Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Rubbish poem

The rubbish men come
& swear & spill the rubbish in the street
& break glass

they feed their giant rubbish truck
an odd animal, which eats from its behind
& then they're gone
leaving the detritus of the detritus
that they've took away

And then comes the street sweeper
with his brush & cart
& look of placid disgruntlement

Such a seamless operation
you'd think they must be acting in concert
But the sweeper has never met the rubbish men
& knows them only by their litter
He's told on Monday go here
on Tuesday go here
and as if by magic, the streets are paved with rubbish

Sometimes he hears them in the next road
hears their shouts & broken glass
sometimes he catches a glimpse & thinks
this rubbish really stinks

Friday, December 12, 2008

Chin up

I met a Chinese guy the other day
We argued about politics
I told him: You are lied to by your press,
He said: Are you are not? And I said: Yes.

He asked: Why should we take lectures from you,
on feeble democracy,
the recent record is a shambles,
the people have no credit

Is it democracy that invaded Iraq?
That plundered & pillaged through an ancient nation?
Ah, I told him, 2 million marched against that war
& he laughed
Marching is all your democracy is good for
How did you let it happen?
You marched & then thought that was enough
I've marched, now no longer in my name, this war can go on just the same

But what do you suggest we did, I pressed
Well, could you have managed any less?

But we punish our rulers
they cannot escape their mistakes, I claimed
Ah, I see, he replied
so Blair who takes the blame
goes off to find fortune & fame
he'll not feel the credit crunch
perhaps spiritual credit, but I've a hunch
he'll buy it off with a rebirthing lunch

You cannot criticise us, my Chinese friend told me,
mainly because you know fuck all about us,
as do we about you
you believe your media
as we believe ours,
but we're not so arrogant to believe
that ours don't lie to us

Wednesday, December 03, 2008


"So you see round here, the Bengalis, the Gujaratis, Punjabis, they all smell, I mean sell smack."

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Suf is m

No-one eats your daily bread for you
No-one performs your acts except yourself
As death is hurrying toward you so address your life now to meet it
Every moment of your life is under the eye and judgment of God
Hatim al-Assam