I was born in 1947
A full two years after second world war
Ended in victory against Nazis.
For every year of my long long life
There’s been war waged somewhere on this planet,
Families destroyed, houses blown to bits,
But what lies behind this ongoing shite?
Why do politicians from every
“Free democracy” rock up at arms fairs?
Dead keen to enable Arms companies
To maximise sales of deadly weapons?
It’s because war is very lucrative,
The sheer volume of taxpayers money
Directly transferred into shareholders
Bank accounts annually is mind-blowing.
This legal money laundering machine
Maintains a murderous global elite,
Who thrive on misery, death, destruction,
Sickness, paranoia, fear and power.
Nothing more or less than a mafia
Sustained by democratic illusion.
Factories employ millions in the
Production of mass destruction weapons
On every continent across the world.
This sociopathic scam masquerades
As necessary to keep us secure.
In reality it’s gangsterism
And we are being robbed of better lives.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom April 1st 2022.

It looks like a bye bye by-election
Where Boris Johnson cooked his golden goose,
Now he has to learn to feel rejection,
It’s what you get when you play fast and loose.
A pizza, some coke, wine laced up with rum,
Folks hate “do what I say, not what I do”
One can’t break your own rules, run wild, have fun,
North Shropshire has spoke, it’s Boris, fuck you.
He was their hero, he got Brexit done,
But that’s not enough to stay number one,
Owen Patterson besmirched the true blue,
As leader spaffed on, knew not what to do.
How long will he stay? We all wait to see,
As soon as he’s gone the drinks are on me!

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 17th December 2021.

Spread thickly across slices of burnt toast
This over bitter oleaginous
Sticky mess now engulfs our whole nation.
A recipe written in double meaning
Sugared beyond sweetness to be force fed
Into expectant Brexiteer gullets.
Britain, a giant foie gras factory,
Produces paté by the lorry load
For overweight ex public school breakfasts.
Language, choice tool for engendering fear,
Mangled by catastrophic abusage,
Turns gibbering fascists into heros
And journalism to propaganda.
George set his book forty years too early.

Harry Rogers In the Red Bedroom, 14th December 2021

Pssst, wanna buy a service,
It’s all up for grabs today,
Don’t even have to tender,
We’re giving it all away.
Everything is on the list,
Meet us in committee room,
Or down the boozer, capiche?
Can’t make it? See you on Zoom.
Knock down prices, going cheap,
Now’s the time to flog it off,
Whilst it’s reeling on the rocks,
As it deals with virus cough.
Nobody will protest it,
Pass new laws to mask the stink,
Even let you keep the name,
National Health Service Inc.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 12th April 2021

Like lichen rampant on prunus hedges,
Union flags flutter from public poles.
Relentless theft of enemies clothing,
Plus non stop foment of fear and loathing,
Stream of consciousness policies spew forth,
Articulated from our leader’s cuff,
Bright blue passports for pints in British pubs,
Refugees stockaded in dank wormwood,
Children with prospects? Who the fuck are they?
Surely we should treat all kids just the same?
September, seemingly, so far away,
Pregnant with austere fiscal promises,
As next budget pushes non block chainers,
Over post furlough unfungible cliffs,
We’ll revel in long covid new normal,
Jabbed full of fake algorithmic dream memes.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 25th March 2021.

Dial down the democracy dimmer switch,
Strange conundrum as the light fades away,
In the darkness clarity increases,
Horses, dogs, armour clad riot police,
Brought sharply into crystal clear focus,
Batons weilded against young activists,
Young non violent direct activists,
Clubbed as they sat, serried, outside cop shop,
Provoked beyond anger to protection,
Erupts into the mayhem of riot,
Such smooth precision duly delivered,
Gift wrapped to home secretary’s doorstep,
For her rehearsed despatch box diatribe,
Power of darkness now simply blinding.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 23rd March 2021

Trumpite cannon fodder lost to reason,
Geed up by this joker without lipstick,
Await their fate in the criminal courts.
Dark full length crombie, tiny leather gloves,
Clenched in wild mid air gesticulations,
Urgently preaches his dark denouement.
Suitably wound up his rabble march off,
On Capitol Hill they do his bidding.
The Don watches Fox from the dark, white, house
As he polishes favourite driver,
He sees the futile maul come to a halt,
Where they soil the nest of democracy,
Before they return to their hotel lairs
Boldly exultant even as coup fails.
Who knows if this is the start, or the end?
At Mar-a-Lago Don”s golf cart awaits,
He waddles obscene from fairway to green,
He blames his poor chip shot on his caddy,
Seventy four million folk believe
That this orange pultroon is their daddy.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 13th February 2021

Scream as those bent politicians
Run everything into the ground.
Education reduced to CV ticks,
Wishly think of what we would change,
But it is not what we would do,
It’s more like, how can we do it?
Truth, hard to tell in these strange days,
Untruth, the enemy of truth,
Finds easy traction every where.
Plutocrat vampires suck life blood
From us whenever possible,
Deeply infect society
With overt acquisitiveness,
Before they cash in, whilst crashing
All long term hope, for short term gain.
The what, the where, the when, the why,
Important things to consider,
Above all this though comes the how,
It’s time for us to organise.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 12th February 2021.

Tell me what happened to the world we knew.
We partied hard in nineteen ninety nine.
We thought the future would be better new,
That everything was gonna work out fine.

The man sold us rhetoric filled with hope,
We really thought a change was gonna come,
We sucked it in like it was real good dope,
Rose colouring the third millennium.

Lift those tinted glasses,
See the new world for real,
Three drones flew every hour.
Signed sealed and delivered,
DARPA kept on growing.
Man child Trump don’t change things.
Put America first?
He only made things worse.

As the tweet laden crisis sharpened up,
Propaganda mongers spouted their lies,
Worldwide politicians supped the same cup,
Whilst peddling their shared bent alibis.

So far don’t like the third millennium,
Can’t stand hand wringing armchair narcissists,
Nor the paranoid neo Nazi scum.
Who’ll help us all if nobody resists?

Hold on, what’s this we see?
Amongst the advertising,
Out on the streets a sea,
In flowering uprising,
Brave people, young and old
They march together, strong,
Their story will be told,
Peace, justice, love, belong.

Harri Rogers, Aberbanc, 23rd January, 2017 Revised 28th January 2021.

Walk by the Isis,
On warm summer day,
Down to swimming hole,
Swing out on the rope,
Drop into the pool,
Nineteen eighty four,
Know that I’ll never,
Forget this moment,
Water grips so cool,
Exhilaration,
Swim upstream aways
Pull new goggles on,
Watch Perch fins flutter,
They hang suspended,
In exposed tree roots,
Beneath cut away,
River bank channels,
Where they wait for prey.
Friends frolic in pool,
Perch watch on, unmoved,
Meanwhile, in Orgreave,
BBC News team
Shoot famous footage,
Which they called battle,
After fake edits,
Where state violence,
Still waits for justice.
I remain mindful
Of events that day,
Seems sometimes these things,
Just don’t fade away.
D’you know what I mean?

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, 24th January 2021.

Two million dollars, it all goes away,
Crimes, misdemeanours, so long as you pay.
A message to Rudy, just give him a shout,
One of his goons can help you sort it out,
Rampant corruption, it is so obscene,
Give four five money, he’ll wipe your slate clean.
Like Nixon he’s gone, he had to conform,
Says he will be back, in some shape or form.
Proud boys and boogaloos strut on the street,
They threaten still in the teeth of defeat,
Yesterday Joe put hope above their hate,
Decency rises, it’s almost too late.
Starlings murmurate above confusion,
Have all the fakes gone? Was it illusion?

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 21st January 2021.

Minnows keep dying, swallowed up by pike
Who believe freedom means do what you like.
Rivers are swollen with pike on the feed,
Predators strip hope from people in need.
Sickness is rampant, leeches feed off it,
Out of death rattles they make a profit.
From test, track and trace that does not exist,
To anti vaxxers who peddle scotch mist,
Lynch mob storm troopers on Capitol Hill,
Those venal racists, whose flags make us ill.
Twitler is happy now his days are done,
This monster pike will still shout out he won,
His rag bag army, the Trump lunatics,
Believe it’s seventeen seventy six.
As Joe sweeps by in his new armoured car,
Some say that this is a re- run Weimar.
Let’s hope it ain’t and sanity returns,
Don’t make us watch as America burns.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 18th January 2021

Reality is hard to see,
So difficult to comprehend,
Every truth is blotted out
By solar energy beating
A cosmic swathe through retinal
Pathways, that obscure ability
To focus sharply on reason.
Brilliant scintillas block off
Actual dark, dreadful, pictures
Of the world seen by aliens.
A nightmare, hidden by the sun,
Glimpsed darkly, once in a blue moon,
During total solar eclipse.
Doesn’t last, lying sun soon shines.

Pencnwcau, 9th April 2018.

Remember how last Easter
Ministers dilly dallied.
On yachts in Estapona,
Ghouls plotted up giant scams,
They haggled over lease terms,
Stock markets dipped, then rallied,
Adopted fake personas,
Rules changed by spad epigrams,
Dodgy test track trace geezers
Ripped off, then cashed and carried,
As the ghosts of corona
Haunted through videograms.
Yet still it is not over,
No-one dances in clover,
Vaccines stream in from Dover,
Too late to curb corona,
Many ghosts of corona,
Mourn the ghosts of corona,
Brand new ghosts of corona,
Cry for ghosts of corona.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 2nd January 2021.

Goodbye cruel year, I’m glad you’ve gone away.
Out of my bedroom I watch as sparrows,
And blue tits, hop about in top branches
Of the red berried cotoneaster.
They queue in turn for the nut dispenser.
Sometimes they wait whilst two fat woodpeckers
Eat their fill in a highfalutin way,
As if the birdnuts are their property,
Strong arming smaller birds out the picture.
It’s not cold enough for the birds to eat
Any cotoneaster berries yet,
Perhaps in mid January they will.
Meanwhile hundreds of people die each day,
We’ll all be vaccinated come Easter,
So news editors blare in their headlines.
By then we might bury forty thousand
More coronavirus nineteen victims.
The madness of twenty twenty goes on.
Meanwhile a nuthatch arrives, pluckily
Shoulders greedy woodpecker to one side.
If we could emulate nuthatches,
And shove bent politicians to one side
Perhaps new normal might just be better.
Robin Redbreast watches and sings alone,
Spring ain’t far off, he doesn’t like bird nuts.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, December 31st 2020.

Dance along edge of disaster
In hobnail boots whilst stupified
On heady fumes of Brexit deal.
People seriously question
Parliament’s ability
To make a correct decision
About health and safety issues.
Tens of thousands dead so far,
Spreaders are rife across the board,
Schools, full to brim, collapse each day,
Staff and pupils self isolate,
Again and again and again,
Hospitals pushed to the limit,
Rules that change on weekly basis,
Track and trace that will never work.
False hopes are raised about vaccines,
Cabinet goons claim victory
Against covid before it’s won.
The whole charade was bound to fail,
From herd immunity madness,
All the way through on off lockdowns.
This is no disaster movie,
Families are losing loved ones,
Each bad move Tory shit mistake
Echoed by Starmer, fucking fake!
Pandemic news gets worse by hour,
All this shit to regain power.
Mutation infects really fast,
The race is lost, the future’s past.
Still at least we ain’t got no-deal,
The hero’s done it, so unreal,
Pupils will train to test themselves,
The troops stand by to webinar,
The time to save so many lives,
Came and went in the blink of eyes.
Health experts cry catastrophe,
Still we are nowhere near the peak.
One year on and nothing can work,
Except for a total shutdown
Of public, private, everything.
No more deaths, zero tolerance,
The only way we can survive.
Some say fears are paranoia,
Maybe Boris needs a lawyer.
I wrote of pandemonium,
Nine months ago, right near the start,
Now army stands in every city,
If I’m not wrong, there won’t be pity.

Harry Rogers In the Yellow room, 30th December 2020

All those long lost, still, warm, thick summer days,
When butterflies struggle to flap their wings,
Ants retreat down into cool deep dug nests,
Birds shelter beneath leafy canopies.
When the air is as an old overcoat,
Engulfs your body, and fills up your lungs.
When thin clouds form above valleys below,
Imperceptible wisps and swirls at first,
Pressure rise and heat pulls moisture from earth.
As billowed white pillows turn darkest grey,
That thick earthy smell of rain on the wind,
Before the storm at the close of the day.
This is how it feels at this point in time.
Climate change, and economic failure
Joined in an obscene troilist tango
By a souped up, mutating, pandemic,
Are on a crash course to global meltdown.
This, the collapse of capitalism,
Was never forecast to happen this way,
Never in one almighty, chaotic,
Cataclysm of human stupidness.
Who can comprehend the sheer negligence
Of elitist global politicians.
The fucked anarchic internet structure,
Infects people’s minds with software somas,
Leaving them in thrall to techno wizards,
And their addictive artificial worlds.
Such atomisation negates action,
At the very moment when mass revolt
Is needed far more than ever before,
People are enslaved to online servers.
In the real world thin veneers peel away,
Destitute nouveau jobless, brought low by
Furlough, lockdowns, floods, fake news, false prophets,
Bamboozled by naked complexity,
Cannot survive without charged up smartphones.
When we should all be coming together,
Millions of thumb twiddlers clutch consoles.
Whilst public services vanish into
Private thiefdoms that suck our coffers dry,
Gamer junkies wind up almost insane,
Burnt out by adrenaline addiction.
Meanwhile, all around, the latest version
Of the new world order is fucked this time.
MSM looks like a Matrix remake,
All frontline services stretched to limit,
Yet, despite all of this, how we long for,
Stormclouds to break,rain and hail to cease,
That line of red tinged gold to appear on,
Horizon, and slowly explode into
Giant sunset where roses tinge with gold.
To attain this we need revolution.
Xanadu has to be more attractive,
Than Fortnight, Fifa, Scrabble or TikTok.
If we cannot tear these people away,
Sunsets and gold roses? Not anymore.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room 25th December 2020.

Cold blows cancerous wind from evil den,
These are not lions, neither are they men.
Thugs besmirch our game whilst they boo the knee,
One more sick day in F Troop history.
Such cretinous shits, with borrowed salutes,
Who only act in packs, with blood on their boots,
Are vile, stupid, nazis through and through,
Coarse fronts, but we are many, they are few,
Fake football fans think they rule through fear,
With twisted logic, their pathetic cheer,
So last millennium, such stupid boys,
With clapped out chants and fat, farty faced noise,
Those swastika tattoos, that razored hair,
We never liked them, though they don’t, WE CARE.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 6th December 2020.

Sing out the good news, by this time next year
This could be over, we’ll live without fear,
It’s sad that many died along the way,
But we ordered vaccines, now you must pay.
All our Tory friends have done rather well,
Selling fake systems that took us to hell.
We’re halfway through what looks like a mad plan,
To turn UK into Afghanistan.
Convince the people its all their own fault,
Then turn on each other and pay them nought.
Across the pond it’s exactly the same,
Bent politicians high on the blame game.
No one can leave so don’t call a cab,
I Roll up my sleeve, prepare for the jab.

Harry Rogers In the Yellow Room, 5th December 2020

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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 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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.