AYE-AYE!!

 

Death Hipsters

They tell you they were grieving long before

it was cool. They tell you their grief is more

valid than your grief. They say that they

know how to grieve properly, and you don’t.

They reckon some deaths are more worthy

of grief than others, and that if you grieve the

right people, you are thereby a better person.

If you grieve the wrong people then you are basic,

you are a sheeple, you are fake. They like to

draw your attention to little known deaths that

nobody has heard of, dusting off their memories

like old vinyl in a record shop. Those deaths,

they say, are more deserving of attention than

your deaths. They want you to be sad, but only

in ways they approve of. If you are sad in a

different way then better to be happy instead.

They refuse to go along with the crowd – if

others are crying they will go out of their way

to parade their joy. If others are joyful, they will

point wihering fingers. Pain comes in hierarchies,

they say. Death Hipsters. Each tear carries a value,

each life a worth. And they know how to calculate

it properly, and you don’t. Remember that.

And in your pain, remember that you are wrong.

Joshua Seigal

THE GREAT BRITISH QUEUE

We’re famous for buses,

The Beatles and pubs;

For Shakespeare’s plays

And the best football clubs;

We bake a mean crumpet,

We make a good brew,

But the one thing we’re best at –

We know how to queue!

We queue for the toilet

We queue for the shops

We queue up in restaurants

The queue never stops 

We queue in the sunshine

We queue in the rain 

We queue and we queue

And we never complain. 

We’re decent at cricket

And rugby and castles;

We’ve got Royal Mail

Delivering parcels;

We love fish and chips 

And the chimes of Big Ben,

But for waiting in line

We get ten out of ten!

We queue at the market

We queue in the street

Through darkness and light

And through storms and through sleet

We queue in the queue

And, with stip upper lip, 

“A jolly fine queue”

You just might hear us quip. 

We’re Cockneys and Scousers

And Geordies and Toffs;

We linger in columns

And nobody scoffs;

And if you’re in doubt

About what you should do,

Just come on and join in

The Great British Queue!

Anti-Monarchy arrests - an abercedarian poem

POLICE LOG BOOK

After Edward Gorey

A is for Angus, who held up a sign 

B is for Bella, who won’t fall in line  

C is for Colin, who shouted out loud

D is for Donna, apart from the crowd

E is for Edward, who won’t genuflect

F is for Francis, whose words weren’t correct 

G is for Gary, who said ‘Not My King’

H is for Hugo, The Queen’s not his thing 

I is for Imran, who heckled a Prince

J is for Johnny, who’s not been seen since 

K is for Krystal, who didn’t love Lizzy

L is for Liam, who kept the cops busy 

M is for Mary, destroying the mood

N is for Nigel, his placard too crude 

O is for Ollie, who tweeted a joke

P is for Polly, for being too woke  

Q is for Quentin’s republican views

R is for Ronnie, who won’t shine his shoes

S is for Sharon, who won’t wave a flag

T is for Tommy, who hummed Billy Bragg

U is for Umar, whose tie wasn’t straight

V is for Victor, who said ‘abdicate!’ 

W’s Willie, his posture not right

X is for Xena, who’s not seen the light 

Y is for Yakub, the ‘peace’ he did ‘breach’

Z is for Zara, who wanted ‘free speech’.

Everyone Laughed

at the poem on the internet, and it made us

feel good. For one thing, we were all in it

together, a community of chuckles

and mutual disbelief – how could a poem so bad

have been published? What kind of asshat

would write a poem like that? But also,

we were secretly pleased that we weren’t

the ones being ripped apart. We were grateful

that, even though it may be the case

that not many people read our work,

at least we weren’t being pilloried online.

I remember being at school, never bullied

but often ignored. I hung on the edges of circles,

grateful that the kid being taunted wasn’t me.

I enjoyed it. No one was looking my way – 

I was safe. I was safe, and everyone laughed.

THINGS YOU MIGHT FIND AT THE PORK MARKET

Pigs that oink. Pigs that bleat. 

Pigs that lie. Pigs that cheat. 

Pigs with snouts in the trough.

Pigs with assets to sell off. 

Pigs that snaffle. Pigs that pander. 

Pigs that swindle and philander. 

Pigs dishonest. Pigs oblivious,

Pigs corrupt and ignominious.

Pigs that drool. Pigs that wallow. 

Pigs that lead. Pigs that follow.

Pigs that quaff. Pigs that snort. 

Pigs who should be sat in court.

Pigs intent to save their bacon. 

Pigs immoral, godforsaken. 

Pigs in mansions, not in sties.

Pigs in suits. Pigs in ties. 

Pigs with blonde, dishevilled wigs…

Basically, it's full of pigs.

\

(new Prime Minister Liz Truss is notorious for her love of pork markets.)

In Our Playground

there was a tree stump

with a seat carved into it. 

We used to pretend

it was a spaceship.

At break and lunch

we’d fly to faraway planets,

shooting lasers from the sticks

that we gripped in our hands. 

We’d argue over who

was the Captain,

who was the Navigator,

and we’d all cram in tight together

on that stump. 

A regular crew we were

back then. Now I sit

alone at the office, papers

piled up in front of me,

and I try to convince myself

that my chair is a pram.

And it’s quite fun, I guess.

But it’s not the same.