Untitled as yet...

I saw children burying a dove in the sand
when the alarms sounded.
There was an air of nervousness
before the stampede started.
We were swept through streets on the tide
until we found ourselves inside;
between four walls of concrete.
It was a reflex retreat.

The safety of this fortress
has seldom been tested.
They say the key to staying sane’s
to always stay well rested.
So down here people sleep and sleep
and I get tired counting these sheep.
The tremors keep me awake
and musing on our mistakes.

I wish they’d rock me senseless
‘til there’s no call for distress,
so we could sleep like lions together
and we’d certain never worry
about the fears we left behind.

We were told to kneel and to pray
for all our famous fighters;
promised there’ll soon be a day
when we need not fear terrors.
And we would emerge to find the sun
no longer shone on everyone,
but kept its gift of vigour
for us in every hour.

But now those who were informed -
they don’t seem so sure.
They’ve realised that there’s no way
they will spend their next big pay cheque
in the world they left behind.

The clock up on the wall
has paused at five to midnight.
Nobody answers our slight calls
and our eyes don’t shine so bright.
While fists pound upon the doors -
some hollow pleas, to be ignored -
we’ll dream of grass under our feet
but recall only concrete.

The Great Wall of England.

So this is where they hide,
truly dead before they’re old,
on each side of the divide.

Spending green on gold.
Seven plagues upon us all -
truly dead before they’re old.

The other side of the wall
Someone’s scrawled ‘fuck u’ in paint.
Another plague upon us all.

They file an official complaint:
blame it on the wretched youth,
‘cause someone’s scrawled ‘fuck u’ in paint;

say, “I don’t mean to sound aloof
but this country’s gone down hill.
I blame it on the wretched youth.”

It’s ‘cause of synthetic ideals
and Thatcher’s common brand
that this country’s gone down hill.

The terracotta tanned,
and Thatcher’s own brand.
So this is where they hide -
on each side of the divide.

Sonnet : Color Cleansing.

A tsunami killed some niggers today
in some country I ain’t heard of before,
so I’ll do my bit – tonight I’ll pray
that no real disaster assails our shores.

It would be horrific to see
innocent people suffering,
but I’m sure the Lord will hear my plea
and spare me, my God-loving kin

and our beautiful righteous homeland.
Way I see it those niggers must have
done something wrong to cause Him to respond,
and drown them all with an incredible wave.

I hear the death toll’s still quite small;
I think my God should probably drown them all.

The Parade Through Abu Sifa.

The muffled chorus
of a village at war –
rapid drums beating
to a wailing choir.
This threnody lasting
with the passing of hours.

The refrain approaches
like a funeral dirge.
Papa squeezes us tight.
The door begins to lurch
and collapses,
and into our home they surge.

The trigger depresses.
One two three.
The roaring of a tyrant;
the sound of misery.
Papa turns into a rag doll
and his gaze falls on me.

Four five six –
his stare digresses
and his last sight is
mother sprawling as her dress
is torn apart by bullets.
My younger sister rests

cradled in my arms.
My eyes are squeezed shut.
Seven eight nine.
Three rumbling shots
break my mortal shield
and burrow into my gut.