The tarnishing of our jewel-in-space

I recently heard the phrase 'blue shit' meaning the foul activity of the Tories. Here I explore what 'blue' should be and what they have done to it.

Blue Shit

Blue should be the colour of clear skies,
of water-scattered light,
but you pollute it,
plunder and abuse it,
floating factories stripping the seas
of life, dirtying the aquamarine
with greed and the last gasps
of those tossed aside,
world overboard,
ignore the cries,
focus on your dividend size.

Blue should be the colour
of a tropical lagoon,
a pure mountain tarn,
or ancient ice,
but you put a price on it,
asset-strip-mine it
for a fragment of hedge-fund,
an extra week of winter sun,
or to treat your aspirations
to a reupholstered urban-tractor 4X4
where you primly sit when you drive off
to get your arsehole bleached,
singing "me-me-me"
from your perfect peach.

Blue should be the colour of depth,
profundity and wonder,
but your arbeit macht frei,
consume-or-die
vision of the world
pulls it under, turns everything into
plastic landfill's methane hiss
and the fake nappy-ad piss
drunk en masse
by WKD lads' shagging-shirt hordes,
tears condensing on the chilled steel
of empty wards
where the poor ones kneel,
no hope, so beg for the rope,
for you refuse to feel
the ripped-away smiles
and cold dead lips
of your ideology's vampire kiss.

Of feathers beneath the moon

When I'm not a poet, I'm an ecologist, and can be found surveying and/or writing about wildlife - usually insects, but sometimes larger creatures. This poem is about working on the Arne Penninsula in Dorset.

Mapping nightjars

Daytime apes
out of time and place,
we walk the dark heather
beyond terse ‘No public access’ signs
on every gate and fifty feet of fence,
skirting regimented blocks of pines,
shuffling through sand and lichen
to listen for the chirr of males,
triangulating with ears and eyes and GPS.
Between calls, we pencil
rough boundaries by torchlight,
scrambling colonialists
interpreting territorial extent
from snapshots and soundbites
of reproductive intent.
A few make flapping silhouettes
against the last glimmer
or perch to survey us in turn
while silent females drop to the ground,
invisible, rising strident when we pass
too near a hidden nest,
wing-flashes circling low overhead
drawing us away from precious eggs.
Our allocated square kilometre complete,
we depart and night reclaims the space.

Post Black Friday feelings

When the sad sight of people fighting over cheap TVs brings on thoughts of shallow incompleteness...


The half-people

They hang dead-still,
split along their length
like pickled sheep and sharks,
each a Jekyll and Formaldehyde character
baring its innermost parts
for a sip of elixir,
a secret draught,
only half have hearts.

Noir four

Following on from here, the fourth (final?) part of this noir story-in-verse, each from a different participant's perspective...

Colour me Noir IV: The Suitcase

The click of my catch
is the revolver’s hammer,
thumb-cocked to snuff some poor dope.

The thud as I’m dropped
is the blackjack’s kiss on a sap’s skull –
hug that sidewalk, John Doe.

The first line of light
as my lid opens is the crack
of a KO’d boxer’s swollen eye.

Whoever I see,
witness, killer or corpse,
they’re all my victims in the end –
I am a mirror not of glass.

More noir

It's been a while since part 2, but now the story continues...

Colour Me Noir III: The Victim

The case weighs heavy in my hand,
Contents whisper
Greedy little suggestions,
It feels unwholesome –
Like this dank-walled back-alley,
All damp and mouldered cardboard boxes,
And discarded news-sheets,
Dead-beat inked,
But I gotta wait –

It’s late, he’s later,
Then the tell-tale click
Of slightly limping feet,
In spat-clad patent seg-heeled shoes
On night-wet sidewalk –

He approaches,
Slyly not-quite-smiling
(No doubt those are unsmiling eyes),
Coat long-sweeping, hat broad-brimmed
And shadowing,
Both dark grey like this city’s air;
He beckons, powder-twitch snappy,
‘Give it ‘ere’ –
‘Make with the dough’, he’s told –

We argue but I know
This hell don’t wanna pay his way;
He’s Red-hand Jack’s man OK –
I turn to leave,
He grabs, greasy-palmed,
A shrug – his hand slips from my gaberdine,
Now a push, a shove,
Fingers slip beneath the coat –
Not for the missing roll o’ bills
But a cheap and tarnished gun,
The old revolver fires,
Slug-smoke curls,
Gutted,
I fall blood-hazed – the case pulls free;
Vision dimming, still I see
A woman stop, jaw-dropped –
Who is she?

My story may be done,
But hers not so – not yet – she runs.

Well, it is Halloween

Things that are 'meant' to be scary aren't...

Unexpected creeps

Not fox-screams,
horror films,
graveyards or fog,
not even when accompanied by theremins,

but:

lime-tree branches stridulate
against bus-shelter perspex,
pigeons echo-howl through chimney cowls,
taxi brakes cry out in the night,
anguished X-Factor faces captured as stills,
Atlas of Parasitology,
CGI babies-in-adverts gyrate,
landlady half hidden by an architrave,
light-bulb reflection (bathroom mirror),
space behind,
next door’s stone garden menagerie –
they stare so benignly,
some fish at certain angles
(Lovecraft knew about angles),
collections of old dolls
tiny porcelain teeth,
pretty much all dolls,
including Resusci Anne;
empty corridors,
abandoned doors,
trash-to-treasure TV presenters,
hydrangea petals so like peeled skin,
monochrome wind-sway of tall grasses,
dark cumulus in summer –
press ‘pause’ to shudder.

If we treated humans like we treat animals

Soylent Red

Merchant Ivory poachers
shoot Emma Thompson on set,
hunt down
Helena Bonham-Carter,
even sweet Winslet
for their perfect teeth,
roots ripped out for ornament,
(Austen adaptations are depopulated overnight)
cut off sex-symbols’ horns,
grind them down
into Shanghai aphrodisiacs,
while in Chelsea,
prize yummy-mummies
are plugged into
serried ranks of udder suction-cups –
never mind the pus,
just pump up the antibiotics,
stalls more cramped than
Wimbledon strawberry queues
or Fat Duck reservation lists.

Down side-streets,
the obese who cannot flee
are caught
and shackled for unanaesthetised liposuction –
oils and fatty acids,
heads vacuumed for human spermaceti,
vomited ambergris,
all essential ingredients
in soap, candles,
microwave meals –
any of low quality
or over-quota
are left to die
in the gutter
with the guts.

Post-war,
those deemed cowards, different or dissenting
are tasered,
hung upside-down
to writhe, groans ignored
as the throat-cutter comes –
contents drain into troughs.
Next door,
embryos
(wanted or unwanted, no-one asks)
are sorted by size,
stamped and dated,
boxed in 6s, 12s, even 24s
as spare baby boys
are minced en masse for happy meals,
just like the Somme
or Stalingrad.

The fur-farm
would give even
Josef Mengele nightmares.