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.

RANDIAN KLEPTOFAILURE

The special relationship between kleptocratic assassins who cannot see beyond the maintenance of the corner that the ultra wealthy have painted themselves into, has created the condition of misery for millions. The turn of the millennium policies that wholeheartedly embraced globalisation jointly espoused by neo liberal politicians has dragged us into the maelstrom of rapid decline in manufacturing, public service provision, infrastructural repair, and the welfare of social structures. This is not some fictional ramble along a bramble choked coastal path that we can easily turn back from and go back home to the comfort of tea and cucumber sandwiches enjoyed in the rose tinted past we are encouraged to think we relished in the make believe idyll of the post second world war years. This is a full throttle roar along a Randian dragstrip, paved with the failure of individualism, exposed as a dystopian nightmare by the paucity of intellect, and will, now so clearly revealed by the effects of the Covid-19 pandemic.
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment when the major capitalist economies transmogrified from being democracies into kleptocracies, perhaps behind the scenes there has always been a certain amount of brown paper envelopes filled with public cash being transferred into the bank accounts of senior politicians and their families and friends but surely never has it been quite so blatantly obvious. The handing over of more than a hundred million pounds for the supply of faulty facemasks to a company with no previous experience in PPE is treated as a mild mistake by the media. Had this been a Labour administration the right wing monolith that passes for a free press in this country would have been howling from the rooftops. As it is parliament is in recess, the new normal is in full swing, confusion rules, panicked residents in coastal and rural areas are fearful of the much trumpeted second wave as people flood in for good old fashioned staycations. Denial by groups of anti vaxers who terrorise shop workers as they try to do their best to implement ever changing rules and guidelines demonstrates clearly that the New Normal is a place where the wafer thin veneer of civilisation has given way to barbarism overseen by leaders who wallow in decadence. Winter is coming and the kleptocracy shows no sign of slowing down, I try not to dream of a no deal Brexit. Unfortunately there is no where to run to. In these circumstances lock down is the only haven of safety.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 13th August 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