A couple of serious poems

14th July 1915.

Everything stinks.
The air looms
with bitter odours of blood
poison gas and pointlessness.
We forget
those tastes with rum, wet cigarettes,
and gunpowder perfume.

Minds and lives are lost.
Perforated by bullets
and screams. In the static roar
of endless carnage you can’t hear
your thoughts.

I don’t know why we’re here.
The Generals say it’s for England.

We joke.
You have to.
About how we’re all going home tomorrow.
About how we’re going to win.
About the Kaiser.
We all like the guy really.

My retrospect is 20/20.
But when I send bullets to the Germans,
they all miss.
I have no depth perception.

– Private Kevin Burke

Remotely controlled

Through one way, bulletproof glass,
With grinding regularity,

The Man tells us what to do.
Speakers squawk in every bedroom.

Global warming, Epidemic, War, Credit Crunch, Rape, Violence.
Cute Animal Story. Here’s Frank With The Weather.

Rain or sun, we’re all fucked anyway, Tom.
Back to you in the studio.

Dark ministers’ lies have sinister smiles,
Bathed in HD, the system hides.

Hopelessly we retreat back to the womb of covers
To where we have control. Our dreams. And the remote.

Flash does the hard work, so you don’t have to.