“Did you know Keats dressed-up

to the nines preening himself for

ages, gracing his dress mirror?

And then – to my goodness

would sit down to write

wonderful simple visions of

purity, even from deep inside Hell

banded in pain, haemorrhaging life.”


“So?  Shelley used to edit

his wife – Mary Shelley’s – work,

wrote whispering, almost silent

tones spinning alliteration whilst,

blended, awesome assonance

proselytes social imbalance

This poet spoke from chasms in nature

carefully usurping selfish culture.”


“Maybe Keats opined and dated you?

From perfumed, closeted avenues,

simply one with, in nature’s space.

Perhaps you deceived him, as often

you do me?  Rolling enjambment’s

continuous meaning through intent

and then disappear, when voices

thrill on mottled paper, wording

substance hundreds of years later.


She didn’t reply, not after her

first riposte but I wasn’t ever,

really talking to myself, she; just

disappeared like she always done.


Maggie’s Thatcherist Leftovers:

They say: man dropped short of glory

Likened to a giant, progressive

Size-accumulating snowball

Conducive to biblical stories

Which earmarked Adam’s untimely fall

Relentlessly rolling downhill

In tandem with man’s hasty descent

How Cain caused Abel’s blood to spill

Of course, it was no accident


Things simply turned right around

Thatcher’s selfish nineties obviously

Exposed some clowns, then quickly instilled

Rich folk’s confidence, elevated

Money – status every pound

Didn’t take long to overcome

Love’s enshrined, ordered precedence

Traded window-dressed internet

Vices; unashamedly bartered

Sex, inducing ever ready yet

Superficial, fluctuating

Prices, hideously hawking

Depravity, now; sad people

Champion lax, insidious

Immorality, sometimes brutal

Blue pictures levying advert screens

Those barefaced, fly-posted conjugals

Showcase heinous sexual scenes.