Land of the Free

In the land where nice guys finish last,

Soft feelings are not quite allowed;

It puzzles me upon what base

They stand so arrogant and proud,

Wrapped in a flag so new.

They come from all across the earth,

And swear allegiance to a place

Which treats all foreign folk as trash,

And themselves as a master race

Whose blood does not run true.

Never let a sucker have a break,

And there's one born every minute;

But who in their land of addled pate

Of TV dinner and heartache

Can think a thought that's straight.

Cant is the wellspring of their dreams,

Deceit and greed are what they know.

All men are created equal,

Except for slave and redskin,

Poor greaser or quiet gook.


This might have been called 'Pale-face speak with forked tongue'.

The USA has never been a place of freedom, it was always a land of banditry, tax-evasion and slavery. And above all else, hypocrisy. The people who wrote the US Constitution were slave owners who went on to deport the redskins West of the Missouri, even though the Supreme Court ruled it unconstitutional. The US ruling class has done many unspeakable things since then, in a similar vein. The US working class has never even had the right to live, never mind been granted freedom. They first responders to 9/11 have been treated as totally expendable, and so have the other clear-up workers who followed them, with enormous casualties from lung disease.
Why do people give it credence when they bang on about their silly Constitution and all the tosh that goes along with it? 'By their fruits ye shall know them'.

Smoking in the Rain

The smokers stand in pouring rain,

No cool act can disguise their pain.

What compensation can they gain

For cold, and passerby's disdain?

The water streams right down their face,

As they endure addict's disgrace.

Even on a wet dark night,

They stand their ground without a fight.

Driven out from the warmth and light

They rail at laws that don't seem right.

What a harsh grip this curse attains,

Upon its victims' craving brains.

It is based on seeing a colleague standing outside on a shockingly wet day as I arrived at work. I was unable to recognise him, he was so bedraggled.
'stand their ground without a fight' refers to their failure to fight the addiction, though they stand their ground tenaciously against the rain.

Reclaim Poetry

How did I get started on poetry? I went to something called a "story cafe" at Leicester Library, which was part of the "Everybody's Reading Festival". As it was convened by a poet, Jean Breeze, it attracted people given to poetry. So they poesied away, while I wrote prose. Gave me an inferiority complex. After a while, I thought "If they can do it, so can I". So I wrote a very angry poem, and showed it to a few friends. Easy-peasy. And that would have been that, except for some unlikely coincidences. One of my friends said he had been attending a "Social Inclusion Group" for depressed people, and they were writing poetry there. Their poems were all ferocious denunciations of Job Centre Plus. 'Great!' I thought. 'Poetry isn't completely useless after all.' Another friend asked me to accompany him to the Word! workshop. Word! is a local poetry society. I went along, and found myself writing more poetry, as previously blogged:
http://www.stephen-wylie.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/word-poetry-workshop.html

I had a bit of momentum after that, and carried on. Some other writers I knew started telling me off, saying poetry was uncool, they hated poets etc. Yet I found they'd written a few too, on the sly. Hmmm.
What's this all about then? Why has poetry got such a bad press, that it's become a kind of guilty secret?
I consulted my own prejudices against it, and found it was due to a distaste for intellectual snobs and pseuds, who have tried to make poetry their own. Yet at Social Inclusion, they are reclaiming poetry for the people. And why not? It's a natural method of expression, which anyone may use, just like prose. It doesn't have to be arty-farty or pseud.
      So I've hoisted the battle flag, and proclaimed "Reclaim Poetry for the People!" as my revolutionary slogan. I proclaim the people's right to rubbish rhyming and dire doggerel. After all, literary merit is entirely subjective anyhow, unlike golf scores. Why should people be mocked if they break into rhyme? Ordinary people are allowed to express themselves in prose without being sneered at by their 'betters'.

On Human Nature

A bigot is someone whose prejudices are different from yours.
A conspiracy nut is someone who believes in different conspiracy theories than you do.
An old fart is someone ten years older than you.
An alcoholic is someone who drinks more than their doctor.

The last is a long-standing medical joke, origin obscure. (If your doctor is Muslim, your liver could fail at any moment.)

Two Shades of Grey

Don't mention all the shades of grey,
Or frightened folk will make you pay.
They want things all in black and white,
Though part of them must know that's shite.

If you speak the truth they'll teach you rue,
Their blame may turn the air quite blue;
Assurance is that which they seek,
At raw truth they dare not peek.

The complex strains the people's brain,
Doubt causes them to flinch like pain;
Contention oft they dare not face,
The scoundrel's smile they treat like grace.

To bold men's lies they genuflect,
Submission makes them feel erect.
If you dare to break the ranks,
They'll sling you in the punishment tank.


Only after I had finished this outburst and was casting about for a title did I realise I had a name collision.
I couldn't remember the number of shades used in the title of a popular porno novel which is currently all the rage. All I could recall was my friends saying it was crap. (Of course we were jealous of the sales.) I didn't want to risk using the same number, so resorted to Google. I found a suitably hostile review. This informed me that the rubbishy book was not only porno but profoundly S&M, with emphasis on the joys of submission. I changed the last verse to include a 'nod' to the dirty book, which also evened up the number of lines. I called mine 'A Thousand ...' Then I had a better idea, and changed it to Two.
Of course, black, white and grey are all the same colour.

The Hawk-faced Man

Hawk-faced man in old suit

At the bar stands mute.

His thousand-yard stare

Is an unfocussed glare.

What does he see?

To ask I'm not free:

His eye meets no-one.

He wears photo badge,

Why I can't judge.

All night he won't budge;

Only his arm moves,

Up and then down.

Beer is his friend.