A Trio of Bitter Old Poems

Vengeance At Last

In the time of reckoning, the traitors and the killers

Will have to pay the price. Those who survive

Will have to bring the villains to account,

All of them, the ones who sign the cheques, the spoilers

Of innocent souls, the ditherers, the dunces, the five

And twenty billionaires in their greed, and those who mount

The pile of corpses in their vile stupidity.

There will come a day when all the foolish followers

Of egotistical maniacs will have to clean the morgues

With their own tongues: they cannot babble their insanity

To the courts of natural justice; and all those wallowers

In self-pitying complaints about their losses in the biz and orgs

They used to own and from which they drained the blood

And spirit of the poor, the frail and the helpless good.

Without Time or Pity

Now is not the time for pity or forgiveness, for

Sentimental tears and platitudes;

Forget the Hallmark melodies of pure

And languid love for them to multitudes

Of putrefying corpses in ice palaces,

In muddy ditches or in paupers’ graves.

We cannot run after rabbits of time like Alices

Or ballet our sorrows like Goody Twoshoes who raves

About the charity tossed to her by yellow-haired phalluses

In oval offices, or ovaries of traitoresses

Whose ignorance is myriad in the palaces

Built on skeletons of slaves, and the one who blesses

You for sending your last bit-coin in return for masses

Sung by isolated idiots bolted in darknesses

Of their own devising, the very bots who save

Their honour and their admiration for their bosses,

Who look on them as expendable lumps and drosses.

Porous Scriptures

All our bitterness turns to rage, all our fears collapse

Into the moment we have never known before, the time

When meaning cannot be measured, caught in the apse

Of old conventions and the emptiness of rhyme,

Like autumn leaves, dry as tearless eyes.

We watch the crowds fill up the streets and hide

From reality, and argue over numbers, size

And volume, idiots whose empty pride

Drains away sense and reason. What wonders lapse

Into the void! What miracles are thin as slime

Over porous scriptures—like phoney noisome aps:

And greasy electronic poles we cannot climb!

The ignorant metallic humming of a hoax,

Breathing a syntactactless signal-circle of smokes.