Today's manifesto

PM says security services can’t always prevent ‘self-starting, sometimes quite random’ attacks like siege of Lindt cafe

Our efforts in this regard will never cease
I am now proud to announce … the war on peace

From today, let the drums beat loud
Let our hearts swell to the baying crowd

Non-violence is boring. Instead
Let us be locked in spasm of hatred

There will be no place for tranquillity

Let our watchword be hostility

Let us put an end to tolerance

All I am saying is give war a chance

There are no easy answers – fact

But a permanent aggression pact

Will ensure maximum production

And a permanent disruption

Of out-dated civil liberties

Of compassion and civilities

Hark, the enemy is the gate!

Remember, war is the health of the state

His life

That was his favourite guitar.
That was the place where he sat.
He would play at night, usually a 12–bar.
He shared the sofa with his cat.
That was where he parked his car.
He wanted to be warm like all of us –
he tried not to be like his father
to be secure; to push back chaos.
Like him, he looked for a bargain.
Sometimes, when watching TV
he would drift, gently, into oblivion.
See where it is hollow, the old settee.
That was his wallet. He had no wife.
Those were his things, his habits, his life.

Ballad of Orpheus

Orpheus strolling with his lyre
Sees a notice – poets for hire
Interviews in the library 

He thinks that’s just gig for me 

He hopes they’ll like the way he sings
He buys a plectrum and some strings
Feeling chilled and pleased as punch
He goes to Wetherspoons for lunch

An hour later he’s back inside
He didn’t have an easy ride
Churning round inside his head
Are the words that they had said

It isn’t that we don’t like you
There’s just no call for what you do
By that we mean your style of rhyme
It isn’t hip-hop rap or grime

You need to cover urban stuff
You’re not edgy or rough enough
Buy a leather jacket mate
Pretend you’re from a tough estate

The juice of Dionysius
Soon befuddles Orpheus
He sits and broods depressively
And breathes the smell of poverty

He had outplayed the Sirens' song
But now his music is thought wrong
He must tell Eurydice
That no-one likes his poetry

He decides to pawn his lyre
Or better, burn it on the fire
No-one wants to hear his tunes
The lonely man in Wetherspoons