Inspiration Porn This poem I did: less a poem, more a play. I dreamt it like Dog Day Afternoon; A skilfully scripted siege scenario; Where somehow I’m the one with the gun coerced like Patty Hearst and cursed to use an Uzi and supervise The hostages but also I’ve gone undercover To tip off the cops but it turns out, in turn, During a terrifying twist in the toilets scene, that in style it’s switched to a slasher movie, backed by a grant from Arts Council England Whose funding conditions caused me to be cut. Now I’m not in it any more, Confirming my first and worst suspicions. And what the audience want is a safe revolution Where the birdies still go tweet-tweet-tweet. I’d harried a horde of hangers-on Proposing people who might be impressed But they’re trolling me ‘cos the plot’s now not As advertised; The snappy dialogue’s banter Macheted to shreds of showoff rambling; I blurt some sort of sterile warning, To mention it’s a metaphor; a means of snatching back control from the chaps. But it isn’t. And where’s the wit? The wisdom? The quirks of colloquial characterisation? By now, the gun seemed out of place, The plot was shot to shit, shredded: Decaying away to circular Debates with racist relatives we were made to face, Til they succumbed to grumbling lungs. Even worse, the earlier curse Means what was real has been replaced With everyday treasure we’ll never get back. Understandably the actors want paying in cash, Now I’m stuck because I seem to have stabbed An Arts Council Tsar in an artisan caff during discussions at the development stage. So now all I’ve got is a plotless plot And a formless poem with no ending.

White Cliff He taught his kids to hate so well they hate him like they hate themselves; A curse on the sea! A curse on the sky! Despite the rain, the reservoir’s dry; there’s cash in his pocket but he still feels skint; An authority in things that no longer exist. Ooh, you could write a book about it all If it weren’t like hankering for tinned chopped pork. He’s stuck with hollowed out Dad Rock classics After The Car Wash: More Than A Keyring; A Fight At The Opera; a queasy feeling; No ‘I’ in denial on dead slaves’ shoulders Wearing their souls like skins hung from branches Of a strange fruit tree; A future in retreat. Ooh, you could write a book about it all the ball’s in the net but isn’t a goal; . A curse on cloudless skies! He cries: there’s no poetry in hate and maybe that’s why He kids himself it’s friendly bantz For poking dinghies; on glum cliffs he stands But doesn’t see the teeming sea, the promising sky And that great novel that he can’t write Just floated by. Ooh, you could write a book about it all Except you didn’t. Somewhere becoming pain

If you see an adult with a metal detector, you know that something’s wrong. If you see a fat bloke guard a statue, you know it won’t be long Before we’re conjured up for the angry throng We’re The Woke Mob, apparently, the cause of all your problems. We don’t have chants or banners, we just hum fey indie anthems. Tabloids tell you Be Afraid if we’re in your vicinity Battering police with leaflets on Toxic Masculinity We’re The Woke Mob, apparently, my mate just called me a TERF I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I think I kept my nerve. Right-wingers blame us all the time for weakness and sedition But we couldn’t run a raffle, let alone a revolution We’re the Woke Mob, apparently. Gammons on our facebook say we threaten their right to speak Though they say it all day, every day for nineteen days a week. They spout the same blind slogans, even though they’re thick as Bisto In the quaint belief we’re sent to war by Bernadine Evaristo. We’re the Woke Mob, apparently, made up mainly of teachers Veggies, writers, feminists and Church of England vicars, artists, singers, actors and folk who want to save the planet, frightening the crap out of fat blokes in Thanet. We’re the Woke Mob, apparently, We’re the Woke Mob, apparently, we stick in Rees-Mogg’s craw; We’re the decadent aliens with that red Volvo next door Apparently, we’re everywhere, a threat to Western values When we’re not upsetting Lawrence Fox or toppling slavers’ statues We’re the Woke Mob, apparently, beloved of right wing vultures. They peck the bones of half-truths, bleating on about Cancel Culture. They’re light on examples but heavy on the bile. Don’t mention inequality or they’ll scream and run a mile From the Woke Mob, apparently. Toby Young on Twitter, bless him, isn’t in any doubt; Inclusivity makes him feel left out. He thinks we should be silenced in the name of free speech But we’re deadly as the donkey rides on Scarborough’s North Beach. We’re the Woke Mob, apparently, because we hate injustice. I’m not sure quite what’s wrong with that; maybe ask George Eustice. We’re armed with chants and milkshakes, while they’ve got clubs and guns It’s always us that ends up killed, but they swear we’re the deadly ones. We’re the Woke Mob , apparently

Dominic Cummings is never wrong When you see a nurse run, you know something’s up. even mid-pandemic, Audiology hums: Hearing aid batteries return of post, appointments in a couple of days at most To fix your brittle tubes and then they do that clever move with little pliers While asking about your weekend. Five minutes later you’re on your way. When you see a nurse run, You know something’s up. Dom’s blog goes on and on and 1on About how right he always is. If not for The Blob, then his pet crazies Could sort it all out. If only! If only The people who follow orders The people who follow rules and procedures The people who don’t really matter Would just drop everything, Read His Sort of Books, Then Civil Service, local government, NHS could all be just dismantled And run by about 50 people, he reckons, If only they were His Sort Of People. When you see a nurse run, You know something’s up. On this enlightened morning, Crisp as a white linen shirt, A sprinting nurse arrives at a blob Of people round someone out like a light Arms out, walking stick brushed aside One nurse giving CPR, Another comforting the wife, Others busy sorting stretchers Following orders Following procedures The people who don’t write the papers Dom is never wrong about, Dropped everything, They sprinted out and cleared the decks As taxis slowed to rubberneck, followed procedures, followed protocols, followed training Tried everything they ever knew. When you see a nurse run, You know something’s up. When Dom got Covid, he’d headed for the hills As fast as a Range Rover full of alibis could carry him and his family of lies, And when his son got ill he didn’t take him to a maverick genius or statistician or mathematician who predicted something in Singapore. When you see a bunch of nurses run, You know that quantum supremacy theory Is less use than CPR and teamwork synergy The linen of the morning Crumples but trudges on gamely. The bloke selling veg at the entrance Cracks a cauliflower smile in a bid to appeal to The blob of smokers in pyjamas, Visitors all shot to pieces, Red-eyed texting grandmothers, Or people with hearing aids sorted As the best efforts of the assorted Bag of people who’d always drop everything Rather than smash it to see what happens Keep on doing what they do: Follow procedures follow training follow pathways follow protocols. See Dom. See Dom write. See Dom write a blog. See Dom write a blog about being right.