Our Circus, Our Monkeys Our circus, our monkeys They dance in the light, The cameras are flashing Their hair is so bright. They are preening and polishing And plucking their fur On a big pile of plastic That poisons the air. The fire monkeys burn up Our mind and our voice, Then send this hot furnace To a world with no choice. The forests created oxygen Before dinosaurs, Now forests are burning Lost without remorse. The plants they made oxygen And became oil, gas and coal. We call them the fossil fuels Because they’re so old. If we burn all the fossil fuel We use up our own air. The earth it starts warming When oxygen is not there. The fire monkeys climb to The top of the tree, Squabbling and scratching To be alpha monkey. If you burn all the forests Except for your own You feel most important, For a short time, ‘tis so. The climate is changing, The seas surge and rise, Please let us be monkeys With the open eyes. The peanuts we gather Keep our eyes on the ground, No stars gazed in wonder Or the scenery around The icebergs are melting, The clowns play with fire, The ringmaster’s chasing tail, We let the earth be for hire. ‘Tis courage not evil We will not see, hear or speak, With blinkers and blindfold Then only one path we seek. Like a miser’s dim candle, Gaslighting’s dull glow, Those holding the lantern Decide what will show. Truth lies cold frozen Behind a still mask of shame, Damp mouldy tears form As it soaks up the flame. Sing from cold honesty Though it freezes your tongue, Breathe life to sincerity, Revive truth with your lungs. Like snow covered mountains And the ocean’s still deep, The cold touch of fear Wakes the soul from its sleep.

Parts Per Million (Still Counting) I think of the earth that is warming Changing life, our skin, the leaves, Of all the living and growing Covering the rocks with grass, with trees. This air was fed by leaves breathing Out oxygen pure and clear, Like the air on snow covered mountains Over ageless, uncounted years. Then CO2 was 280 parts per million, Since then we have been far from brilliant. We all know that harm will be done To all creatures and their children On earth unless we are willing, No borders will stop this killing. Death shall not be our dominion, Love and Rage Extinction Rebellion. I was born at 320 parts per million Below 300 was once my mission, Now my dreams have a darker vision Of scorching earth, 420 parts per million. I call on the snorters and their minions, Stonking and strutting when they are winning, Your life is a torpor … that is my opinion … You are offered pearls and yet you spill them. Rouse yourself while we are still listening, Stop your thieving …what are you thinking? You defile your own self more than anyone. The meek and gentle are more resilient, Even as their bones become limestone We can inherit their souls to build on. Death will not be their dominion I mourn beneath the moon until then. Creation has named all the species As life they unfold in their place, They come with the revolving of planets Moving forces creating time out of space. Our turn in this wheel is our fortune, To respect with our faith and belief. We can defy this chance at our peril And the universe will echo our grief.

What Is Precious By Decree … In this city the last midwinter lingered on too long, Some looking for promises of burning summer kisses And who would be their weekend valentine. Now there are no longer weekends And even strange new friends cannot kiss Without a test or something formal. And a werewolf has crept unseen onto the streets, Or so it seems because the city is empty of life. We wanted love, love me do on the harmonica Now we have banging pots and bringing out the dead This winter on the Heath I hear people Talking to their dogs as if they were children, Talking to their children as if they were philosophers, Talking of philosophy as if it was child’s play. Talking of people as if they were dogs Whose lives were to be decided by the RSPCA To euthanize when the kennels are full. This is not cognitive dissonance, This is the wilful ignorance of Waiting room ambulances attended by NHS staff Fragile with grief, fervent with the gravity of tragedy. I see huffy runners on the Heath Puffing, brushing past others, As if the others were already ghosts As if their puffing breath has the right to be a death warrant. As if it has already been considered and decided Because if has already been decided By government decree, That everything is expendable Except their own ego. A group with aerosol breath snort as they pass Like plague horses of the apocalypse, So close I can smell their sweat, Hear their metallic breath Ringing, rasping scraped From the cauldron of their lungs. Like the sixth trumpet of Revelation And the second of the Woes where a third of the people will die. A lithely pounding runner grazes my shoulder And blows out coffee scented plague mist. I call out Woah! Woe! More an omen than a curse, Her eyes widen, Teeth bared in derision. A few metres ahead I hear their imitations Of the braying hunting call of a nest egg Tory. They gather and croon over an injured bird, She flaps in an unseemly way and they leave. I pick her up with a covetous stroke to her back, Memories of past matings make her settle Like an old woman, like myself Watching romantic comedy, Relax, relaxavoo. I take her to a leaf bed, her final nest, Where the deep green forest whispers love songs And the winter sun polishes her feathers. I move on, my time has not come yet. There are few nest egg Tories left in London. They have flown to dove grey Bath Stone churches Hunched together, they call out ageless Latin phrases, Moving between plague zones guided with surety By generations of ancestral entitlement and exclusivity. Asking a fatherly, white skinned God to hear them, Perhaps not yet feeling the paralysing shudders of shame A thousand times worse than a parent’s cold dismissal, Where we will scrub cold flagstones in tearful gratitude. Some with a golden nest egg savour their power as a carnal mirror image. Dispensing the fruit of their body to the kneeling supplicant and moan to their all-seeing God. I saw three sages mask less in black coats, Flecked with street light mist, With shoulders in a wall Judiciously make a pact That ghosts do not exist. Marching with eyes withdrawn, Seeing only what is irreplaceable, What is precious, by decree. They stride down the footpath abreast Next to streaming traffic flowing past, I hold my shopping bags like ballast, Food bank rice bags hold me fast, I walk straight with eyes downcast. One twice my size and half my age, Crashes into me, I stay on the path. Their outrage lies heavy in my chest, From a shaming flash and burn in my belly I know that one of them has considered For a moment that never existed, That he Could and Would. Then I smoulder back into the ghost that I should be.

Medieval Corona Plague Rave In Ossuary House The prince of Prussia has an ossuary dream ….aah the Big Man is plague proof … He ponders … “To breathe or not to breathe That is their decision. Whatever they may suffer It is noble of me to notice The debts and furloughs of their trouble. I have a babe in arms and mistresses treble To pander and tend them! I want to just lie in my yurt and sleep. The whinging ends! Your dead grandmas and daily thousand death tolls! When I have given you the inheritance of consumption Devoutly, to wish, to spend, to die.” To Ossuary House he goes in his sleep, Perhaps a chance to dream That finally the bones are counted. He wonders “what could it mean?” “Which bones are which?” he murmurs “Must I rub the virus clean? Mortal folk who instinct drives, Must I respect their shuffling lives? Was it such a calamity? Tis nature’s herd immunity! Why should I delay such long unworthy lives? These wipes and masks I scorn, the professors are wrong, I have the proud man’s immunity!” Plague Eyes and I despise the law’s delay I vouch our instinct’s fine I daresay! The patent merit of travelling and just one stop He, Plague Eyes, did quietly make. With bare bodkin and fardels dangling, Relieved himself and who did a photo take? A foolish thankless aged official With pension paid until his death! This bleak and far off forsaken country Plague Eyes can return whenever he say. From travelling he returned, no charges made. Puzzled, you would rather get sick than stay at home? You can fly to countries that you know of Then be confined, my conscience clear, No ticket refund or substitution. Borrow money from those who hold you dear. This is a time for those with wealth and enterprise To play the currencies their own way. Others, nameless, have no action. Make a fortune or fade away.

The Passion Tide Fifth Sunday Of Lent Let your river of fear pour into the ground, Look to the earth in a Scorpio moon. Shun the slithering curl of the lip, Biting the air, draining the room. Words on the shelf are breathing warm air From heaven and earth and onto your skin, The sea has a forest glowing and green, Soothing the glare of the scorpion. The statue is wearing a violet silk cloak Shrunk from the warmth of our flesh. Hey Judica, your beauty is brave And our living is fleeting but blessed. Hey Judica, your glorious lips Are bright wet rubies to kiss, You ache from all the wrong choices, No image allures us like this. Jude sits by the stove all the morning Stirring her pigeon pea stew, Waits for the sting to stop calling Then brings her brown sugar to you. And for this I hope you are grateful, Swoon onto your knees in a prayer, This lavish, lush joy is from heaven And Judica is taking you there. Price Of Pentecost 2020 And what is the price of this Pentecost? With souls ignored, When lives are lost? Lives not counted, No questions asked. When smirkers rule And scorn the mask. Whatever the question They refuse to understand The answer will be A hundred thousand. Whatever you ask With the utmost of guile, Phrasing so fraudulent With insincere style Broken heart coffins Evasively counted Deceitful, not COVID Still a hundred thousand. His creature he dances In the Bluebell woods, Plague in his eyes, Stirring his blood. The souls he refused To be included Will haunt us forever, Do not be deluded. A queen nods to a beauty Who once caught his eye, They curtsey and bow, He will covet and pry. We cannot toll the bell We will not count the lives, Just banging on pots Under apocalypse skies. Women in white dresses Lie on Hampstead Heath, Wear a mask or a shroud When resting beneath. They shall be counted everyone, Count them in your prayers, We miss them we are mourning In our dreams and our nightmares And now just who is stonking, Stonking winningly? It is they the winning stonkers Who have herd immunity. With instincts pure as Adam, Sounds like a rock n rollin band, In the Garden of Eden, honey, Just remember to wash your hands. Madam Iron lady butterfly Could not stonk like this, We are the airhead groupie, We are all BoJo’s bitch. They gabble in tongues their nonsense, Say instinct is for me and not you. Yes, we are all screwed over, Our hashtag is England Me Too …

The Knight of the Burning Lamp The waning moon was hanging, wounded in the night, No longer a source of wisdom but a distant satellite. I shot this moon he whimpered as he stumbled in fading light, Plague Eyes clutched box and beanie as he drew his black coat tight. He kept driving along the highway, the long dark northern highway, Bardolph’s Castle highway. One hundred billion glowing in his rear view mirror sight. Tis as much as all the nightingales and persons with the lamp, The NHS and ventilators to kill the plague and drain the damp. But he will place and pluck this germ in his cold and lonely camp, When he gets to Bardolph’s Castle he’ll fill the moat and hoist the ramp. He can see how the gold is shining tis the gold not the moon is shining, But told us the moonshot was shining, coveting gold with dim eyes gazing … his light … his sun …. his scam. “Tis Moonshot” calls the echoes through portals and worm web halls In the dark night moon he strangles and the lamp flame flutters and falls Through tweetles and through twitches the cankered and cursed ones call They cry in the dark for the moonshot unheard they stumble and crawl The drowned see another wave rising clutch at hope of immunising wear a mask, hand sanitising death rates obscurely disguising Moonshot sheds no light at all. Off shore treasure island Away from all the noise Every minute stuffing pockets Are the toffee bottom boys Plague eyes humble billions Fills northern lads with joys While stonking sugar daddies Buy empires with their spoils mortgaged lives are shrinking taverns and inns are sinking No cafes or pubs to drink in feudalism is the thinking … They Exit Brexit, then destroy.

Shriven Not Shrunken St Crispin’s Day 2021, Shriven not shrunken, We now think of England The lights still burning Midnight to morning, Sleepless with grieving, those Half empty beds cut in two. This great wronging If it be our undoing, Then we will not be alone. If we do not keep going We will not be to blame for that, We will not take the blame for that. We can talk of beauty But then there is truth, And beauty a reminder Of what we have to lose. This moment of hope in a year filled with fear Crumbles, like chalk, in our hands. Is this the time we will wash the glaze from our eyes And see how this world really stands? What is the sound of a million hearts breaking On this small island alone? Why were our leaders not at the meeting On the days when the truth had been told? No need to listen because of the reason This blind trust fund country is sold. Guilty dogs of Downing Street, I often remember He will often forget, There may be a future He will have cause to regret. Sweetest smiles for the camera Worked for his mummies all. The centre of her universe, The Sun painted on the walls. Humping mutely for the camera, Scumbag barks at dog, Sit boy fucking sit You did it on the camera, Shame boy now you quit. Like a sad dog nodding at the back of the car, Passing people condemned, Sadly they will depart. He says sadly, sadly more will die, Sad hair moving, lowered eyes. Makes you think he shed a tear Living in this country here. These empty spaces we never forget, Sadly the cruellest insult yet. Silence is a crime so bland Being pleasant in this land, Grey grief summers And cold winters weeping But I am fucking screaming At the frozen sky Barkmen speak with freedom That can be easily bought, So clever, comes easy, Demure confident talk. We want to be like them. Aren’t we? We are. If we get the money, The house and the car. Get building, Get stonking, Spend cash, Get it done. Forget virus and plague, Go out, eat and have fun. Barkmen see straight into your raw nerve, They speak directly to your raw nerve. Barkmen make you greedy, Make you whine so needy, Tell you what you’re feeling In your raw nerve. If a Scumbag can murder England Because the working class still speak, Once they made fun of him And vengeance runs so deep. And he is such a scummy man And he has sold us because he can. He is a scummy, scumbag man. On the year before England’s murder He said Its Time to Leave, Put his hand onto our necks, Smiled when we couldn’t breathe. Kept us for a year, Turned the lock and hid the key. Played his game, left door open, Now he has set us free. Scumbag calls it Freedom, Turns out its more infection. Yes he kills us because we laughed at him. He will kill us because we made fun of him. He is thinking of a Churchill In his rear mirror window view, When I look I see a graveyard On the screen is coming through. Some may think it is a Braveheart Saying he will set us free, But it is just a scumbag, Telling you die quietly. He makes these easy offers, Moist, like fruit, roll off the tongue, He names the dead to be in numbers As if he could do no wrong. These words of brief quietness …. As though we all were brothers Fighting on a battlefield On St Crispin’s Day. But this one, with his soft leather soles, Creeps away. He speaks as if he had left the taverns For the battleground. He will be going, or is already gone, when the time is right For history to shine A dim obscuring light Through his foggy words. Promises that turned to mist. The ambulances move quietly now, While we needlessly share the shame Of these quiet numbers. While grief is a screaming beast With arrows in its side, Rearing high, eyes rolled, Nutmeg fur hiding blood, Jaw clenched in fear, Bridle sharp that cuts the mouth. Have we bitten our own tongue? Are we silenced now? What makes us be quiet these times? Is it the seasons folding into sameness In these locked down rooms? I will take this with my own hands. I will decide this in my own mind. I will speak with reference to my own life. And I know that I am grieving For the people not protected, For the nature not respected, He who would not respect would not protect. He can’t remember the question But is sure of the answer, Observe Orient Decide Act, OODA repeated in a loop As if the people are the enemy In this world post truth. Risk Resources Expertise OODA looping Code of Conduct. He says Code of Conduct Code of Conduct.

"The tree that is beside the running water is fresher and gives more fruit." - St Teresa of Avila.

"Let nothing perturb you, nothing frighten you. All things pass. God does not change. Patience achieves everything." - St Teresa of Avila.