I THINK IT’S TIME FOR A REVOLUTION!

 

I THINK IT’S TIME FOR A REVOLUTION

I think it’s time for a revolution. I mean a real revolution; not those mickey-mouse ones of African or South American origin, but something like the French or Russian revolutions where a lot of heads and limbs got lopped off – and nobody knows  – or cares- even to this day,  where the bodies are buried. Harrowed by time, you might say.

The French revolution lasted ten years or so, and was propelled by Napoleon during the expansion of the French Empire, which saw the overthrow of the monarchy, the establishment of a republic, the removal of a lot of heads in the process, and ultimately, and ironically, a dictatorship under Napoleon.

Mind you, it did abolish slavery in the French colonies abroad, as well as expelling religious leaders and executing thousands of aristocrats.

The Russian Revolution came over a century later, and dismantled the Tsarist autocracy and led to the rise of the Soviet Union. It was two revolutions really; the first one seeing the abdication of Emperor Nicholas II and a provisional government installed, and a second one nine months later, seeing the Bolsheviks, led by Vladimir Lenin, seizing power, and ultimately becoming the Communist Party.

 

Both the French and Russian revolutions were bloody affairs; the Russian royal family were all shot on the orders of Lenin; the French king Louis XVI  and  Queen Marie Antoinette were guillotined.

So you want a revolution…off with their heads, I say!

 

EDGE by SYLVIA PLATH

Edge

The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

SEPTEMBER IS THE LOVELIEST MONTH

 

SEPTEMBER IS THE LOVELIEST MONTH
September is the loveliest month.
The sky is on permanent fire
The trees painted many colours
Burnished, it seems, with pure desire
In the park, ducks glide silently by
And the always busy seagulls
Resemble sea-planes
Coming in to land from on high
Whilst near the dozing oak tree
The squirrels nutmeg each other
Each acorn hoarded
For the soon-to-come cold weather.
Your arm in mine
We stroll down the park
Heading towards the sunset
Home before dark.

GOD HAS NO RELIGION

GOD HAS NO RELIGION

God has no religion

He is neither Christian

Jewish

Hindu

Islamic

Catholic

Protestant

Or 100 other so-called faiths

God has no country

Nor is head of any State

Has no Pope

Nor vicar

Imam

Or Rabbi

God does not wear robes

Or vestments

Has no Commandments or Sacraments

God does not fight wars

But gave us free will

To fight our own battles

Adam and Eve never existed, except metaphorically

Just like Harry Potter

God is a just God

God does not go to church

God is just God

 

OLD FOOTBALLERS

 

 

VINNY JONES

‘Mr Jones’, said the referee,

‘You cannot kick lumps off

You opponent all the time’.

 

‘Quite right’, replied Vinny,

‘Occasionally I head-butt ‘em’.

 

BOBBY MOORE

A mere sweeper he was not.

His timely interventions left

A myriad footballing eunichs in his wake.

Prompting the question…

What good are strikers without balls?

 

   GAZZA

I went for a slash

And the whole team followed us

Then stood around in idle contentment

While I shook the last drops from me knob.

 

We footballers always hunt in packs.

 

   RODNEY MARSH

Hi!

I’m Rodney,

Fly me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

SILENCE AT THE BAR

SILENCE AT THE BAR

The old man grimaced and silently imbibed his pint

His withered wife glared her whole life at him

And pointedly moved to a seat

At the far end of the joint

 

Two sons, forty and finicky,

Silently contemplated the following day’s races

While the daughter and son-in-law,

Long run out of things to say,

Blew smoke in each other’s faces.

 

Only the children were living;

The girl was chandelier-swinging

And the boy was table-top walking.

“Shhh!” said the mother,

“be quiet you two rascals,

We can’t seem to hear ourselves talking”