
Are there any sporadic apps?
Or are these just the random thoughts
Dreamed by wily spad conjurers
Who have to give their ministers
A semblance of something to say
In order to confirm that they,
In their wisdom, actually
Do something, or do anything.
In the vague hope that chaos theory
Will somehow come to our rescue,
These dark prestidigitators
Foist their sleights of hand on us all
Daily. As media trumpets
Blare out latest tossed off press release,
Funded by magic money trees
We all slither down on our knees,
Smeared and mired in Tory sleaze.
Wild campers pitch tents everywhere
Furloughed workers stand down and stare,
Weeks go by as the deadline nears,
All are filled with sporadic fears
Somebody said six million,
That’s just a random estimate.
No-one really knows how many
Will draw universal credit,
Welcome to Sporadicity.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 20th July 2020

CRÈME CARAMEL

I recall the exact moment
Aged seven, nineteen fifty four,
When I moved out of childhood.
Out to lunch with Auntie Barbara,
In Kennards swanky restaurant.
North End, Croydon, Department Store,
I sit opposite Auntie B
Look around at the finery,
Post war women in hats and stoles,
Silver cakestands, profiteroles,
Seamed stockinged legs, mingled perfumes,
Permanent waves, waitress service,
Heady stuff for inquisitives.
I don’t remember the main meal,
“Would you like something for dessert?”
She says, passing me a menu.
The choice is vast, ice cream sundae,
Banana split, Apple dumplings,
Even Knickerbocker Glory.
I fixated on these two words,
Crème Caramel, sounds exotic,
“I’d like a crème caramel please.”
“Are you sure dear, not an ice cream?”
I insist on Crème Caramel.
Cornucopias of Ice cream
Piled high with wafers and syrups
Sail past our table as I wait.
Eventually mine arrives.
A small white china ramekin
Filled with glazed, almost burnt, sugar.
Inside my head I’m mortified.
I don’t let on, I smile sweetly,
Aunt B looks on, in sympathy.
I pick up the teaspoon and crack,
Sugar shatters like broken glass,
Cream coloured custard oozes forth,
Scoop some into sceptical mouth.
I learned that it’s not the biggest
Nor the flashiest that is best.
Now sixty five years further on
There’s only one dessert for me,
Crème Caramel, brulé of course.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, Saturday 18th July 2020.

ON A HUNT WITH LEONARD.

Leonard Cohen takes my mind to a hunt.
In the woods I’m not sure whether he is
The hunter, nor when he is the hunted.
He is self assured, dangerously so.
His future has arrived with a vengeance,
He’s not here, but imagine if he were.
An avalanche of hidden invective,
Each and every verse carefully crafted,
Mirror polished to reflect cristal clear,
Chaos landslides slip abstractedly by.
The earphones help me to realise why
He had fingers on the pulse more than most.
In raincoat with beret, arrow and bow,
Len strode through the flames, on fire yet unburned.

Harry Rogers, In the yellow room, Friday 17th July 2020.

FAERIE TALE IMPLICATIONS

See the anti vaxer shitehawks
Feed at the middens of despair.
They pick at fake crusty wishbones
Rave baseless drumbeats through dark air.
Wiser birds watch them eat their fill
As they feed each other false scraps
Stripped from carcus that makes us ill,
They howl when caught in their own claptraps.
Locked in gardens, we smell the rose,
Marvel at depth of scent supreme
Such hot weather sharpens the nose,
We sniff reality through dream.
Snarky flea bit politicians
Try to avert the world mind’s eye
Towards old warmed up new cold war
Their agenda studded headlines
Seek to keep us up till half four.
Forget patchouli faerie folk
With flying fanciful false flags
On dragon breath they soon will choke,
Covid as real as plastic bags.
One hundred years ago we saw
Pandemic kill far more than war
Stop these silly invocations,
Instead bring inoculations.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 3.00am 17th July 2020.

WEST SIDE LIVING DEAD

Now we watch as West Side Story
Becomes Night of the Living Dead
There’s no time for Morning Glory
Not since Sars got inside our head
We stand masked up at the bus stop,
Somehow still find the time to queue,
Before we shuffle to that shop
Where police serve the people’s stew.
Covid bulletins are long gone
The MPs don’t know what to do,
The whole world hums funeral songs
This corona ain’t fucking flu
At start of end of first lock down
We bathed in the light of false dawn
Virus deniers yelled cross town
We’re scam victims of fake news porn
Second waves crash on urban beach
Tsunami floods each chicken shed,
No more teachers are left to teach,
We’re now the West Side Living Dead.

Half past five in the red bedroom, 15th July 2020.

BLOW WHISTLE BLOW

Blow those whistles louder,
Before they come for you,
Let not them stuff your gob
With gold to shut you up.
Shout it from the rooftops,
Tell us all that you know,
If you’ve got the emails,
Flood them to the net.
Copies of the contracts?
Tweet them from dawn to dusk.
Write truth in your memoir,
Spill the beans with gusto.
Bent ministers and spads?
Please kick them where it hurts.
Time to clean the stables,
Flush all the crooks away,
Throw them to the lions,
Cummings and baby Gove,
Let’s take them down today!

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, Saturday 11th July.

WE WANT FRIES WITH OUR MEAL DEAL.

Steer Kharma, forensick, at despatch box,
Mewls as Haystacks gang shoots fox after fox.
Cummings has stolen all Jeremy’s clothes,
To wave them beneath New New Labour’s nose.
Forests of money trees bloom at the bank,
Quantitavely eased with clink and clank.
Billions of pounds are drawn at a stroke,
Millions of workers now left for broke.
Advisory rules now go up in smoke,
Health ministers stats now called out a joke.
The track and trace app? A pig in a poke,
Changes in benefits soon to revoke,
Dole queues grow longer, this mess is severe,
Still, grab a meal deal, don’t say it’s austere.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, Friday 10th July 2020

WHO WANTS TO BE A BLAIRITE MILLIONAIRE?

Who wants to be a Blairite millionaire?
Exploit Labour voters without a care.
Denigrate socialists everywhere,
Start needless wars, cultivate silly hair.
Lord Blunkett spouts tosh on Radio four,
Whilst our Rebecca is wheeled out the door,
Mandelson unsheaths his back stab once more,
New new Labour now shits over house floor.
In Gaza families quiver in fear,
As the keys to their houses are stolen,
Some of us shudder as we shed a tear,
The future does not look quite so golden.
Pander to petrolhead racist bullies,
Electable in post Jezza woolies?

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 8th July 2020

BUCKSTOP

Please tell us where the buck stops, if you can.
The powerful deny it is their man.
Whenever there’s a crisis it’s the same.
Politicians will never take the blame.
Haystack bonce points to owners of care homes,
These shitehawks from Westminster catacombs,
Irresponsible power at the top,
However can we make false spinning stop?
Pass the blame, fend off shame, guilt trip others,
It will be our fault, sisters and brothers.
No one’s job is safe, the walls tumble down,
Once again we turn our gaze to the crown,
TV and Radio stand complicit,
Funny how the bucks never stop, innit?

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, Monday 6th July 2020

MOMENTS IN TIME.

Can you tell me how Long is a moment?
Eight point four six seconds at start of match?
Eight mins forty six seconds knee on neck?
Is it one hundred days during lockdown?
One thousand one hundred days since Grenfell?
Is time elastic? Can a moment stretch?
Some moments expand, Some moments contract,
Twenty seven years since Stephen Lawrence,
Murdered at bus stop? Is that a moment?
The years since Brixton, Toxteth, Notting hill?
The centuries of slavery subsumed
Into literature slowly consumed?
These transitory periods of time,
Are these all just moments that don’t matter?

Harry Rogers, in the Red bedroom, Sunday 5th July 2020.

CURLY KALE

Cocktails, ginger ales, Ipa, Lager, Pale,
Wine and Whiskey, how ever can it fail?
From 6.00 am one can drink from a pail,
Down Covid river we merrily sail,
Go out on the booze, you slick alpha male,
Let’s see just how many end up in jail,
Meanwhile spaff away, so says Daily Mail,
Wetherspoons and buffoons shall make a sale,
Public servants all a-quake and a-quail,
Stay now at home, hit the head of the nail,
They’ll lock drunks away, without any bail,
BJ and his pals pursue holy grail,
In my garden watch as bird eats a snail,
At least snail won’t eat my curly kale.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow room, 1.00 a.m. Saturday 4th July

COUNTDOWN TO CARNIVAL

Countdown To Carnival, fourth of July,
Jokers are wild, medics break down and cry,
City street parties now are so hot
Lockdown sacrifices gone and forgot
Sun shines on the beach, drunkards spew and fight
Pent up frustration raves on through the night.
Respect for security thinly stretched
Ochlocracy no longer seems far fetched
Oi, you there with the blond haystack hairstyle
Who claims to be a fit prime prime minister
Fit as a Butcher’s dog in such short while.
You and your clique are really sinister,
Fake power, no responsibility,
Your actions deny true ability.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 28th June 2020

BLUE AIR

Be careful that you
Don’t breathe in Blue Air,
Make sure you don’t go
Dancing toe to knee
It’s dangerous
So dangerous
Blue Air
Blue Air
So dangerous
So dangerous
You can’t be yourself
Life’s a pantomime
Looking behind you
Looking beyond you
Blue Air
Blue Air
It’s dangerous
So dangerous
Target on your back
So invisible
You can’t know it’s there
Waiting behind you
Blue Air
Blue Air
So dangerous
So dangerous
When the knives are out,
And the lights go out…..

Harry Rogers, Past Midnight in the Yellow Room 26th June 2020

UPTICK TOP DRINKING

Sir K welcomes the Tory Lockdown thrust,
Uptick high street sales of discounted stuff,
Wetherspoon boozers must now make a crust.
People are ready to ingest this guff?
Union jack briefings just ain’t effective,
Mothball the lecterns, put experts away,
Leaders united, easing invective,
Not laws, just guidance, what more can they say?
From two to one, leave your name at the door,
Burger house cinemas open once more,
Not quite the same as it once was before,
Rife abnormality, stuck in our craw.
Next door they’re mowing, watch as swifts follow,
New bugs on the wind, so hard to swallow.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 24th June 2020.

ILL WIND AIN’T IT?

That old ill wind now blows ever stronger,
Whilst the food bank queues grow even longer.
The furloughs and bailouts will all soon end,
But just like Viv we have to spend, spend, spend.
Look to the city, brokers do fiddle,
Watch as they play both ends against middle.
Someone just called for a giant hoover,
Covid, they said, is boomer remover.
Super superlatives fly from hip lips,
World beating software will solve our hardships
Privatised whiz kids on heightened day rates
Are new barbarians, there, at our gates.
Charging us fortunes for things that don’t work,
Ministers theive as they quietly smirk.

Harry Rogers, in The Red Bedroom, 23rd June 2020

TAKE COVER

Turn that old t-shirt into a face mask,
Get on train with The Beatles on your face,
Soon only a Dune Stillsuit fits the task,
Public transport now total smile free space,
Pubs get ready to open doors again,
Menus can be scanned onto your smartphone.
Without Android or Apple, well, what then?
No beers, no meals, carry on home alone?
Processed meat workers go down like ninepins,
Hairdressers ready to shear lock-down locks,
High street store windows sport clean mannequins,
Stock market braces for new fiscal shocks.
With secateurs and saw I start to prune,
Ain’t gonna be normal anytime soon!

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 23rd June 2020.

CALAMITY COMING

An economic calamity comes
Said a radio presenter today,
Watch the Chancellor struggle with his sums,
Quantatively easing pipedreams away.
Rags and calumny fall from Tory lips,
False promises bring incredulity,
From home cooked meals to greasy fish and chips
The lock-down ends without human pity.
We must cram children back in classrooms small,
Labour Lords crawl out from obscurity,
The second wave now looms above us all,
No fiscal vaccine brings immunity.
Theatres are closed but tragedy plays on,
The tinted spectacles are almost gone.

Harry Rogers, In the red bedroom, Sunday 21st June 2020.

LEVEL THREE

From alert level four
To alert level three
Now we start panicking
About economy.
Let’s reopen the schools,
The pubs and restaurants,
People meet in bubbles,
Wear masks upon the bus,
Stay home and watch football,
All one metre away,
We scrap the test and trace,
Soon we’ll have the finest,
Test and trace in the world,
Expect teachers to teach,
Only those who turn up,
Can’t go down to the beach.
Us fogeys, locked away,
We don’t know what to say,
So we fill bird feeders,
The woodpeckers need nuts.
Soon all do what they like,
We wait for second spike,
Or the permanent spike.
In the nineteen sixties
Janis succinctly said,
“It’s all the same fucking day man!”
She was not too far wrong.

Harry Rogers, 2.00am In the Yellow Room, June 20th 2020

PAINTING PLANES?

Somebody has to do it,
You know? Red, white & blue it,
We watch as Johnson blew it,
Whilst, mostly, we go through it,
The Tim Tam suck, don’t chew it,
Union Jack jet? Who flew it?
Globally we outgrew it.
Murdoch’s chums will review it,
Donald tries to outdo it,
Pandemic? Oh, just screw it.
They told us they would do it,
Now lockdown’s dead, eschew it,
Still, we all fucking knew it,
Austerity? Renew it.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, Thursday 18th June 2020.

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DEMAGOGUE DOGS

The dogs of demagoguery
Run rampant on the streets
Defend statues of butchery
And working class defeats


Built palaces on stolen land
Given to the gentry
Whilst priests do up in pulpits stand
Supporting no entry


Meanwhile all across Africa
Where once tribes owned the land
Slavers shipped to America
With bibles in their hand.


Fear gas used in ninety eight towns
To scare off protesters
It’s theatre for orange skinned clowns
Whilst racism festers.


Fox News would have us all believe
Trump wins in November
Whilst he pulls fake tweets from his sleeve
All now will remember


The whole wide world is in danger,
We have been here before,
Cenotaph goons look no stranger
Heiling Hitler’s lost war.


I can’t take it much more…..

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow room, Pencnwcau, June 17th 2020.





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SHALL WE GO SHOPPING?

You can go to Primark or Debenhams
You can’t go visit your dads or your mums.
Did you hear Boris’s spud headed spad
Spilling his Durham beans in the garden?
The whole country tuned in to his blather,
Together we say, “We beg your pardon?”
The things we hate most are fucking liars,
Piled high on Westminster funeral pyres.
Cornered with cabinet floor paint on hands
Drive through bluebells, oh the sheer arrogance.
The sun shone so kindly there by the lake
This then is the truth some claimed to be fake.
Get out our wallets, Covid is stopping,
So soon we can all go fucking shopping.

Harry Rogers, in the red bedroom, 26th May 2020.

PANTO ON FIRE

A nest of incestuous investors
Lies behind cloak of bombed out BJ
Hand grenade drops through Brexit pill box slit
Wounded spads analyse pin puller disguise
Desperate to find who will benefit
Us cannon fodder voters, smoke in eyes,
Watch in stunned terror as panto unfolds,
No-one shouts Look Behind You, in the wings
Waits latest parvenu, heart all a quiver
Soon, on centre stage, where he will slither,
Highwayman new shouts Stand and Deliver
Fresh spads snivel as the people shiver.
Democracy turns to patrician mauve
I really do hope it’s not Michael Gove.

Harry Rogers, in the red bedroom, Monday 25th May 2020.

CHOMSKY’S PEKINESE

Chomsky’s Dog chews papers in the background
Every now and then makes a growling sound
Naom proselytises without pause
Dog scratches purposefully with all claws
Advice for activists flows out freely
Words spoken softly yet no less steely
Offers hope for future generations
Twenty years to save the fate of nations
Wretched theives and crooks, wrecked economy
Post Covid climate, lockdown anomie,
Our world in danger, soon we will be toast,
All now take action, don’t give up the ghost.
He is compelling, get up off our knees
Shred Tory lies like Chomsky’s Pekinese.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, Pencnwcau, 24th May 2020