Perhaps you’re wondering why you got the sack?

For years now, I’ve not bought our local rag,

not bought the cut and paste of client hacks,

who’d not report on genocide of a nation,

for fear of being murdered on The Strip,  

tell lie on lie, warmongering information,

co-lateral damage? say it’s just a blip,

from Iraq to Gaza, murderous tongues you wag.

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I saw 

The flare of the gun

Against the setting sun

My baby's smiling face

I kept within a lonely space

My wife's hand in mine

For one final time 

I saw

The blood from my chest

Sending my body to rest

The future I thought would be

Drift away to a blood red sea

The hands of Time slowly cease

Feeling a weary inner peace

I saw

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Rachel touts for votes in Leeds,

but Rachel Gen O’ Cide is fleet,

yes, Rachel and her minder run

from awkward questions on our streets;

that mother’s questions ain’t no fun;

have you had a drink of water?

have you eaten more than crumbs?

Gaza’s children have to dig

for water whilst they’re dodging bombs,

Rachel, do you give a fig?

have you had to dig your daughter

...

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“Made in Britain”, once a mark of highest quality,

To Gaza, with love, we send white-hot death from above,

Cruel Britannia stoops to utter depravity.  

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How do you fancy ripping tents up, Angie,

instead of nipping to the corner shop?

Here in the town of Stockport, Lancashire,

when sirens sounded, townsfolk gratefully fled

to shelter under arches stout and strong;

but now, the stench of death pervades the air,

the body politic is now corrupt;

no air raid shelters for the innocents

of Gaza under rubble, three months gone;

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Welcome to Britain, madam Ambassador for Genocide;

this carpet’s the latest fashion, Slaughterhouse Red.

Per Ardua ad Astra is how they died,

a diet of porky pies, what they were fed, 

“We will remember them”, cry solemn parrots, 

ad nauseam, per annum, dog-whistled, 

forgetting stick, they much prefer those carrots,

warmongering Lords want us protestors kettled; 

oh yes, ...

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On Cable Street in ‘thirty-six

they said ¡No Pasarán! keeping Fascists at bay

with chamber-pots pouring, with fists kicks and bricks.

But on that hypocrites’s watch, in ‘twenty-three,

they said “¡Pasarán! it’s the Fascists field day”,

Spanish Nazis and Blackshirt admirers roamed free

on Preston’s streets, decency slayed;  

our ex-home secretary now protests for genocide,

...

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Vent your anger on people in small boats,

on long-haired gorgeous blokes, who like to wear skirts;

forget the yachts sailed by millionaire thieving scrotes,

forget who welcomed to the UK, Nazis and Blackshirts,

facts indeed are sacred, as someone said,

but only facts which the sewer chooses to reveal,

yes, no news is good news, what nearly thirty thousand dead?

targetted jour...

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Death is

R

O

P

P

I

N

G

From the skies

     L  lies  lifeless

     O on

 E V ery

Str E et

Death is

R

O

P

P

I

N

G

From the sky

Bodies mount up

1.500 here…

1.500 there…

L

         O

                 V

                          E

                                  Lies in ruins…

    ...

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Let us pretend 

that we haven’t been this way before

too recently and too often

that this is the way forward

that it is the road to the peace

which eluded you when you sent 

planes and tanks and men 

into Lebanon, Ramallah, Jenin,

Gaza, Gaza, Gaza.

Let us pretend

that this time will be different 

that this time will be worth it

that you can tot up the lives...

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This is not an anti-semetic poem, or anti - Israeli poem.

This is a protest poem, in protest at the violation of human rights in attacking ships laden with aid and medical supplies bound for Gaza.

Israel has the right to exist... fact.

So does Palestine... fact.

Israel cannot starve out the ...

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