Shakespeherian rag #2

Shall I compare you with a classic line?
Or does modernity demand something
A little more risqué? The countless times
I’ve chewed the fat of words intent to sing
Your praise only to choke on artifice,
Parading myself tarted in dead bards’
Clothes, the stench of overwear like stale piss
Invades the highways of language towards
You my lover, and everything that’s under
The sun can’t just be cut to fit your being
Nor shaped to show you off a flawless wonder
Drifting feyly through some ersatz scene.
My words are ashes scattered in the sea,
The truth of us is tragicomedy.

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Siberian Wind: A Swiftian Satire (written on February 15th 2015)

The late debate on Question Time
Had grown to be quite asinine.
David Cameron sat looking flummoxed
As Nigel Farage warmed his buttocks
Over a hot pipe. Milliband
Looked shrunken in his brother’s hand-
Me-downs – his PR team was nervous.
‘An English wind for English workers’
Said Farage as he squat above
The pipe. ‘The public’s had enough,
I’ll send this wind back to Siberia
And cap the rain clouds from Nigeria.’
His words were met with approbation
From sundry pockets of the nation.
The studio audience’s clapping
Drowned out the blizzard’s bitter rapping.
A small avuncular young man
From the Green Party raised his hand
And said: ‘But Russian winds have spun
Our mills, helping us produce tonnes of-’
-Just then Farage let out a fart
And Ed and Dave began to laugh.

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Bodies

The strangest scaffold clings to me
Of bones and arteries.
Awkward and imprecise, it counts
My life in little beats.

I wouldn’t cling to its frayed piping
To ruin over time.
False trust in it has sent the priest
Beyond the line of sight.

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