BURNT FEATHERS

A sonnet from home.

BURNT FEATHERS

I smell burnt feathers adrift on the air,
Mingled with sharp seasoned, iron blood everywhere.
Fires roar round L.A. , deluge tears across town,
Sidney burns,almost, Fukushima frowns.

Acrid taste endures, pain insane, rain blame.
Not my fault, or yours, Johnson mops, plays game!
Inhale burger weed flavour on street breeze,
Weekender – London, beggars on their knees.

Miserable band cuts straight through to me,
Lone trumpet soaring over red blue screen.
Anyone would think, with stench all around,
We might waken up, find some common ground.

But no, drink warm gin, ginger lemonade,
World goes up in smoke, burnt feathers pervade.

Harri Rogers
In the hut
11/11/2019

Tippy Toe To The Boogie – episode one Superman’s Belt Buckle

I published my new episode Superman’s Belt Buckle Mar 26, 2019 17:18, please check it out
https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-ge8nz-ac0b55

https://www.podbean.com/media/player/multi?playlist=http%3A%2F%2Fplaylist.podbean.com%2F4568366%2Fplaylist_multi.xml&vjs=1&kdsowie31j4k1jlf913=367408e87db25b468adfde17a5a48d3dc6d57ccb&size=240&skin=7&auto=0&download=1&pbad=1

The Aberbanc Argus 11/11/2018.

Armistice Day 2018, the centenary of the end of WW1. What a strange day. The usual dirge like tones on the BBC Radio Four coverage of the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month as the wreaths were laid at the cenotaph. Not long afterwards the MSM swung into action and launched the inevitable attack on Jeremy Corbyn for wearing the wrong kind of coat and too small a poppy. Surely everyone now sees this kind of tabloid attack for what it is, cheap, shoddy and laughable. As he stood, surrounded by a bevvy of haute coutured war mongering murderers responsible for untold numbers of atrocities, as a man who has spent his whole life supporting peace campaigns he must have revelled in the irony. Of course the size of ones poppy is far more important than sanctioning millions of deaths in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya. Also, having ones rain hood out is a much bigger insult to the dead than those politicians who continue to broker massive arms contracts whenever and wherever they can across the globe. Such hypocrisy is startling but this is after all a symptom of the fear felt by the establishment of a Jeremy Corbyn led government. Meanwhile in Paris French leader Macron publicly slaps Trump in the face by lecturing on the difference between nationalism and patriotism whilst in Warsaw a massive demonstration orchestrated by Nazis is attended by the head of state and other government politicians. All this whilst I sit constipated and convalescing from a hernia operation last Tuesday that is ameliorated by codeine and paracetamol. I read in The Sunday Remainer (The Observer) that the MOD are now developing drones that can take autonomous decisions on whether to kill or not, something I have been writing about for the last thirteen years, ironic on the centenary of the end of the war to end all wars that new fangled killing machines are being developed for the very self same politicians who wear the larger poppies, believe in nuclear weapons as deterrence, and are draped in tailored mourning clothes. After a plate of frozen berries ( defrosted), muesli and plain yoghurt at lunchtime I finally have a shit after six days of discomfort, but I still feel sickened by the historical stench of wars past mixed with the fear that something awful is brewing in the very near future. All this and Charlton Athletic scored away from home in the FA Cup first round at Mansfield Town thus earning a draw and a place in the second round draw. See, I told you it was a strange day. Sleep well comrades, whilst you can.

Nowhere To Go Go

Caught short in Tokyo?
No problem a go go.
Public loos never shut,
Designer works of art,
Not like that Nissan hut,
Pugged away, kept in dark.
Most in convenience
Drab, ugly, plain and stark,
Squalid where we spend pence.
Unlike the Japanese
Who all luxuriate
With fancy poos and pees,
Their toilets truly great,
Aesthetic and pleasing
Built like finest palace,
For farting and easing,
Not a poisoned chalice
Like those cold windy sheds
Built of tin and concrete,
Crass stainless steel piss heads,
No more found on high street.
Suppose we’ll carry pos
When all the loos are gone.
Where cherry blossom grows
Lavatories live on!

Harri Rogers, Pencnwcau, 1st June 2018.