Long stories cut short

Peeping over the red head's shoulder;
man was nagged for thirty years.
Clerical assistant looks much older,
but eager to read about his peers.

Doctor doctor, I've an awful boyfriend
just doesn't want to make love to me.
Can you help me? I live in Southend,
This and other irrelevancies.

Long stories cut short are what you read
in the Daily Mirror, Star and the Sun.
Is it propaganda? Or petty slander?
I guess you can't please everyone.

If you don't mind, it doesn't matter,
you can always buy the Daily Express.
Can eleven pence a day be the price of freedom?
It is according to the British press.



Capability Red       aprox  1978

Oh to be a Policeman

Note: 

Originally I was going to post this poem a couple of months ago. Tragically, at that time, two young female police officers were murdered in Greater Manchester. I therefore delayed posting until now  as I do not wish for any of my poetry to be perceived as attacking ordinary working people doing their jobs.

Oh to be a Policeman was written in1984 during the miners strike, when I personally experienced how the police were being used to perpetrate class warfare.

 Has anything changed since then? Hardly: Consider how the South Yorkshire police force covered up evidence from the Hillsborough tragedy, Remember how  the Metropolitan police were complicit in the recent phone tapping scandal. Routinely, innocent demonstrators are attacked and beaten up by police officers.  Disgracefully; armed police continue to shoot unarmed civilians on the streets of this country.

So, read the poem, but don't enjoy it!

I didn't enjoy writting it. In 1984 I was bloody angry!:

Oh to be a Policeman

Oh to be a Policeman

under the Thatcher regime,

swinging a solid truncheon

ignoring pickets scream,

confronting all those 'nig nogs'

smiling as you do,

whispering under your breath;

" I'll get you".

Oh to be a Policeman

in 1984,

the community face of fascism

in the British civil war.

Stormtroopers in the SPG,

gestapo at the station,

blitzkreig on the picket line,

then comes the interrogation:

"political beliefs?"

" at elections, how do you vote?"

a tape playing under the desk

 and a sergeant taking notes.

Oh to be a Policeman

whilst children disappear,

maniacs get away with murder

and women live in fear.

Those stoic faceless fiends

known as the boys in blue,

no time to catch criminals.

They're too busy watching you.

Oh to be a Policeman

in a hovering eye in the sky

a data bank in Hendon,

the end of freedom is nigh.

Oh to be a Policeman

with the working class as bait,

caught hook line and sinker

by the poachers of the state.

Capability Red        1984

 

Britain 1984 (Two Nations)

Trains roll into London Bridge,
Britain goes to work.
Commuters with their Daily Mail
and no sense of guilt.
Oxford Street is bustling,
school children are on holiday,
squandering their parents' savings.
But the pits stand idle.
The newcomer at the office
said he saw it on ITV.
Violence on the picket line
"they want bloody shooting".
And he's doing plenty of overtime,
to help pay the mortgage
and buy the kids a computer.
Whilst the pits stand idle.
The wine bar is overflowing.
It's lunchtime in the City
affluence is in abundance.
The telephonist books her holiday,
she's heading for the Algarve,
"simply everyone goes to Spain".
She did. Last year!
Still the pits stand idle.
The weatherman said "rain clouds"
across Scotland and Northern Ireland,
in the north; mainly cloudy.
But the south should enjoy some sun.
And another health centre opens,
spa, jaccuzi, sun beds,
for anyone who can afford it.
Whilst the pits remain idle.
Meanwhile in the colliery town
youngsters are baffled,
their pet rabbit escaped.
And tonight it's 'chicken' for dinner.
Mum bites her bottom lip,
or, is it her stiff British upper lip,
Dad's away picketing.
And the pits stand idle.


Capability Red         1984

1981 Proud Nation ?

Confident smiles that we could never raise,
hear the snarling of the Minotaur somewhere in the maze.
George Ward you were smart, you acted so splendid,
penned down in your own half how well you defended.
All we wanted was a union to which we could belong,
even in Strasbourg they said you were wrong.
You had the careful backing of the Freedom Association,
upholding traditions of a proud nation.
Proud nation?

Look out for the sniper at the gates of prosperity,
and the sign saying 'beware; rich man's territory'.
Little sister gets involved in the oldest profession,
Father devours her ice cold confession.
Is the palace aware of this retrograde movement?
perhaps a public show would make an improvement.
Yes, announce a wedding to incite some celebrations,
remind them they belong to a proud nation.
Proud nation?

Apprehensive ears greet saloon bar laughter,
but will they raise a smile the morning after?
when collapsing clouds unveil a sober sun
will they crick their necks to the loaded gun?
There's no shame in admitting you made a mistake,
so admit it now before it's too late.
whilst there's still time and you've got an occupation.
 Ask yourself; how was this ever a proud nation.
Proud nation?

Like an ode of platitude that the proles just ignore,
it's destined to failure because they've heard it all before.
In the guise of a lecture, a vow or a pledge,
like a suicide stalker perched high on a ledge.
In a trance we go forth on a Monday morning,
dodging the volley of abuse like a personal warning.
Retiring into our shells like some cryptic crustacean,
was this really once a proud nation.
Proud nation?


Capability Red       1981

Priory Road

It's a scorching close season afternoon, Sunday in July,
shells of dead flying ants abound, hot enough to fry.
The stench of yesterday's fast food rises in the summer smog.
Pounding boom from an upstairs room is drowned by a barking dog.
There's no wind to blow the fish'n chip paper trapped against the wall,
feral pigeons scatter, then swoop, intent on devouring all.
Hoodweasels tail a community cop, they're relentlessly trying to goad.
Curtains are drawn in a tower block window to shut out Priory Road.

A Mother struggles with a pushchair, confessing on a mobile phone.
Her pit bull strains against his chain, trying to sniff a bone.
Settling dust gathers on the rust of a rotting turnstile gate,
tribal graffiti on the chicken run warns a legacy of hate.
Does anyone know it's Sunday? Does anyone even care?
As diesel exhaust is spewed like bile into the chocking urban air,
by a Not-In-Service London bus, with tyres hot enough to explode.
Chundering towards the depot at the bottom of Priory Road.

You never see a familiar face, or a face you recognise,
as you're passed by a shadow in a grim black veil with calculating eyes.
Alongside needles in the gutter, flies feast on a stiffening rat,
who overindulged on warfarin in the dustbin of a ground floor flat.
Cola on an overturned wheelie bin dried in the searing heat,
Starlings peck at a half eaten pie for a proper Sunday treat.
The E6 gang have tagged the place, they communicate in code.
Innitspeak is overheard rushing out of Priory Road.


Capability Red        2012

Outside Charring Cross Station

The mist is clearing and the sun is appearing
roll up, roll up, oh! the state that we're in.
Raincoat Sally, look she hops on a six
a Maltese waiter's gonna get her a fix,
rush hour people mmm? they look so exciting.
There's something about them, their lives are so frightening.
Oh, and I'm just writing again from observation.
Sitting on a bench outside Charring Cross Station.

You know? If I was an artist, I'd paint a scene
there'd be little children dropping flowers into a stream.
Grown up and playing the game by the rules,
I hear there's a plague of human beings. Tell me, who are the fools?
And I'm just rambling on outside Charring Cross Station,
not altogether certain of my destination.

I feel inspired to think up some derisory term.
Dedicate it to the Holy men and the people that will never learn.
Hey! I notice a young girl is reading Our Mutual Friend,
let's hope she understands the message at the end.
Oh, some folk say I should get a regular occupation,
but I'm happy sitting here outside Charring Cross Station.


Capability Red        1980

So ?

So sad the faithful mongrel
searching as he is led,
knowing someone is missing,
the old man is dead.

So still the cemetery
on a misty November morn,
silent the sky,
grey clouds hang forlorn.

So gullible the flock
herded by the bell,
do they really believe
in heaven? or hell?

So what the prayer
that echoed so cold,
reverberating fear
for those in the fold.

So peculiar this existence,
that passes as life,
condolences offered;
" now he's with his wife".

So hopelessly understated,
so little do we know,
the distant fleeting dream
that is never quite so.


Capability Red          2012