A war on terror, extended into eternity
Quantitative easing employed, to generate more money
Someone has to pay for all those bombs and fighter jets
Diplomats dispatched, salesmen selling American rockets
US ambassadors grovel when visiting Saudi
The usual hearty howdy replaced by a greeting more Sunni
Obama continues US expansion worldwide
Bombs explode, arabs expire, democracy built on homicide
Local bards DIY Poets present the latest in their quarterly nights of spoken word and music at the Maze.
At this particular gig, I’m listed to be the featured poet so I guess I’d better turn up . . .
These gigs are always good entertainment, thought provoking and inspiring, and the great thing about the collective is the inclusive nature of it. If anyone wishes to get involved then they are welcomed, and encouraged to perform if they choose to, although it’s not an open mic event – the performances are planned in advance at the monthly meetings
Acoustic music will be provided by the wonderful Ital Pip. £3 entry. A bargain as always! 
So many options spring to mind when casting Putin
Years ago, in his younger days, it could have been Phil Collins
Jack Nicholson’s acting is probably a bit too showy
Putin himself would likely prefer the talents of David Bowie
His chameleon like qualities echo those of Vladimir
Breaking boundaries in a glittering stellar career
The Man Who Sold the World, so uncannily prophetic
There seems to be a connection, somehow cosmic
Bowie could write the soundtrack, a Soviet style ditty
Probably a sneaky rehash of an old hit, maybe Space Oddity
Reinvent himself as a space age propaganda master
Saving the world from a neoliberal zombie disaster
Bowie might decide to method act, annexe Hollywood
Construct gas pipelines underneath the neighbourhood
Dirty energy will finally arrive in Tinsel Town
Pumping waste into the sea water, turning it brown
Bowie, stripped to the waist, wrestles like an animal
Models a Pentagon from sand, bombs it with a beach ball
His Winnebago contains wall to wall dancing cossacks
Makes deals with his co-stars, then, cruelly, gives them the axe
Strangely silent
Usually violent
Unusually keen
Not to be seen
Space invader
Dark crusader
Bitter black
Cuts no slack
I died of embarrassment
Couldn’t stop coughing in the cinema
Tears poured out of my eyes
They should’ve been, but weren’t, tears of laughter
One day, I walked into a small Polish grocery store
To get a carton of semi-skimmed and a loaf of bread
My mobile rang, it was an old friend, from years before
Straight away, it was like the old days, we really reconnected
I wandered out of the door, to hear his communique
Harry sounded fine, and said he was doing really well
Suddenly, behind me, from the shop, a voiced barked, ‘HEY!’
‘You won’t get Polish sourdough bread in a Police cell!’
I muttered feebly, stuttering my utmost apologies
And shepherded my sorry skin back to the counter
Still hugging the loaf and semi-skimmed like babies
I paid up in full, said ‘Thank you’ to the shopkeeper
Not for the groceries but for controlling his hysteria
If I accessorise, I never choose handcuffs
But when collared by the law, fashion isn’t in the criteria
The fuzz can take a hard line on everyday forgetfulness
‘We’re all students in the University of Life’, the poet muses
But too much thinking gives him psychological bruises
A man begins to wonder why his life is as it is
His revelations pour into a cup of literary genesis
I died of embarrassment
Forgot to check an email for typos
Accidental errors are a terrible thing
When discussing the delights of fructose
I died of embarrassment
Lost a fortune at the casino
In the space of five minutes
Then got thrown out of the disco
Hanging on a meat hook
Expertly carved with a sharp knife
A carcass slaughtered, slowly cooked
Flesh falls off the bone, easy to slice
Packed into skins, prepared with spice
Lined up lengths of cold smoked salami
Populations pay the porkiest price
The meat market vendor smells victory
Every slice disguises a meaty concession
Bargains are rarely quite what they seem
Chewed up, ultimately headed for oblivion
Portions are served, a slaughterer’s bloody dream
