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The Thermobarbaric bomb
Sucks air from caves,
Collpases lungs,
Ruptures the liver and spleen,
Bursts eardrums.

The Thermobarbaric bomb
Is deployed with great glee
By the men of the West
From the land of the Free
In support of their
Great Democracy.

The Thermobarbaric bomb
Joins the Daisycutter
That destroys a small village
And it joins
Special forces firing into a compound
In a massacre they won’t allow Amnesty to check up on
And it joins
Rockets fired into dungeons
(After the burning oil)

In a great
Dehumanisation
That just doesn’t fit
With the warm, kindly and caring image
America
And Britain
Have of themselves.

The ThermoBARBARIC bomb, in fact,
Is a more accurate indication
Of our civilisation.

Dec. 20001

Now if the Russkies had ever used this bomb we’d have been outraged, wouldn’t we?

 

Also …

 

‘At 2:00 PM a mixed Special Ops team, formed with nine U.S. Special Forces and six British Special Boat Service operators, arrived and joined the Afghans firing at the prisoners from the northern part of the fort. By mid morning they were joined by US forces divided into three teams.

 

That night two AC-130 Spectre gunships circled over the fortress (callsigns GRIM 11 and GRIM 14), firing thousands of rounds at the uprising prisoners. In the attempts to finish the battle, Northern Alliance fighters shot rifles into, threw grenades into, and finally poured oil into the basement and lit it afire. This still failed to either kill all Taliban survivors or force them to surrender.

 

On the 28th General Dostum arrived on the scene of the battle, and tried to persuade the last prisoners still holding out in the basement to surrender. His entreaties had no effect. The basement was subsequently flooded with frigid irrigation water on November 29. The final Taliban fighters surrendered on 1 December.

 

Due to the high number of prisoner casualties, and the heavy weaponry used to subdue them, the Northern Alliance and the coalition were accused of breaking the Geneva Conventions, by using disproportionate means.[17]

 

One of the prisoners, Abdulaziz al-Oshan, later summarised the incident telling American authorities at Guantanamo Bay, “They called it an uprising and it’s not; it’s some kind of massacre”.[11] Amnesty International called for an independent inquiry,[18] but this was rejected by the U.S. and British governments, who argued that the fanatical resistance of the uprising fully justified the use of airpower and heavy weapons against them.’

A wild-winged poem burrowed into my brain,
Crashed and spun and tore through neurones,
Hooked into nerves,
Jiggled fingers,
Moved a pen,
Came out as words,

And the words FLEW!

They seeped along a street,
Through a car radio,
Blared into ears,
Made hands wave,
Lips smile,
Buildings shake,
Roads curve,
Clouds speed up,
The Earth spin,
The sun shine whiter –

Thoughts exploded in strange new ways,
Life became BRIGHTER!

So where does a poem come from? I don’t know, but I know a poem can make the world look different, if only for a few moments!

And so the season of sport is upon us:

Cricket, and the sound of willow hitting someone’s balls,
A bouncer to take off his head,
Arguments with the umpire resulting in knives drawn
And a riot in the beer-bellied crowd.

Tennis – the reigning champion is a nonentity,
Robot-trained and fed on a diet of numbers,
15-love, 30-love, 40-love, game!
With baseline serves fired from precision arms
And a slack-jawed face blanked by too many years of counting money,
Ah, the passion!
The crowd turns
To watch a sparrow landing,
Or a cloud spill some rain.

Golf: a behemoth strode the course,
But behemoths fall,
And, hypnotised by the telly, we have to watch the dragging bores
Claw their way round,
Only the brightness of their jerseys
Preventing us from dropping off the precipice of our excitement …

Football: the national game,
Ruled by turkeys, played by drones,
Watched by cardboard boxes –
Force-fed on money, its’ gut exploded,
Sex-starved shenanigans by the ruling elite
Fill empty pages
(Ah! But wait –
Women’s football shows flair and imagination,
Not yet ruled by the corrupt or watched by Tracy’s boyfriend,
It leaps off the screen
With a scream that yells, ‘You better bloody well watch me!’)

Rugby: the buggers run in the rain,
In Wigan,
In mud –
If you ask me it’s a bit of a dud.

Baseball: 3 a.m, the world asleep,
Commentators chew on names,
Inject excitement into fat men with fat bums,
Home runs,
Girlie Rounders,
No one seems to care that it’s DUMB.

Basketball: tall men, long arms,
Jumping high,
No charm.

Ice-hockey: frenetic pace,
Pucks hurtle invisibly round an icy arena,
Padded shoulders thump each other –
‘If only the sticks were guns!’ you can hear them think,
‘We could finish those losers off completely!’

Boxing: two shits you wouldn’t want to meet in a bar
Obey rules –
That’s the achievement.

American football: indistinguishable from their military tactics,
Philistines advance in massed ranks,
Brute force against brute force,
Size is everything –
It’s a battlefield out there,
But distant spectators just don’t care.

Wrestling: two Queens ham it up for the cameras,
Massaging each other’s shoulders afterwards.

Athletics: lean women who can’t menstruate
Jostle with sprinters in lycra-clad pornography
As high-jumpers whose legs finish a mile away
Crowd out rowers with blank, square-jawed faces,
Skiers who can’t forgive Eddie,
Swimmers with elongated bodies
And squat dwarves pumping weights.

It’s a melange of images,
Faintly disturbing –

I switch off the T.V.

Sports season, and everything else is sidelined off the telly. So let’s take the mickey out of sport …

Curled up like a child
Or a flower unborn,
Hair fanned out across a pillow rumpled and ruffled by your sleep,
The duvet swirls around your form
Like a nest around a bird or hamster,
Snuggling in to eat up what small warmth exists.

The heat of your body glows against my skin
As I slip in beside you.

Here there can be no gaudy misrepresentation,
Only your caress,
As we bask in the precious dawn hours
In semi-slumber.

23/5/1987

Dawn snooze with the girlfriend.

I met a little dog
On the bottom of my shoe –
Hello little doggy,
How do you do your do?

I’m sure you can explain
This colour by your diet:
But is it also on your tin
When your owner goes to buy it ?

Why are your turds so squishy
When I bring them home inside:
What is it in your dishy –
And was it well before it died ?

All these little calling cards,
Scattered on the ground –
Has no one ever told you
Not to leave them lying around ?

If only your poor owner
Had the brain power of a flea,
They wouldn’t leave these messes
Lying here for me.

I’m not too keen on stepping in dog do’s

The Smile was sinister,
Landed on a mountain and

Spread

(Like all sinister smiles do)

Across the fertile plains –

Corroded and corrupted the crops,
Poisoned the wells,
Ate the clouds,
Disappeared into the skirts of women
And the brains of men,

Etched ‘Fire’
On the walls of the houses,

‘Fear’
On the foreheads of the children,

‘Death’
On the flanks of the cattle,

– withered the flowers,
The bird-song,
Stank
The smell of the new mown hay,

The Smile
Dropped with the rain,
Blew down
Into the cracks between stones
Grew up with the roots of trees and into their sap,

Chlorophyll,
Branches,
Leaves,

Swept through the orchards and into the fruit,

Curdled the love between man and woman,

Deformed their children,

Cursed the sun and took its light,

Mirrored itself on

Despair,
Destruction,
Wrong-doing ,

Shut off God,

Instituted Babel:

The Smile was happy with its’ success,
Grinned sinisterly, like all good smiles do

And watched the world burn.

5/5/00

On a bed of foot-spittle
Glides through the night towards dreams of vegetation,
Will devour in one sitting
The hopes of gardeners,
Then hide with the dawn:
No wonder they chase it with forks and salt,
Brewed liquor and the stamped foot!

Eats its own body weight and more
Through the witching hours,
In mists and under a moon,
To leave the world clean –

So who can complain ?
Feeds hedgehogs, foxes, toads and birds,
Can stretch 11 times its own length,
Has 27,000 teeth,
Can crawl across the edge of a razor.

Only brute flesh,
But see the wonder !

The beauty and magic of the humblest of creatures

Oh, I’ve sulked,
Stridden away,
Hidden in that neck of the woods
At the bottom of my garden
Where mountains grow,
And trees breed strange fruit
For my dark pleasure –
I’ve travelled on rockets,
Seen the stars,
Kissed the soul of the moon
And wondered exactly what it is that worms feel.

See ?
I’ve been there,
Done things,
Cursed curses,
Kicked ass,
Fired guns
And blown up buildings.

When I sulk
I travel the world,
Shoot strangers,
Create mountains,
Fly to the sun,
Ride on planets,
Drift on the seas,
Wash the face of the moon.

When I sulk
I pick up loose women,
Drive fast cars,
Hurt cats,
Make Nobel discoveries,
And win prizes.

Yes – when I sulk
I really, REALLY sulk,
Sulk ’till all trace of my sulk have gone,
Sulk ’till the earth is filled deep with gloom
And trees wish they could all die,
Sulk in an all-out battle of will between all worlds!

Then, feeling better, I meander back in,
Casual-like,
Insouciant as if nothing’s happened,
(Or ever could),
Keeping all my dirty little secrets
In one small smile
I hide behind my face.

When I sulk, I really, really REALLY sulk.

Oct. 2001

 

A poem all about how brilliantly I sulk.

Poor young men.

Driven by sexual hunger they watch the girls in the streets,
Their clothes, the way they walk,
Imagine them undressed and lying beneath them,
See them – in their minds eyes – in the shower,
Naked and wet and slippery,
Covered in soap.

Poor young men.

Their culture says ‘NO!’
And the religion they half-believe in says ‘NO!’
And so they try – at first –
Seducing those women who belong outside their world,
Who they can later despise and call loose, immoral,
Treat as dirt,
Not tell their mothers about,
Pretend that nothing – really – ever happened.

Poor young men.

It doesn’t work.

And as they eye the women with hunger
Their hunger turns into a rage,
To furious, incandescent anger (well, it has to go somewhere)
And they begin to insult women in the streets –
‘Slags!’ they scream in their sexual frustration,
‘Whores!’ they shout out,
Furious at their unsatisfied desires,
‘Immoral!’ they scream whilst their loins burn,
‘Bitches!’

This isn’t really enough and so to get closer
And to show how much they hate women (loose women)
They join the religious police.

Poor young men.

Now they can stare and peer,
Insult
And maybe even swear in holy anger,
Now they can get up close and critical and intrusive,
Dirty talk, really, but legitimised,
And noone can question them.

Poor young men.

Some go in in for physical contact,
The slapping and tearing off of clothes in righteous rage,
And the most daring even insist on high-minded
Strip-searches.

Poor young men.

Poor. poor young men!

Young men in the religious police frisking young women. Nothing to do with sexual frustration at all. 🙂

Amazing how every country in the world has had it’s Empire.

There’s Egypt, of course,
And Rome,
Turkey,
Britain,
France,
Spain,
Those Viking types,
The Greeks (remember them ?)
The Aztecs and Mayans and Incas,
India,
Germany (had a go!),
And no doubt Africa has had its’ conquerors
(Mali, Ghana, Songhai ?),
Japan’s been there,
Persia (Iran),
Crete,
The Arabs
(Whose Islam brought Optics, Music, Medicine, Chemistry, Mathematics, Astronomy
And a civilisation more tolerant even then than Christianity),
China
Russia

And now we’re in Pax America –

So tell me, America, will YOU be leaving behind culture and wisdom,
Or will it be just a string of burnt-out McDonalds in a concrete desert,
A remembrance of arrogance, meddling and indifference
And a world struggling to recover from your foreign affairs ?

Because it’s somebody else’s turn now, Uncle Sam,
And if you’re ever going to do the right thing
(Looking after the world instead of trying to destroy it)
Then you’d better get off your backside and start doing it now.

Every nation has its empire, the equivalent of fifteen minutes of fame.

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