Two Faced

The man with two faces Has many options Laughing while he robs you blind Smiling for the flashing bulbs Kissing babies, giving hugs Sympathetic shrugs With one hand in your pocket He pats your back Cuts your tack Leaves you living homeless

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CRY

Cry, the world says fuck off, I don’t want  to know about you, Cry, wait a minute,  I’m crying about you, Cry? give me a minute I’m done about you There’s no measure between you or me you’re an arsehole the depth of the grand canyon you’re an idiot the width of a diaphanous can…Read more CRY

No Flake Now

This spell will eventually break, he said, clicking his heels and waiting. Nothing. It sure is a long way to Kansas and you’re no Dorothy, Senator Flake. And what a name? No misnomer, wear it with pride, It bears now the stamp of those words of enduring values that last for as long as men…Read more No Flake Now

The Airport Bomber From Last Week You Never Heard About

It’s strange how some things really catch on and go viral and others don’t. These days, nothing quite makes a story blow up — no pun intended — like the president’s fixation with it. That’s why it’s so peculiar that what sure looks like an attempted terrorist attack was narrowly thwarted at an American airport…Read more The Airport Bomber From Last Week You Never Heard About

Tosca’s Tale

As true and relevant today (maybe more)

https://youtu.be/V_pg-DKBeZ0

Postcard from a Pigeon

Seventy years since the survivors’ of Auschwitz were liberated, I was watching a tv documentary where six of them recounted their stories of survival and the terrible aftermath they’ve endured, of nightmares and tragedies. One Polish man, Dr Tadeusz Smreczynski, who became a doctor and practiced general medicine within ten minutes of the camp gates, has been forever haunted, not just by the memories but by his own physical proximity to the camps. One other thing that horrifies him, is an aria from Puccini’s opera, Tosca, itself a tale told against a backdrop of tyranny and oppression. He heard an inmate singing the aria. He said it was strange to hear such a thing in the surroundings of the camp. An S.S. guard heard it, too and ran to find its source. Our survivor asked someone, what happened? The singer was killed. His story moved me to write this poem.

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GRAINY

  Grainy? No, nebulous, neither,  not at a stretch, nothing even remotely textural. In fact, there was nothing even marginally equivocal about what happened in Charlottesville apart from the sitting US president's ambiguous interpretation. White supremacists, white nationalists, neo-Nazis and Ku Klux Klanners banded in protest and struck terror. Leader? Ha.