Hurricanes by Marc Woodward

A hurricane hammers down the houses
while the silly Trumpeter blows his horn.

His people fret about phantom Muslims
and the Mexicans hired to cut their lawns

– for they’ve been told by the Trumpeter’s Fox
that the sick are just work-shy or shirking

and it’s all the hateful foreigners’ fault
that no one now in Detroit is working.

He wants his people all living in fear
– fear of an enemy over the sea

and buying guns to kill one another:
see the blood flow in the land of the free!

And what kind of Stupid thinks it’s ok
a weekend gambler can arm to the teeth

with military guns designed for a war
then, from a hotel, strafe the people beneath?

Oh, don’t worry – I’ll tell you the answer:
a man who’s afraid of the NRA,

a tweeting fool so weak and unrooted
a hurricane soon will blow him away.

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Fly-Tipping Point by Marc Woodward

This is where we sit to watch the night come in
ever since Trumputin bombed our English towns.
We emptied freezers, ate our neighbours pets.
Now in the bird-settling, when once we sat down

to be tamed by tv shows we can’t recall,
we recline here and watch the weeds approach
knowing soon their rope will be a ligature
that tightly winds itself around our throats.

..

MW

The SS Call by Marc Woodward

Good morning. We’re from the FSS.
The Federal Sensitivity Service.
Mr Blake? Do you mind if we come in?
Great home you have – a real writer’s pad.
Shall I remove my boots? They’re a bit bloody…
Ha, just kidding Bill!  Can I call you Bill?

We understand you’re a poet?
And you’ve written about the President?
“Scrawling on the Mexican wall.”  Funny.
We’ve seen the poem. It’s awful by the way.
Everyone says so. We have critics who know.
English teachers, lecturers, the best guys.

Now we’re all for free speech you understand.
But you’d agree it’s not good to offend?
Those Minorities: The gays, blacks, cripples…
They get hurt easy. You wouldn’t hurt them –
you’re a sensitive kinda guy we know.
A real Californian snowflake. Yeah?

The President is sensitive too. He gets hurt.
How many presidents are there? Just one.
Now that’s a true minority. Poor man.
So he’s asked us to talk poetry with you.
Love. Nature. Kittens. All really good subjects.

The President? Not such a good subject.
My colleague and I are gonna help you
with your editing. Is that your Mac?
Nice piece of kit. Mind if I do some work?
I type with a bat. You’ll enjoy watching.
Thumper (cute name eh?) is gonna edit
your mindset. You’ll enjoy that less I’m afraid.

Bull by Marc Woodward

There will be unicorns.

For everyone.

Wonderful unicorns. It will be great.

And my unicorns are better.

I’ve made them better.

Let me tell you – white gets in a state.

So my unicorns are black.

I’m not racist. No, not me.

Some of my best ideas are black.

And here’s another fact:

They don’t have just one horn.

One-horns are for Democrats.

Losers.

My unicorns have two horns.

They have two horns and they’re black.

They’re better.

I’ve made unicorns great again.

Letter to the Great British Bake Off by Marc Woodward

..

Dear Bake Off,
..
I do hope you can help me?
I’m sure you’re very busy
with the move to Channel 4
but I want a certain recipe.
..
It’s not your Brangelina Split
– I know it’s very popular
for the tranquillising effect
but I hate the sickly aftertaste.
..
No,
I want that cake that’s baked and baked
till it’s burnt to a smoking crumble,
then divided between contestants
and smashed up like an Eton Mess.
..
Was it called the Aleppo?
..
Your help would be appreciated
and I’m sorry to hear about you
losing your best presenters.
It must feel like losing an arm.
Or a child.
..

One Down by Marc Woodward

When the news came out
that Donald Trump
was behind 9/11
so Trump tower
would be the tallest building
no one was really surprised.
After the initial fuss
Republican voters
pointed out that
Sure, it was a bad thing to do –
but at least he was a man of action
not like that Muslim Obama
who’d never even built his own tower
and didn’t have a pilot’s licence either.
And also: wasn’t that falling man
a Mexican? Just sayin’…”

Larry’s View by Marc Woodward

He leaned forward in his chair:

“It’s kinda like a favourite book.
One you pick up from the shelf,
look at the pretty pictures,
enjoy the charming end
and then put back
knowing it’s not your story –
it’s just a story.

Well, that’s how it was for me.
Before the injunction.
I’d watch quietly from a parked car.
Take a photo or two.
Never trouble her.
Just took an interest;
liked to see a new outfit.
Or what she’d choose
if the weather changed.

Ok, I rang a few times
just to hear her say ‘hello’.
Her voice is so sweet, you know?
Kinda trembly when she
answers the phone.
I didn’t say anything,
just hung up –
figured she’d think it was a wrong number.

Of course it freaked her out.
Stupid of me really.
She called the police,
they traced the call to me,
and that’s it: deep shit.

So now I keep away from that part of town.
Don’t call, don’t write.
She’s got her Facebook set to super private.
La di da.
She thinks I can’t see.
But I’m pretty smart, it’s a game to me.
So I found a way. I knew her mum’s email.
Guessed her Facebook password.
She’s got two kids
and a black cat called Mr Tibbs.
Too easy really.

Her Christmas photos were sweet.
She looked so pretty in that jumper
– and she’s always looked good in jeans.
I could imagine being there.
“Another scotch Larry? Don’t mind if I do!
Chocolates? Well, why not?”
TV. Scrabble. Twister perhaps? Mmm…

So like I say, just a little voyeurism.
Doesn’t really hurt. Remote viewing.
Ah, too remote sadly.

Still, there’s a lot of darkness this time of year,
a lot of darkness…”

Shame by Marc Woodward

Today
I’m against myself
for my weakness,
my non-confrontational
cowardice.

Last night
this man said to me
at the nightclub urinal:
Bloody ‘ell – a Bog Wog
in Torquay?!
Ain’t seen one of ’em
‘ere before!

The black guy
sitting on a chair
by the sink
with his towels,
soap and scent
would have
clearly heard.

Stunned, I replied:
Er… I don’t know what to say…
and at that moment I didn’t.

I do now.
By addressing me with your
blokey-jokey turn of phrase,
you co-opt me into your racism.
By not objecting
I became guilty
through association.

I should have turned
sideways to you
so your leg got my
full stream of piss
and called you what you are:
a vile racist.

But also you are a huge thug
with a cropped head and swollen mug,
so I stayed silent – and to my shame
I worry even now I’d do the same…

Larry’s View by Marc Woodward

He leaned forward in his chair:

“It’s kinda like a favourite book.
One you pick up from the shelf,
look at the pretty pictures,
enjoy the charming end
and then put back
knowing it’s not your story –
it’s just a story.

Well, that’s how it was for me.
Before the injunction.
I’d watch quietly from a parked car.
Take a photo or two.
Never trouble her.
Just took an interest;
liked to see a new outfit.
Or what she’d choose
if the weather changed.

Ok, I rang a few times
just to hear her say ‘hello’.
Her voice is so sweet, you know?
Kinda trembly when she
answers the phone.
I didn’t say anything,
just hung up –
figured she’d think it was a wrong number.

Of course it freaked her out.
Stupid of me really.
She called the police,
they traced the call to me,
and that’s it: deep shit.

So now I keep away from that part of town.
Don’t call, don’t write.
She’s got her Facebook set to super private.
La di da.
She thinks I can’t see.
But I’m pretty smart, it’s a game to me.
So I found a way. I knew her mum’s email.
Guessed her Facebook password.
She’s got two kids
and a black cat called Mr Tibbs.
Too easy really.

Her Christmas photos were sweet.
She looked so pretty in that jumper
– and she’s always looked good in jeans.
I could imagine being there.
“Another scotch Larry? Don’t mind if I do!
Chocolates? Well, why not?”
TV. Scrabble. Twister perhaps? Mmm…

So like I say, just a little voyeurism.
Doesn’t really hurt. Remote viewing.
Ah, too remote sadly.

Still, there’s a lot of darkness this time of year,
a lot of darkness…”

The Statue of Liberty was made in France by Marc Woodward

Two Frenchman made
‘Liberty enlightening the world’
her right hand raised
with a blazing torch.
At her feet: broken chains.
Below her left arm: a tablet of laws.
Not a Bible
Not a Koran
Not a Torah.

Liberty in this sad night
show us rational law
shine your freedom light
and help cast off
all chains of hatred,
poverty, religion and fear.

I call you in the names of Eiffel, Bartholdi,
and all proud French people non-secular and free.

Rocombe Lake by Marc Woodward

I scream a stone across the ice
just where the Jones’s fat boy fell.
The ice was thin, it swallowed him,
his frightened face; his echoed yell.

I showed the copper up the lane
but didn’t follow to her door.
I only wanted to be gone
and skate on frozen ponds no more.

We kept away from Rocombe Lake,
found other hobbies would suffice.
Now on this bitter New Year’s Day,
I scream a stone across the ice.

A Sinkhole Opens Up In London by Marc Woodward

Whoompf!  Ta dum!!
Gone like that!  Hole in one!
Intent on having fun
Lucifer went shopping:
found himself a bargain bin
of greed, self interest and sin.
With a Mephistophelic  whoop
and a metaphorical scoop,
he opened up the ground around
and Parliament fell right on down.Ad men, bad men,
MPs, lobbyists,
the whole damned
sordid lot of them,
all begging on their knees.
And then for a little twist
he also took – despite their pleas –
the shagging Under Secretaries.

Lack of Government
could have meant
chaotic anarchy:
behaviour most depraved.

In fact people were just fine
as they took it for a sign
that, after all, there IS a God
– and every one of them behaved!