Friday, 2 July 2010


He gets on a small private
jet plane:
red carpet
leading up to it;
his own plane
of his own

He's just
fevered ego
in a world
of fevered egos
and confused minds

and media
blistering our
now convoluted
by the everyday.

I hope his plane
and burns
and cooks
his unworthy flesh
into nothingness;

and I hope
the peasant
that lay
his carpet
at such
unpleasant news.

If I had the money
I'd put such petty trivialities
into the ground
and have people
in plain clothes
look me in the eye
for the unworthy cunt that I am
as they serve me
my ice-cold
cola with ice.


You're in Saudi control;
a slave
to the pump.

This spill won't be
the last
to give you
the jump.

It's the reason
in such squalor.

It's the reason
you fret
the worth
of the dollar.

It provides you with
a guarantee
you'll see
your food.

Why don't you
admit it:
a slave
to the crude.

It's in between your fingers;
it's all
in your mouth.

It's all over the map:
east, west,
and south.

It's even up north -
in Albertan
tar-pit sands.

It's the reason why
were killed
on their own land.

It's the peril in the pot
and the grease
for the
silver lining;

no one
can see
the signs
stop shining.

It's the maker
of our fortune
and the ender
of our times.

We have
all the right technology,
but not
the willingness
of mind.

Thursday, 1 July 2010


If one night we're killed in our sleep, 
we'll know we had it coming:
the blood that's been spilled in our name 
will never stop running.

The conscience of a silent voice 
trembles in the light.
All this we take for granted 
is nothing but a blight.

Everything we've done 
has come at a cost.
Everything we've won 
has equalled life lost.

There are people out there now 
with families dead.
I hope our petty concerns 
will soon fall through our heads.
People who once were huddled in soot
now rise again;
can you hear the pillars crumbling
as our empires wane?
All this wealth will fall atop us
and crush us 
in extravagant death:
as our lungs struggle for air
the world takes a breath.
Someone out there shudders
'neath cold sunset air,
as they observe the silence
and smell the scents of
new fare:
our pursuits of endless pleasure
someday had to end:
through choice or realisation;
through death or dividend.
The blood,
it soaks into the sand;
into the palm
of desert hand,
as we reap what was begun

(but we know 
our day
will never come).