Guddling

Trash! Smash balderdash,

Gibberish, all mish-mash,

Masquerading as the news.

Fiction, facts, we’re owed the truth.

Pish! Posh, all that dosh,

Dishing dirt, a load of tosh,

Captivating, cunning plan,

Doled out fodder for wee man.

Big man runs the well-oiled wheels,

Sleight of hand, we watch, he steals,

Steam, press, turn, depress with force,

One-sided justifies divorce.

Free to question, new release,

Biased brethern, big bro’ pleased.

Watch little man as he cuts chains,

Asking why, alive again.

Hubble, bubble, all this trouble,

Got our countries in a guddle.

Ickle, tickle, brand new hatch,

Easy-peasy, stand by, catch.

Fishy fish, caught with intent, by

Fishermen with hearts well meant.

Then we can fry them with some garlic and a lovely lemon zest. Hmmhmm. Smack!

 

By Silken Threads

Unrivalled, the spinner,

intent on the task,

exuding,

controlling the yarn,

Four to the left,

four to the right,

light foosteps,

spinneret charm.

Tangled the cables,

coiled for effect,

cushioned to nest,

to ensnare,

Sonar, so plucked,

message relayed,

advancement of mate

with a dare.

Captvity calls,

tightened the threads,

matured in

hungering thirst,

Escape impossible,

tho’ eyes all around,

serviced, betrayed

by bloodlust.

Filigree’d netting,

coating of tack,

a lick and a spit,

paint the web,

Ravelled in silk,

by finest cord bound,

anaesthetised, numbed,

not yet dead.

High Noon

They’re struttin’ in the media,

A swagger to their hips,

Totin’ power like marshall law,

Twistin’ lies and lips.

They’re chewin’ gum imagin’ry,

Pretendin’ to be cool,

Wouldn’t hold a candle to

Most kids we’ve met in school.

Except, p’rhaps, like teenagers,

They’re mostly bluff and bumph,

I’ve sympathy for evolvin’ youth

But the others get my humph.

Agreements tacit – purposed point –

Parties merge for aim,

Shoot the outlaws, hang ’em high,

Scupper cowboy game.

I’d rather be the native

Or the bountied head – no liar –

Than opportune for photo pose

Captioned, ‘Guns for Hire’.

No slickness here, no brylcremed wave,

No texture to their smooth,

Slippy, slidy, greasy-poled,

Slinkng, cannot prove

A single point, so just pretend,

Repeat prophetic rote,

Fingers crossed behind their backs,

Prepare the new scapegoat.

Run it into wilderness

To carry off their sins,

Load it high with guilt complex.

We’d better bloody win!