Out Of My Cold Dead Hands

Move along,

keep doing what you’re doing.

Nothing to see here,

nothing needs improving.

Go home, watch TV, have a beer.

It’s just another shooting.


We’ll send our prayers to the murdered.

That’ll solve all problems.

Continue buying guns undeterred,

more guns  less victims.

Don’t listen to what you’ve heard,

to the lies in newspaper columns.


Something needs to change,

so let’s do what we’ve done before.

No need to rearrange,

and definitely not face the problem’s core.


Brush the problem aside,

lip service token gestures.

Say ‘by god we abide’

offer victims empty prayers.

Gun control deride,

and continue with holy airs.


Laurent Fabius’ Inner Monologue In Dinner Discussion With Hassan Rouhani

What do you mean he said no wine?

This Iranian swine.

Tell him I said “never!”

Would rather all links we sever

Death to this infidel,

Refusing le vin de Saint-Michelle!

No wine is an insult to France,

Does this blaggard want to dance?


What do you mean it’s against his religion?

They even get wine in prison!

A wineless god?

The poor sod.

Even from Beaujolais?

Languedoc or Nord-Du-Pays?


Were they born on mars?

Do they even have cars?

Well something must be wrong.

No, I don’t think we can get along.


Sigh, to hell with this scorning,

let’s just have a coffee morning.

November 13th

To the victims of the November 13th attacks, their families, friends and all who knew them and had their lives touched by them.

The fools march forth with hearts filled with hatred.

Guns in hand, bombs on belts and delusions of the sacred.

Saturday night, in full flight as Paris takes in the evening’s entertainment.

All assundry unaware of the impending violent curtailment.

As the bullets let fly victims could only leap for cover.

Stone-faced killers silent as pillars held their guns close as a lover.

Politics of hatred made victims faceless but more importantly made fools feel righteous.

Contorting ancient religion to violent vision is naught but mental hepatitis.

To kill one man is to kill all mankind are words sacred to Muslim man.

Those who forget this and kill regretless offend the Quran.

Once innocent children, growing to villains, how can we stop things going wrong?

We can find the answer before hatred eats away like cancer, until we do stay strong.

Petals of The Poppy

i. She loves me

Come, let us glorify the war dead.
No mention of wives sleeping in empty bed,
the rivers of tears mothers shed,
or the lives they could have lead.

Wear you now the poppy red.
Repeat the lies politicians said,
in newspapers young men read,
and to death were easily lead.

Forget you now how they bled,
the fear and dread,
as on corpses young men thread.
Bellies full of mouldy bread.

Hear you now the worms their bodies fed?
See you now the destroyed homestead,
where happy farmers once were wed,
torn asunder by falling lead?

ii. She loves me not.

Come how valiant the war dead,
as we forget only the poor bled.
Not son of Prince but that of pauper,
ever gave their lives in pointless slaughter.

Wealthy sons drinking Brandy and rum.
Tapping their glasses to the beat of the artillery drum.
Cosseted far from harm,
the lordlings cried “never disarm.”

Over the trenches the ploughman’s son,
walks nervously towards an enemy gun,
as soldiers flow in waves.
Reluctant to their early graves.

Irish lives sold to buy a nation’s freedom,
young men joined the foreigner’s legion.
By guile and lies they were betrayed,
in the earth in Flanders their bodies laid.

Bodies lay side by side with English brothers,
those of Welsh, Scot and many others.
Urged forth by friendly guns,
fight bravely, for we shoot he who runs.

iii. Where Shall I Lie?

Come now let us forget those that survived,
returned home to lives deprived.
Men twisted by wartime trauma,
now treated as less than fauna.

Dreams of artillery fire and mustard gas,
marred the nights of the underclass.
Now too savage for general society,
they were sent next door to earn notoriety.

Set loose upon a civilian population,
war-scarred men inflicted devastation.
In every shadow seeing the German Hun,
whether truth be mother, child or brother’s son.

The same lordlings sit drinking brandy and rum,
waiting for their neighbours to fall under thumb.
Removed from the lives of their fellow man,
ignoring suffering reclined on the divan.

iv In A Nameless Plot

Now their grandsons run the kingdom,
also knowing nothing to fear from.
Deaths of common men they glorify
but never will they meet their eye.

Setting policies to attack the poor,
thin them out through poverty, not through war.
They claim the need for austerity,
that there’s no room today for charity.

Yet we see unfair redistribution of wealth
given to banks, taken by stealth.
The painted whore of quantitative easing,
to Etonians is disproportionately pleasing.

“Britons need to work like the US or China”,
as greed bloated CEOs wipe away saliva.
Wage conditions tantamount to slavery,
ignore when banks act unsavoury.

They laud the idea of a living wage,
while promises on tax credits they renege.
A war against the lower and middle class,
Treating the public as an unwashed mass.

Men and women poisoned by wealth and power,
set scornful glances from their ivory tower.
Prop their pillows on the suffering of the poor,
listen close, they only ever say “more, more, more”

All Of Humanity’s Knowledge At Your Finger-Tips And This Is What You Use It For.

This poem consists entirely of quotes of abuse received by women on the internet. It was a dark, dark few hours trawling through the bile, vitriol and unsettling attempts at flirtation. I have come out the other side a less happy person and grateful to have been born with dangly bits (I would say ashamed for my sex, but I'm not. I mean fuck these guys, we're the same sex as Tesla, Wilde and Lincoln. 'Bout time these mother fuckers act like it). I would like to thank Julia Hardy, Mia Matsumiya, Anita Sarkeesian and the contributors to Feminist Tinder for filleting the horrors of being a woman on the internet into easily accessible packets.

“When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you” -Friedrich Nietzsche.

Sorry for being rude but nice bum
Do you swallow cum
fuck you and your violen
Love to smash your back door in…

id pee in her butt
This British Slut.
Would do the interview so hard.
Sassy accent killer bod.

The women doing my nut in
Are you a virgin
You could make Hanukkah slutty
I would cream inside u so badly

Smile more you’d look so much better
That’s a muffin id like to butter
I would smash this chick #just saying
Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh masturbating……

Can I tie you up and brush your teeth?
Damn you look good enough to eat
I like boobs pussy and sexy woman
Your just as nothing as I am.

Most women are ugly as fuck
That Julia Hardy just needs good cock,
You never replied to me snotty bitch
Go back to the kitchen and make me a sandwich

ive got the perfect thing to fill that mouth with lol
Show my your cute lil’ butthole
You are a despicable whore
I don’t think I’ve ever seen an attractive feminist before

Dumb bitch doesn’t know anything
Feminist need to good to jail for existing.
I’m going to beat you with a sock of quarters
Fuck you and your supporters

Ur just a whore looking for daddy’s attention.
I will rape you into oblivion.
Hope you get raped by a wild pack of niggers
I hope every feminist has their head severed from their shoulders


*Spelling, grammar and punctuation errors preserved for your reading pleasure.
**Thanks to Qiva and Smur for expanding my sources, it would have been a significantly shorter poem without their links!

Role Models

Mel Gibson is a drink driving racist.
Jimmy Savile was a child rapist.
Rihanna returned to her abuser.
Eric Clapton was a heroin user.
Russell Crowe loves a good fight.
My mother always made me eat right.

No need to look to another,
a daughter takes after her mother.

Bill Clinton had extramarital relations.
The Church covered up child molestations.
George W. invaded under false assumptions.
Ryan Giggs [this violates super injunctions].
Randy Rhodes kamikazed his ex-wife’s trailer.
My father taught me success comes after failure.

For a role model look no further,
A boy will take after his father.

Marilyn Manson tea bagged concert security.
The Jonas brothers made money from sexual purity.
Miley Cyrus twerked Robin Thick.
Justin Bieber exposed his dick.
Brittany Spears shaved off all of her hair.
My mother always taught me to share.

“Do what I say, don’t do what I do”,
to a child never gets through.

Janis Joplin overdosed on heroin,
Keith Moon on prescription medication.
John Bonham choked on his own vomit.
Jimmy Hendrix choked on his own vomit.
Jim Morrison never made it to the coroner.
My father taught me to hold my own corner.

Celebrities are people and make their mistakes.
It’s not their fault little Timmy eats too many cakes.

Jeremy Clarkson punched a television producer.
Bush Sr. vomited on Japan’s Prime Minister.
Woody Allen married his adopted daughter.
Wayne Rooney solicited a grandmother.
Nigella Lawson added cocaine for flavour.
My mother always punished misbehaviour.

The famous are people with their own lives,
it’s up to you whether your child thrives.
People are people and they make mistakes,
they deal with consequences even without your rakes.
Want a good child? Be a good person.
Day by day no matter the burden.
End of the day they look to you,
what you say and the things that you do.
Treat your child with consideration,
be there for them for consolation,
for conversation,
And consultation.

Be not afraid if you lose your way,
it’s you they’ll blame for their faults anyway.

Ireland A Political Summary In Six-Line Abuse Format.

Fianna Fáil
have eyes on the Dáil,
where they used to sit.

A history of corruption,
without interruption.
I don’t trust the fuckers one bit.

Fine Gael
as a government fail,
sat in their ivory tower.

Continue with Irish water,
like lambs to the slaughter.
Their future’s looking quite dour.

The Labour Party,
formerly so hearty.
Now known for treachery

Fucked the poor,
with delusions of grandeur.
Caught up with political lechery.

Sinn Féin
as a party remain,
steeped in a chequered past.

In power untested.
It may be suspected
in government they too will shaft.

The poor ol’ Green Party,
for the sake of stability,
stayed in unpopular parliament.

Of two parties treated the worst,
But still they hunger and thirst
to save the environment.

The many parties of Irish Socialists,
renowned for outspokenness,
rarely listen in debate.

Always screaming injustice,
claiming they’re the poultice,
but with the electorate they rarely rate.

The Social Democrats,
hopefully not political acrobats,
like the other cute whores.

Ideas abundant,
but entirely redundant,
without the power election assures.

Look at Renua,
don’t let them fool ya,
they’re no different from the rest.

Cold and opportunistic,
with policies characteristic
of those without empathy blessed.

The Anti-Austerity Alliance
move forth in defiance
of agreement with the IMF.

A ninety billion euro loan
left many without home.
Yet all others remain deaf.