Poems

To The Statues
In Poets’ Corner
Westminster Abbey

You stony bunch of pockskinned whiteys,
Why kip in here? Who sentenced you?
They are buying postcards of you,
The girls in safety knickers.
Tombfaces, glumbums,
Wine should be jumping out of all your holes,
You should have eyes that roll, arms that knock things over,
Legs that falter and working cocks.
Listen.
On William Blake’s birthday we’re going to free you,
Blast you off your platforms with a blowtorch full of brandy
And then we’ll all stomp over to the Houses of Parliament
And drive them into the Thames with our bananas.*

*Banana: a phallus going round a corner
carefully

Let me tell you the
Third World War is going
to separate the men
from the boys

SON:


FATHER:


SON:
FATHER:

SON:

FATHER:

SON:
FATHER:


SON:
 

Make sure the black blind fits the window,
Don’t let the light fly out.
Where is the war tonight?
No, this is peacetime.
You are safely tucked up in England,
Sleep tight, happy dreams.
Listen, Daddy, are they ours or theirs?
They are owls, they are nobody’s
Responsibility. This is peace.
Today I lost a battle.
I feel like mud.
Snuggle down, snuggle down,
Tomorrow you will win two battles.
Yes, and I will feel like mud.
Grow up, this is self-pitying hyper-ballocks.
Nobody is really, actually trying to
Literally kill us.
Yes they are, daddy,
Yes they are.