A POSTCODE LOCKDOWN?

A Postcode Lockdown? Lottery lockdown?
Pottery lockdown? A Tescoed lockdown?
Alfrescoed Lockdown? Chocolate lockdown? Barbecue lockdown?
A jigsaw lockdown? A boardroom lockdown?
A lockin lockdown? A locked out lockdown?
Westminster lockdown? A Tinder lockdown?
Judge Rinder lockdown? A Brexit lockdown?
Poetry lockdown? Royalty lockdown?
A socks down lockdown? A misch masch lockdown?
A crisis lockdown, Jesus wept lockdown?
Chimney swept lockdown? A landscaped lockdown?
Decorate lockdown? Separate lockdown?
Heaven’s gate lockdown? Empty plate lockdown?
Fundraiser lockdown? War hero lockdown?
Every bloody gawd blimey kind of lockdown,
Except for, of course, a zero lockdown!

Harry Rogers In the Yellow Room, 28th November 2020.

RED POETS IN MERTHYR

Bohemian rebel rhymesters,
Revolutionary wordsmiths,
Who hold shiny truth filled mirrors
That reflect real and imagined
Worlds, ideas, remembered futures,
Forgotten unlived histories,
Desired justice in the now,
These are the chroniclers of dreams,
The uncloakers of mystery,
Who can see more than what life seems
The metaphorical jugglers
Of iambs, meters, heart felt rhymes
Joyous one minute, sad the next
Able to tell it like it is
In myriad forms day by day.
Cry freedom for those who cannot stop,
Who automatically express
Their extradimensional truth
To power each time they write words,
Rant multiverses in the street,
These are the ones we need to meet,
Seers who understand pain and love,
Pull snarky scales from screen filled eyes.
Forget leaders, bring on Poets.

Harry Rogers In the Yellow Room, 22nd November 2020

SCHLOCK DOWN.

How can we call this a lockdown?
It’s a total cheap faux knockdown,
Only half way round the blockdown,
It’s another B J schlock down.
Everybody’s put the flags up,
It is good news week for a change.
Are we being sold a new pup?
Three vaccines at once? Is that strange?
I’ll be down the quacks, rolled up sleeve,
Waiting for me life saving jab,
I truly do want to believe,
I don’t wanna go to rehab.
I need to be sure that it’s safe,
Tested proper, know what I mean?
Like a lickle soldier I’m brave,
Push the plunger, get the stuff in.
The anti vax crew can get stuffed,
I want to hug my kids tightly.
This nightmare? We’ve all had enough.
Let’s all sleep sound again, nightly.
Chaos that follows this lock-down,
As people crowd onto the streets,
Shop for the ultimate knockdown,
Turn victories into defeats,
How long will it take to rollout?
Will the millions stand in line?
It’s gonna be very cold out,
Can we get it out there in time?
This feels like a long distance race,
We’re told that it will be world class,
What if it’s like test, track and trace?
Another BoJo special farce?
These worries, they spin round my brain,
As I watch these crises unfold,
Shall I go up London again?
Suddenly I feel very old.
At this late stage in the saga,
They’ve decided to test teachers,
Holding this mirror gets harder,
Can’t recognise all the features,
Key workers look very worried,
The leader still has his socks down,
This whole thing feels so hurried,
Once more it’s a botched up schlock down.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 20th November 2020.

WHIP AWAY!

In the party, the mighty party,
The liar sneers tonight,
Near the village, Westminster village,
The liar sneers tonight.
Hush the party, don’t fear the party,
The liar sneers tonight,
There’s no future, no Labour future,
The liar sneers tonight,

Whip Away, Whip Away,
Whip Away, Whip Away,
The leader sneers tonight.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 19th November 2020.

CAUGHT IN YOUR OWN TRAP

Stakes are raised, tension ratchets, Jezza’s back.
Group of MPs threaten resignation.
Forensic lawyer, now caught in own trap,
Can’t risk a legal investigation.
Tonight Labour politics lie shattered,
Allusions become stark reality
A number of banners now look tattered,
The ghost of Pasok brooks finality,
Big blue spad slinks away from Downing Street,
Number ten butternut self isolates,
Bowie like he reinvents with each tweet,
Starmer should have stormed through the bloody gates,
But he never seems to ram the sword in.
Sing out loud now, “Oh, Jeremy Corbyn!!!”.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, 18th November, 2020.

TABLE FOR ONE AT RONNIE’S.

Watch brand new documentary movie,
Ronnie Scott’s Soho Jazz Club brought alive,
Rollins, and Davis, Nina and Ella,
Jimi and Georgie, Van the Man and Chet,
They all played there whilst all of us went there.
One time in London, at a conference,
I needed music to empty my head,
Arrive at club to see Madelaine Bell,
“Table for one sir?” they ask at the door.
Say “Sadly yes.”, hand over a score,
A waitress is called, she’s half of my age,
Leads me in through the crowd, down to the front,
Seats me at table on edge of the stage.
I’m at the table for one at Ronnie’s.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, 17th November 2020.

HOW FIT IS THIS BUTCHERS DOG?

Canst tell me, how fit is this butchers dog?
Eats scraps and trimmings of beef, sheep and hog,
Overfed heavy cur, can’t jump a log,
Sling him off a cliff, same as Gogmagog.
Another fortnight now squirreled away,
Ignore news media, tweet night and day,
Fat orange golfer has shewn him the way,
Don’t answer questions, faff, bluster, and play.
Buy time with new spads locked down in bunker,
Zoom hot and cold as enemies hunker,
Sack all and sundry, such a strong junker,
Quaff drafts of power, lurch ever drunker.
Hoards of people still say “He’s such a card!”,
In truth his new normal’s too fucking hard.

Harry Rogers, in the red bedroom, 16th November 2020

FIREBREAK

A Passport to Cymru won’t get you here
The bridges are closed so don’t you appear
Stay back in England, across Irish sea,
Don’t bring the covid down here to me,
You’ll ruin the firebreak we’ve just been through,
We’ve done our bit, now it’s all up to you,
Put on your masks and keep off of the streets,
It’s time to get real, don’t shop now for treats,
But something’s not right, we’re led by a fool,
Why are our children still sent off to School?
Teachers and assistants, cleaners and cooks,
All now in danger, it’s bad as it looks,
All of the rules, strung out, fully loaded,
We still won’t be near to zero covid.

Harry Rogers in the yellow room 4th November 2020

PRISING THE WHELK FROM ITS SHELL

On road to Rome in Georgia state,
Trump, pumped up with drugs and steroids,
Exhorts goons to intimidate,
As he scratches his hemorrhoids.
This final day of campaigning,
For a further bout of madness,
Is no longer entertaining,
Riven as it is with badness.
We will need a giant needle,
To Prise obese, stubborn, whelk out
From the shell where he does wheedle,
Lie, prestidigitate and shout.
He’ll wriggle, he’ll struggle, cry fake,
But in the end he’ll have to go,
Revealed as a broken snowflake,
Blown by the wind from Ohio.

Harry Rogers In the Red Bedroom, 2nd November 2020.

NO TIME TO STAND AND CRY

Now is no time to stand and cry
Neither appease nor pacify
Extremists spit upon our head
They will not stop, they wish us dead
Media amplifies the sound
That emanates from centre ground
The righteous on their carpet ride
Deliver social suicide
They trawl through tweet and email box
With grubby hands turn back the clocks
How easily these ghouls are vexed
By words taken out of context
Deliberately on they plough
To slaughter one more holy cow
Point the finger, spin out the lies
Phoenix New New Labour arise
Soon will come corrupt aftershock
They’ll fade away just like Pasok.
Comrades fear not, let’s dry our eyes
It’s time for us to organise.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 1st November 2020

SMOKE BUSH GLORY

It’s three in the morning on Halloween,
Watch Donna the Buffalo with the herd
Out in the wide world things aint too tidy,
But Tara and Jeb brought love right on back
Three years since we met at get off the grid
One of the best gigs that I ever did.
Outside the smokebush glows bright in the rain
In the field gentle dawn flowers again
It’s perfume sweet as the song from robin
Who gives a jot about being locked in.
Hold hands together now, wait for the sun
Soonish it will come and we shall have fun.
Meanwhile let’s search for the best in each day,
Come with me my love let’s go out and play.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 31st October 2020.

BASTARD BABY BOOMER

I’m a bastard baby boomer
Waiting for covid remover.
Born out of the second world war,
I will not lie down on the floor.
Dad wounded in Arnhem battle,
Fighting nazi shittle shattle,
Eaten up with PTSD,
Never found the way to tell me.
Still, I trundle on life’s highway,
Try to make sense in eighth decade,
After years of struggle so game,
Now seemingly to take the blame,
For crimes committed in my name,
By extreme centrists without shame.
Those faux bourgeois sucker uppers
Who conned our mamas and papas.
I’ve spent my life left of the fence,
Unshielded by fake innocence,
I fight on for justice comrade,
You can stuff your naive tirade,
I’m now a consumate Zoomer,
I’m the bastard baby boomer.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 30th October 2020.

THE ABRACADABRA FALLACY

Somehow we all constantly focus on the end of the pandemic, that moment when when some sort of miraculous vaccine will come forward like the cure for polio and take us to a resumption of normalcy.  Ever since the second century the word Abracadabra has been used on amulets as a magical word against diseases. In the second century AD it was believed to be a cure for malaria,  Serenus Alexander, a great admirer of Serenus Sammonicus, ordered the word to be written in the form of an inverted cone, and declares it to be of virtue against all diseases.
“Thou shalt on paper write the spell divine ABRACADABRA called in many a line, Each under each in even order place, But the last letter in each line efface, As by degrees the elements grow few, Still take away but fix the residue, Till at the last one letter stands alone, And the whole dwindles to a tapering cone. Tie this about the neck with flaxen string, Mighty the good ’twill to the patient bring, Its wondrous potency shall guard his head And drive disease and death far from his bed.”This is the same kind of guff we hear now from the Covid-19 denying spiritual anti vaccine brigade. Their denial brings on the disease by leaps and bounds. To waltz through the world in maskless bliss ignores what we face over the coming year. make no mistake, the just in time fetishism adopted by neo liberals in most democracies in the running of their public services only works when dealing with factors that we already understand. Introduce a rogue element into the equation and just in time won’t work, there is no time to play catch up. The health services across Europe and the USA are banjaxxed because the extra capacity needed to cope with a pandemic just isn’t there. All the historic attempts to rationinalise the British NHS, to slash costs, to privatise through bringing American style practices through the back door via Blairite blue sky thinking, the inevitable destructive folly that is commissioning, the crisis created by PFI debt that cripples the finances exponentially are managed within a creaky Heath Robinson structure that just about  delivers a health service free at the point of need.  Add in a crisis such as Covid-19 and everything goes out the window. The reason we are having lockdowns is, in large part, due to the fact that most of the politicians just cannot face the collapse of neo liberalism and the threat of years in the wilderness that would be their fate if the NHS completely fails on their watch. This is not just an attack on Boris Johnson and his cronies, though they are the essence of ineptitude, it also rests squarely with all those centrists on all sides in the house of commons who wholeheartedly embraced Milton Friedman, Ayn Rand, and Margaret Thatcher’s doctrines. This means that there is no contingency capacity to deal with the reality of a rampant Corona virus. The economic knock-on effects of trying to manage this situation with fire breaks, control of what businesses can and cannot sell, the collapse of agriculture in the USA, the destruction of tourism, the decimation of hospitality, the societal fragmentation, all of this and much more can be laid clearly at a catastrophic failure of management at a macro level. We all KNOW the maxim failing to plan is planning to fail. We also know that the British government carried out an emergency planning exercise only a couple of years ago that looked precisely at the effects of a corona virus pandemic and yet they failed to implement it’s recommendations. This is a truly scandalous set of events. They might as well have issued every household with Abracadabra triangle to post on their front doors and amulets to wear in the street. It’s not the fault of the people that we are in this mess, it’s a systemic crisis brought about through the implementation of the ideology of greed. Abracadabra? Unfortunately it’s impossible to magic a pandemic away, it always has been.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, 26th October 2020.

FACE FACTS AND CHANGE

Nothing can be changed until it is faced. – James Baldwin

Let’s face it, we have a problem,
A problem with democracy.
Politicians speak on the stump,
Sell us all kinds of apple pie,
Only when we vote these demons in
Do we find out how much they lie.
Focus on personality,
The abilty to sell stuff,
Divorced from our reality,
The gilded tin, the powder puff,
Make what never was great again,
Put fishing top and housing last,
Move quickly on, hide up the pain,
Sweep past away and do it fast
With faff and spaff and chunder
Bring on new Dominic blunder
Roll out the iron sheet thunder,
Split all our old dreams asunder.
Ignore what they said they would do,
Each day one more shock of the new,
Mix up the red with the blue,
Spring chaotic bling wrecking crew.
No free school meals outside term time,
Democracy? I call it crime.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 22nd October, 2020.

WHERE HOPE MEETS FEAR

That place where fear meets hope,
Fire break, hot-spot, shielding,
New Deja vu circuit
Breaking the virus chain,
Bonfire night, Halloween,
Postponed during the clamp,
Keep schools open for some,
Close libraries and gyms,
Shut universities,
Pubs, gift shops, and campsites,
We all pull together,
Except for Welsh Tories
Who will politicize
Covid endlessly with
Hyper local lockdowns.
People before profit
Is our rallying cry,
We’ll pick up the pieces
One bright day, by and by,
Meanwhile stay safe, stay home,
Keep one eye on the stats,
Other on Boris and
His asset stripping rats,
Feels like last days of Rome.
The poor, and the low paid
Will bear the brunt again
Sticking plaster fixes
Won’t bring relief to pain.
Universal credit
For those who lose their jobs,
Cannot meet commitments.
Whilst knobs debate the R,
Lists of rules grow longer,
Save pubs, eat out, stay home,
Lock down, wear masks, obey,
Pursue a policy
Of equal misery,
If you’re not confused now
Wait on, you soon will be.
Make us blame each other,
Sister grass up brother,
The rich will cop for nought
Blame us, it’s all our fault,
We did what you told us,
Perhaps we will again
This is what they wanted,
The ghouls in number ten,
Like slick rugby players
Pass the ball so quickly,
Maintain power without
Responsibility.

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

SHINE LIKE GOLDEN SUNS

Maybe tomorrow we make it better,
Stand out on the streets or write a letter,
One way or another let’s get this done,
Let’s get together,one by one by one.
Don’t bring us leaders, those who take a ride,
Give us somebody to walk by our side.
As we march, our hearts, light as a feather,
Help us to smile through the stormy weather.
Sing those songs of struggle from long ago,
From Woody and Nina, help us to grow,
We’ll march through the north, we’ll march through the south,
Songs of love and hope filling every mouth,
Face down the racists, the boogaloo guns,
Up on higher ground shine like golden suns,

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, October 11th 2020.

Fol De Fucking Rol

Fol de fucking roll
There’s another poll.
The man with no soul
Scores one more own goal,
They roar four more years,
Forget nation’s tears,
Maskless down their beers,
Ramp up all our fears,
Reckoning soon come,
For chump on the stump,
When steroids wear off,
As he plays down cough,
He’ll beg for his mum,
Fall down with a bump,
Always remember,
Third of November,
Time for all to dump
Madman Donald Trump.

Harry Rogers in The Red Bedroom, 11th October 2020.

CORONA VIRUS, OR WHATEVER YOU WANNA CALL IT……..

Their aged poster boy tweets
Lies from his hospital bed.
He can’t accept his defeats,
Says the first thing in his head,
Which most of the time is him,
Believes he’s some kind of god.
In his blood virus does swim,
Content to feed on his bod.
Narcissists don’t understand
How actions belie their words,
Nothing he says stands as grand,
Beligerently absurd.
After spraying without mask,
One thing’s for certain of course,
No matter how much we ask,
He won’t show any remorse.
Sociopaths never do.


Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 4th October 2020

GOD PAYS DEBTS WITHOUT MONEY

God Pays debts without money,
So my mother used to say,
Well I don’t believe in God,
But sometimes it looks that way.
Four Five walks to the chopper,
He flashes a discrete wave,
Somehow he came a cropper,
Looks like a proper close shave.
No-one knows if he’s got it,
If he has it could get bad,
The electors have a fit,
Media go fucking mad,
His videos feel funny,
The tweets keep right on coming,
His campaign needs more money,
Fox News forever dumbing.
Over here across the pond,
We’re not quite sure what to think,
Will there be some magic wand,
Or another giant stink?
I’m hoping he doesn’t die,
We don’t need martyrs made fake,
He’ll not let sleeping dogs lie,
Can’t tell if he’s on the make,
Could be one thing or other,
Still got plenty of bunny,
I keep hearing my mother,
God pays debts without money.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, October 3rd 2020.

ARE THE PEOPLE HAPPY?

Alone on that high wire
That stretches over hell
They took away the safety net
That caught you when you fell
Check out Maggie’s death spooks,
We thought they were long gone
Now they’re back on our TV sets ,
They drone on, on, and on.
Are the people happy?
They really need to know.
Universal credit,
The furlough has run out,
Talk of viable jobs,
Trash the precariat.
They will measure your wellbeing
To work out how far can they go.
Are the people happy?
A scale of one to ten,
Decimate benefits,
Again, again, again.

Aberbanc: Halloween, 2016.
Revised in the Yellow Room, September 27th 2020

CINDERELLA SITUATION

I wrote this on holiday in 2018.

The dotard prince wanders around
He drags his knuckles over ground
The ice queen of celebrity
Frozen by mediocrity
Hides away a month and a day
Lost in the mists of Mandalay
Buggy rides from high tea to tee
Drive the green between thee and me
Steals our cash across the nation
Cinderella situation.
Takes colonial pith in vain
Messiah complex rules again
Judged not the fakir, blonde, insane
Injects the bile into each brain
Convinced the proletariat
That hate not love is where it’s at
A tragedy that says it all
Nobody’s going to the ball
There will be no recreation
Cinderella situation

8/10/2018 Tremezzo. Lago di Como, Italy.

CURFEWS ON CAMPUS

Empty libraries, no-one in the stacks,
There is no research, no-one sifts the facts.
Refectory shut down, lecture halls too,
Union bar gigs gone, nothing to do,
Students in garretts, now banged up all day,
Campus isolation all for 9K.
Laptop screens flicker in room after room,
Headphones on bonces, new learning on Zoom,
Tiers, pods and bubbles keep distanced apart,
Fears, gods and troubles, is no way to start.
Fresh faced freshers no way will stay quiet,
They will learn something, new ways to riot.
Curfews on campus, they’re all getting ill,
No track, and no trace, there’s no magic pill.
Still, just so long as students pay their fee,
They’ll get a University degree.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, September 28th 2020

HEADING FOR THE ZUIDERZEE

Click this picture to hear the music demo of this poem.

IN NINETEEN SEVENTY THREE
JOHNNY, BO, AND ME
SAILED ACROSS THE SEA
HEADING FOR THE ZUIDERZEE
ON DOWN PAST GRAVESEND
OVER THE SHIVERING SANDS
PAST THE END OF THE THAMES
GOING TO THE NETHERLANDS

NEXT DAY ON THE HORIZON
BO SAW A PLUME OF SMOKE
WHILST JOHNNY GOT HIS BINS OUT
I TOOK ANOTHER TOKE
“THERE’S TWENTY FOOT FLAMES IN THE SKY”
SAID JOHNNY, CHANGING OUR WAY
WITH NO THOUGHT OF WHAT OR OF WHY
WE WERE GONNA BE HEROES THAT DAY

THE CREW ON THE DECK OF THAT SHIP
LAUGHED AS WE PULLED ALONG SIDE
THEY WERE BURNING OFF CHEMICAL SHIT
WE SAILED OFF NURSING OUR PRIDE
SAILING ACROSS THE SEA
HEADING FOR THE ZUIDERZEE
IN NINETEEN SEVENTY THREE
JOHNNY, BO, AND ME

Harry Rogers, in my old study, November 2009

YOU STAY, IF YOU WANT TO!

So you say you will stay.
I have already left.
Don’t tell me again of
The only game in town.
I have seen it before,
Felt the cold hand of grief,
That wither of disdain,
Sunken dreams in defeat,
Bold ideas trashed away.
We are left socialists,
They do not like us,
They do not want us,
They don’t respect us,
They won’t work with us,
They can’t abide us,
They don’t deserve us.
So stay if you want to,
Bow to new leader cult,
I cannot stomach this,
Beneath mass union jacks,
To garner red wall votes
That don’t really exist,
Spad statements from London,
Ersatz in the extreme,
That shout out Britain first
Will fool nobody now.
Is this what Jo died for?
I shan’t come back again,
One has to draw the line,
And this is the somewhere.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow room, 25th September 2020.

CHUFFIN PUFFINS

Come sailing with me
In the Irish Sea
Sail out to Skomer
Where chuffin Puffins
Fly beside your boat
Where seals and dolphins
Duck, and dive and sing.
Anchor outside Dale
On red sunset sea,
Neath starry bright sky,
Real ale and good kif,
Ramble through late night,
Then sail off at dawn,
Cut through the rollers,
At ease in the breeze,
Back to the haven,
The perfect weekend,
Away from chaos.
Some time soon I hope.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, September 23rd 2020.

ZUGZWANG BANG

Zugzwang is a zeitgeist word
Situation now absurd,
There is nowhere left to turn,
Every option crash and burn.
Capitalists in the shit,
Can we make the most of it?
Dodgy academia,
Propping up the media,
One more televised fraudcast,
Engineer a new fly past
Trouble in the tea room soon
Calls to ditch the blonde buffoon.
He says the troops can backfill
Shortcomings of the Old Bill
His warning stands, don’t break rules,
Exponential growth you fools.
Spread the fear, around, around,
Never ending new lockdown.
Stuck upon this roundabout
Feels there’s no easy way out.
We’re stuck inside a Zugzwang,
Heading for one great big bang.

Harry Rogers in the yellow room, September 23rd 2020.

Zugzwang (Noun) Being forced by circumstances to do something which you do not wish to do. Where whatever move you make it ends up bad.

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)

Recorded in Harriboy’s Hut

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.

Continue reading

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.





 Continue reading			

SHALL WE GO SHOPPING?

Recorded in Harriboy’s Hut.

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

SHITTY LINGO

Afflicted with addiction to power
Vote with nasty right in new concensus
Such news disconcerts me by the hour
Perhaps Blairites are non compos mentis
Whoever can reason for such madness?
Strange bedfellows, bold enough to say
Keep asylum seekers filled with sadness,
Pander to the basest racist today
Clap now for points based immigrant carers
Phase out free movement, enlist unemployed,
Conscript the workshy, we hear the bearers
Of Brexit promise to the overjoyed.
My radio sails through open window
Enough of shitty BBC lingo.

Harry Rogers In the Yellow Room, Aberbanc 19th May 2020.

SUSPENDED ALIENATION

SUSPENDED ALIENATION

Capitalism hangs by a thin thread

Sways above piles of Covid nineteen dead

Desperation fills petty bourgeois eyes

New liberals fall on sharp pointed lies

Westminster idlers caught with trousers down

Call clarity not claret for blond clown.

Watch wartime ghosts conga along your street

But grandchildren you’re not allowed to meet

Spirit of the blitz stirred into your spritz

Union Jack clad Brits get on fucking tits

Try to be normal is as normal does

Listen intently to bumble bees buzz

Think back to good times, so simply smashing

Close off your mind, economy’s crashing.

Harry Rogers, Pencnwau Aberbanc, 12th May 2020.

GASLIGHT GOING ON…..

Pangolin scales fall away from our eyes

Wuhan bat blood? More spewed out alibis

Spread wide by buffoons to fill us with fear

Man made or not, too late it’s fucking here.

Warmonger language, heroes and fighters,

Troops on the front line, phony gaslighters,

Furlough is shrinking, as crops fill with mould,

Promised land army locked down on the dole.

Old habits long gone will never come back

Crumbling pubs boarded up, painted black,

New York dispossessed ride subway all night,

On empty beaches? No one there to fight.

Crass false flags flutter from ten Downing Street,

Left forces gather in multi ZOOM meets.

Harry Rogers, Pencnwcau, Aberbanc, 7th May 2020.

PAST THE PEAK?

Teifi, afternoon, flash of bankside blue
Kingfisher searches elver wriggles new
Beneath Henllan bridge otter, trout in paws,
Crunches his lunch whilst Senedd makes bad laws
Guided by science there will be no tests
Crashed trees block the falls, robins fill their nests
Nurses in London block Westminster bridge
Vulnerable kids stare at empty fridge
Birds sing louder, the skies are bluest blues
I burst into tears at the newest news
Tenants evicted as they lose their work
MPs and the spads won’t give up their perks
Sun sets brighter now, we are past the peak
So Boris tells us, when he deigns to speak.

Harry Rogers, Mayday in the red bedroom, 2020.

Oh The Things That We Do

Go down to Creek Road, get drunk on free beer,
Walk through Greenwich Park, shoot a fucking deer
Venison’s better than cheap minced beef pies
Share surplus with neighbours, what a surprise

Oh the things that we do when we are poor

Take rod to river, hook stale bread on,
Cast into slipstream, then pull out a swan
Play bird as it flys up high in the sky
Then kill it and pluck it, try not to cry,
To roast in oven cut swan into four
One more of the things we do, when we’re poor.

Go down Tesco’s fill up trolley and pay
Go out to friends car, stack shopping away
Go round aisles again load exactly the same,
Plus one pack of brillo, forgotten, you claim
With first bill in hand you’ve already paid
Thus shopping’s half price, good game that, well played.

In desperate days we ignore the law,
Oh the things that are done when we are poor.

Harry Rogers, In the Yellow Room, 23rd April, 2020.

DREAM DIARY

Looking out through lockdown windows
The world in view is too sombre
My mind wanders to pastures new
To party times with good old friends
To singing in the Poppit dunes,
Picking those lost forgotten tunes.
Of how we’ll change the world to come
A glass half full for everyone
The gig economy we’ll shun,
Eugenicists? We’ll make them run.
Hold hands together down The Strand,
Spill wine to our favourite band,
We’ll dance together after dark
Like lovers smooching in the park
All this for future enquiry
Written now in my dream diary.

Harry Rogers, a la Chambre rouge, 2nd April 2022.

Spud Headed Spad

SPUD HEADED SPAD


A gaunt gangly spectre haunts Downing Street
This spud headed spad who speeds out the door
A Monty Python type praying mantis
Giant rucksack strapped to it’s skinny back


He runs in a John Cleese funny walk style
Away from plague infested number ten
To it’s nihilist lair to self isolate
Whilst it forces the rest to self hibernate.


The new default set to procrastinate
Journalists learn new ways to masticate
Fake four five leaches from across the pond
Key workers die in the back of beyond


The servers creak and wheeze with new data
We watch irrelevant adverts, later.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, Pencnwcau, Aberbanc, March 30th 2020.

ICE RINK

Ice rink in Madrid turned into a morgue

Dublin old bill point guns and send you home

Football stadium dormitories

Spring up all around Paris, London, Rome.

Whilst Macron freaks out his Euro neighbours,

Four five locks New York into Quarantine.

Brexiteers dreaming daily of the Blitz,

Wonder when buffoons will wheel out the Queen.

Cumberland to Devon, Cornwall to Kent,

We’re told to look out for one another.

Fuck the hoarders and all those selfish gits

Who gave Covid nineteen to my brother.

Downing Street did not practice what they preach,

I’ll not watch one more propaganda speech.

Harry Rogers In the yellow room, Pencnwau, 28th March 2020.

MILLIONS OF BRAZILIANS

Millions of Brazilians
Have witnessed all these scenes before
Paliamentary pantomime
Has locked down everybody’s doors
The army ringed now around London
Stock markets fall down through the floor
There’s no knowing where this leads us
The MPs bluster on, so sure
Their nationalistic reactions
Echoed loudly on radio four
Butterfly show goes on and on
No dreamliners fly anymore
We are told it’s for our own good
For the aged, for the poor
Evoke the spirit of the blitz
Best wishes from second world war
Spout about spiritual health
Whilst televising martial law
Soon round up any dissidents
Is that what this is really for?

Harri Rogers, in the red bedroom, Pencnwau, 19th March 2020

C O V I D 19

Recorded in Harriboy’s Hut.

C O V I D 19
1 – Cover old values in dirt
2 – Career over, virtuous institutional doings
3 – Complicated oversold vast international developments
4 – Corrupt outsized voluminous imperial druglords
5 – Callous orange voterigging incorrect dirtbag
6 – Consciously order vilification intending death
7 – Call on visionary inspirational dominoes
8 – Correctly overturn Victorian inept dukedoms
9 – Constitute octagonal video introductory deals
10 – Consult outmoded vehicular inbound data
11 – Crave oxygen vial infused datura
12 – Consider overeating vegan imported Dhansak
13 – Collect Obama virtual introduction ditties
14 – Cynically obtain villain’s imperative doldrums
15 – Climb outside votive iron dormitory
16 – Crash our vituperative invisible dogsbodies
17 – Congregate onboard Venusian interstellar dreamliners
18 – Coronaviral overkill visualizes instantaneous deprivation
19 – Collapse onto virus infected deathbed

Harri Rogers, Pencnwcau, in the Yellow Room, March 11th 2020

Now See The Vengeance

Now, see the vengeance
Reaked on the many.
Gimcrack politics,
Shone up for one day,
Like fake silver plate
Polished away, through.
Truth? Justice? Honour?
These tattered flags fly
Blown on the rubbish
Tips alongside rolled up
Banknote snorting tubes
Discarded by spads
Infected deeply
With Randian lies.
Whilst they “Get IT done”
We drown on sun drenched
Flood plains developed
By slick racketeers
Who sail sunseekers
All over the globe.
Pangolin virus,
Classless, ironic,
Infects me and you
As well as the few,
Who will more likely
Stand within six feet
Of a carrier
In an airport queue,
The automatic
Democracy of
Nature in action.
Too late, all fall down,
Red in tooth and claw,
Hail natural law.

Harri Rogers
In the red bedroom
Pencnwcau, Aberbanc
28th February 2020.

Spice, The Variety Of Life.

Huddled beneath rainbow hoodie,
Head bowed, feet bare, he begs, silent.
I see him in shiver alley.
On the way to buy food for birds
I felt such a goodie goodie.
Finches, sparrows, tits and robins,
All friends in my kitchen garden.
The epiphany strikes full force.
Here on cardboard square sits a man,
A young man with no belongings.
I would easy spend thirty pounds
On fat balls, nuts and mixed seed.
He has neither home, nor garden.
Open my wallet, take tenner,
Hand him the brown note, he looks up.
“That’s far too much man, far too much.”
Shocked at how well spoken he is,
The words tumble quick from my mouth,
” Do you have a bed for tonight?”
” I don’t, my girlfriend is away.
She is coming back with money,
We will rent a room very soon.”
“Come to my house, I have spare space.”
“I can’t do that, not right now man.”
Scribble down name and phone number,
Thrust paper into blackened hand,
Hurry to garden bird seed land.
Laden down with avian feast
I pass him by on way back home,
“Did you mean it? About the bed?”
Awkwardly I blurt out “Of course.”
See the tears tumble down his face.
“Thanks, I might call you, some time soon.”
He moved in fourteen days ago.
His room is already unkempt,
Empty spice bags litter the floor.
When straight he is quite diffident,
We talk all night when he’s lucid.
Never knew someone with so much strife,
The police woman very kind,
Told me he never saw the car,
That killed him on the roundabout,
He stumbled from the kerb she said,
The Jaguar killed him stone dead,
Not yet thirty, a crying shame,
I don’t know where to lay the blame.
Spice, the variety of life.

Thanks to Angie for this narrative.

Harry Rogers, Pencnwcau, 23-04-2018

LILITH LIES DEAD

 

Lilith Lies Dead

They shot Lilith today,
Because she ran away,
They ended her short taste of freedom.

With her beauty so proud,
We should all cry out loud.
Tourist zoos? Do we really need them?

All those fat bureaucrats
In their murderers hats,
Should we continue to feed them?

There was no need to kill,
A ground up sleeping pill,
Would save her from permanent sleepdom

Now Lilith lies dead
With blood on her head,
Our tears are all shed,
Whilst we lie abed
I am seeing red,
They shot Lilith dead.

Harri Rogers, In bed at Pencnwcau, 11th November 2017

PEACEMAKER

Seeing Red LogoPeacemaker

Cowboy movies in the fifties
Showed us Colt forty five power,
Flickering up on silver screen,
Long barrelled pistols every hour.
The lawmen and the cavalry,
In the street and behind the rocks,
Killing bad guys and Indians,
Using spitfire substitute cocks.

They called it
Peacemaker,
The Frontier
Peacemaker,
Model P
Peacemaker.

Went to the toy shop with my mum,
At Christmas nineteen fifty five,
To choose my holster and my gun,
I was the Cimarron Kid live.
The outlaws used peacemakers too,
The anti hero movie stars,
With their chiselled looks and cars,
Showed us all how to kill a man,
Upfront guns, hole and corner plan.

I chose it
Peacemaker,
My silver
Peacemaker,
My cowboy
Peacemaker
Gun.

A toy to you but real to me
This is what movies did you see,
Identified an enemy,
Shot them in Technicolor dreams,
False heroes on cinema screens,
Killing while Geronimo screams,
Long before truth showed wounded knee,
Those lies behind land of the free.

They called it
Peacemaker,
The Frontier
Peacemaker,
Model P
Peacemaker,
Life taker
Peacemaker,
Colt four five
Peacemaker,
Las Vegas
Peacemaker?

Harri Rogers, In the hut, Aberbanc, 3/10/2017.

Poem – Centre Ground

Centre Ground

The wild buddleia and the straggly old man’s beard,
Running rampant on the waste ground by the railway.
Can this be the place that they call the centre ground?
Where democracy and truth die between the weeds?
Where the bindweed strangles freedom in the sunshine?
Where the brambles riot as nettles choke the land?
Honest folk are liars made by giant hogweed,
Sown by fake news vendors that have no hearts to bleed.
Surely now we understand, this thing centre ground,
Where nothing good or wholesome ever shall be found.

On the train to Reading 11th August 2017.

From California to Cardiff via Gaza and Missouri

From California to Cardiff via Gaza and Missouri

From California to Cardiff via Gaza and Missouri
Drone manufacturers rub their hands with glee
Their pals the police chiefs and all the military
Wait with bated breath for each new insurgency

There at the lectern next to some flowering plant
Politicians stand and lie just like Charley’s Aunt
All those perfect promises move from shall to shan’t
Funny how Yes We Can turned into No You Can’t!

Harry Rogers, Aberbanc, 20th August 2014

MY GLASS IS STILL HALF FULL – A lyric for Bob and Tony

MY GLASS IS STILL HALF FULL

ALL THE GOOD HEROES ARE DYING
ALL OF THEIR COMRADES CRYING
RANDIAN JOURNOS PROCLAIMING
THE END OF AN ERA OF FAILING

I DON’T SEE IT THAT WAY
JUST BECAUSE THEIR BODY HAS GONE
EVERYTHING THEY HAD TO SAY
ALL THEIR DREAMS AND IDEAS LIVE ON

MY GLASS IS STILL HALF FULL
I AIN’T GOING AWAY
MY GLASS IS STILL HALF FULL
I’M ACTIVE EVERY DAY

OUR STANDARDS ARE STILL FLYING
OUR TEARS ARE SLOWLY DRYING
WE’RE OUT THERE ON THE STREETS
WE LEARN FROM OLD DEFEATS

WE ALL WANT SOMETHING NEW
IT’S COMING IF WE ALL STAND TOGETHER
WE ALL KNOW WHAT TO DO
IT’S REALLY OURS WHEN WE STAND TOGETHER

MY GLASS IS STILL HALF FULL
I AIN’T GOING AWAY
MY GLASS IS STILL HALF FULL
I’M ACTIVE EVERY DAY
MY GLASS IS STILL HALF FULL
AIN’T GONNA GO AWAY
MY GLASS IS STILL HALF FULL
I FIGHT ON EVERY DAY
FIGHT ON EVERY DAY

Harry Rogers
24/03/2014
Aberbanc

STARFISHING

STARFISHING

IN THE PEARLY EVENING

WHEN THE SUN IS GOING DOWN

GET INTO A DINGHY

SCULLING RIGHT OUT OF YOUR TOWN

TO THAT ORANGE MARKER

FLOATING UP ABOVE YOUR POTS

HOPING FOR A LOBSTER

ONE OR TWO OR MAYBE LOTS

.

HAULING ON THE ROPE

FROM TEN METRES DOWN

PULL THE BASKET IN

GANNETS FLY AROUND

LOBSTERS THERE ARE NONE

NEITHER ARE THERE CRABS

AMONGST THE STARFISH

ONE OR TWO SMALL DABS

.

STARFISHING UNDER RED SKIES

STARFISHING AGAIN

STARFISHING UNDER RED SKIES

STARFISHING AGAIN

.

IT’S HARD

.

STARFISHING UNDER RED SKIES

STARFISHING AGAIN

STARFISHING UNDER RED SKIES

STARFISHING AGAIN

STARFISHING AGAIN

STARFISHING AGAIN

Aberbanc 30-01-2014
Scene Red - Starfishing album cover

Girls With Redeye

Girls With Redeye

In the crystalline glow of the cocktail bar
Three young women huddling behind
Triangular rainbow filled glasses
Sporting impaled exotic fruits
Smile that Facebook friendly smile
Whilst the barman takes their picture
The light is distorted in such a way
That all three of them get redeye
They don’t care too much
They post it anyway
We all click like and move on
To the next digital moment
And so goes our modern life

Aberbanc 15/12/2013

EVERY DRONE THAT FLIES

EVERY DRONE THAT FLIES

For each and every drone that flies

Somewhere somebody’s child dies

Yet still we fail to realise

That Barry’s hawks won’t compromise

Their zeal shines on in lying eyes

The media feed false alibis

For each and every drone that flies

 

Every drone that flies

Someone mostly dies

Every drone that flies

Someone mostly dies

 

For each and every drone that flies

Screaming though peaceful sunlit skies

Flown by burnt out former spies

Who’ve lost the will to empathise

Know only how to synchronise

Their gamers skills through bloodshot eyes

For each and every drone that flies

 

Every drone that flies

Someone mostly dies

Every drone that flies

Someone mostly dies

 

Harry Rogers, Aberbanc 5th November 2013