DONALD TRUMP PORTRAIT by ILLMA GORE
LITTLE PRICK, BIG PRICK
Ah Mr Trump
We can’t see your rump
But we can see your dick;
Ain’t you a big prick
With your clothes on!
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MORE DAFFODILS
DAFFODILS
I saw Christ nailed to a tree
In an East London churchyard
Weather-beaten from looking,
While the adjacent graveyard
Played host to a thousand
Sloping stone soldiers.
There, daffodils bunched together
And it made me wonder
Why the graveyard should display
Such a profusion of yellow
When the churchyard itself
Was barren of colour
TRUMP A ***T?
I COULDN’T RESIST ‘BORROWING’ THIS FROM A FACEBOOK POST BY EMLYN PEARCE
DON’T ACT SURPRISED, AMERICA by Emlyn Pearce
America, please don’t look at Donald Trump like he’s a pube on your toothbrush. Don’t act surprised.
Don’t treat Donald Trump like the unexpected smear of vomit on a city bus seat – we can all see that you’re the one who’s green and swaying.
Without any help from Donald Trump, you built a prison on a foreign island to circumvent your own laws, and defended freedom by removing the right to a trial. You built remote-controlled war planes to drop bombs on wedding parties, and conscripted thousands of young men to die in un-winnable wars – so please don’t act like Donald Trump is the only yellow drip on America’s toilet seat.
Don’t claim that an economy built on the uncompensated labour of tortured of slaves, and later the uncompensated labour of their imprisoned descendants, shouldn’t give rise to a politician motivated by greed and oblivious to humanity. Don’t be shocked that sticking your political wick into juicy wet piles of cash didn’t conceive a humbler man to lead you.
Dear America, Trump was formed in your image, not you in his. So don’t proclaim that a society in thrall to photoshopped asses, Kanye West and three-metre waffle stacks should be led by a reality TV host with more nuance and decorum. Don’t pretend his misogyny is out of step with your abortion laws, your absence of paid maternity leave, your rape culture. Don’t act like this wasn’t on the cards.
America, please don’t feign innocence at The Donald’s words like a driver caught plucking bogeys at a red light. Don’t you dare tell the interred Japanese, the lynched African-American, the exterminated native tribes, the students of Sandy Hook and Columbine that you are confused by his 20 billion dollar walls and his promises of nuclear apocalypse. Please don’t move away from Donald Trump like he’s Mexico’s fart in a crowded elevator.
Dear America, stop claiming that Donald Trump isn’t the inevitable, anguished end of the American Dream, when for two hundred years you held men like him up as its pinnacle.
Don’t look at the rest of us, America, with that bemused expression, as if the Trump-dump you’ve just left un-flushed in the toilet bowl of humanity was the work of poor old Canada. We’re not stupid, America. We know what’s happening; we call all see it, lying there in its own muddy water, studded with sweetcorn stars and stripes. And yes, we can all smell it too.
So please stop pretending, America.
The whole world knows whose turd he is.
MARGARET, ARE YOU GRIEVING?
SPRING AND FALL by Gerald Manley Hopkins
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
DOES MY BUM LOOK BIG IN THIS?
DOES MY BUM LOOK BIG IN THIS?
THE NIGHT THE MUSIC DIED
THE NIGHT THE MUSIC DIED
He lay in the box quite comfortably
His waxen face staring into infinity
Looking much better in death
Than he ever had in life.
It was all that I could do to peer
At him through slatted fingers
From the back of the room;
The ever-present smell of tanning
And leather aprons absent now;
More than forty seeping years of it
Scrubbed away one last time
His moped – a natural progression from pedal power
When his legs gave out –
Lay discarded in the coal shed
At the back of the house.
(No driver you see, and mother still had the shopping to do)
He dug turf, cut down young Sally trees,
And turned over his bit of stony ground endlessly.
In summer he clipped sheep slowly
With a machine bought by post from Clerys,
Carefully stowing it away in its box
When the shearing was done.
The clay pipes he sucked on – their broken stems
Held together with blood pricked from his thumb –
Were redundant now
And his three bottles of Sunday-night Guinness
Would stand corked under the counter evermore.
Who would dance half-sets with her now?
My mother enquired of no one in particular,
The smoky saloon bar stunned that the music had felled him
Knocked him to the floor in the middle of the tune.
He lay there with a smile on his face
Knowing it was over
And I never got to know what was on his mind.
We put him in the ground
And sadness trickled through me
Like a handful of sand through my fingers.
Later, everyone stood around
Eating sparse ham sandwiches
While I stood there, dry-eyed;
He was a great man they all said
Slapping the back of my overcoat;
Sure he gave forty years to that tannery
And what did it give him?
I wanted to shout to the throng;
A gold watch and a tin tray
And both had his name spelled wrong
DRIVING WHILE BLACK
DRIVING WHILE BLACK
Don’t drive while you’re black
‘Cos you may get stopped on the way back
From wherever you have been
Doing bad things to country and queen
Never drive when you’re black
Looking for white people to attack
‘Cos that’s a crime too
Though it’s okay to drive when you’re blue
Driving while black
Means you could get shot in the back
For turning left or failing to stop
By some trigger-happy, non-black cop
Some other ‘crimes’ while being black;
Smoking while black
Learning while black
Walking while black
Shopping while black
Eating while black
In fact almost any damn thing while black
WARNING – THIS PLAY IS NOT FOR THE COMPLACENT!
WARNING – THIS PLAY IS NOT FOR THE COMPLACENT!
THIS PLAY MAY MAKE YOU THINK!
see/buy all my books on – http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent
IF PRINCE ASKED YOU FOR A PUBIC HAIR…
IF PRINCE ASKED YOU FOR A PUBIC HAIR…
If Prince asked you for a pubic hair
Would you give one to him?
If he asked to let him kiss you ‘there’
Would you tell him his chances were slim?
I only ask because it doesn’t seem fair
To tell me that we are definitely through
When I am the one who has to leave
And not you.
SOHO
SOHO Sleazy conurbation Of bars, clubs and cabaret shows Home of free thinkers and heavy drinkers Sharp dressers and cutting-edge messers Dirty, smelly, noisy Soho Spotty chain-smoking youths M…
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