The backstop

We have said it repeatedly
my associates and I.
We had hoped to settle this peacefully.
It really doesn’t have to be this way.

Her small hand fists the wooden shaft

of the cruel implement

a claw hammer, bought yesterday.

Now, let’s start again, shall we?

She goes through the rigmarole

of her banal proposition.

Its sadistic brutality

is worn smooth by repetition.

I am a reasonable person

and I don’t want hurt you

but this deal on the table

is final and unconditional.

She’s said that before, you note.

Each cruel prevarication

means another night spent weeping

in the cells, on a concrete bed.

You can choose to do nothing but

as I say, regretfully

then, we can longer guarantee

the safety of your family.

Or – a faint smile appears – instead

here is the backstop, the plan B.

You can pay us, in full, today.

Now that’s a good deal, hombre!

No answer, nothing to say?

She pulls on black leather gloves.

She is wearing white overalls.

She reaches under the table

and draws out, theatrically

a chainsaw. She tugs the cord.

The small room fills with acrid smoke.

She sets about her butchery

with a cool head. This savagery

is more in sorrow than anger.

Obviously, it’s for your own good –

the shattered nerves, the flying blood.

Without poetry

Without poetry where would we be?
The birds would not sing
the buses would not run
and the world would stop turning.
We know that there has been
a 19 per cent reduction
in the production of metaphors
on a like-for-like basis, this year.

If a lot more similes
and poetry don’t arrive soon
the birds will fall from the sky
in a collapse of empathy
our colours will fade
and perfume will be indiscernible
description will lose its potency
against a basket of major currencies.

Breaking the mould

Another day of hand-to-hand Tweeting.
An inch of rain falls. There is a new party.
I look through the window and at my screen.
The trees are whispering.
They are pillars of the community.

I learn from my local online forum
that someone foreign-looking
was seen recently, acting suspiciously.
And I am active in this debate.
You see, I have learned how to hate.

The new party is registered in Panama.
Its London address is Traitor’s Gate.
Its signature colour is grey.
That's an innovation. It's a bit boring
but the other colours were taken

from the spectrum of revolution.
Soon, grey people with grey banners
will march down the grey streets
and other people will shout at them
to feed the Instagram rebellion.

It's time to consult my Twitter feed
to top up its cauldron of recrimination
as comrade denounces comrade.
A witches’ brew of pop up analysis
is all over the airwaves.

And now, the latest grey news.
This feeding frenzy will go on for hours.
Later, Dinner Date and Love Island.
The heretic does not repent her sins, my lord.
Humphreys: burn her, burn her, burn her!