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Category: Something is Rotten

365 • Exile and Extinction

365 • Exile and Extinction

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‘There was never much call for a builder,’
Wrote the last living soul on St Kilda.
Still, that was the trade
Of my aunt, an old maid
Who was known – to the seagulls – as ‘Hilda’.

As she drowsed in her orchard one day
An avalanche swept her away:
A torrent of trash –
Plastic, glitter and ash –
From a culture in final decay.

I never met my Aunt Claudie, who was adopted before birth (both hers and mine) and never left St Kilda (an archipelago I intend never to visit). Quite how she eked a living, after 1930’s evacuation of the island (during which numerous dogs were deliberately drowned), the rhyme does not attempt to explain; as for the ‘orchard’, credulity boggles. Nevertheless it’s impossible not to feel a great sympathy for this imaginary geriatric, unable – even in the remotest isolation from the rest of humanity – to evade obliteration by the filthy forces that shape a ‘civilisation’ she never tasted.

330 • Serial Killer

330 • Serial Killer

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Gents! Should you require an abortion,
Step into my clinic with caution.
Here tools are corroded,
Procedures outmoded,
And fees tantamount to extortion.

Surely a man has little to fear from a backstreet abortionist, especially one so unsparing in his own condemnation? Yet the very existence of such a clinic throws grave shadows on the integrity of the male of the species, who is very rarely the target of the hazardous procedure for which he is about to pay.

323 • Remote

323 • Remote

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This pod is controlled from a distance:
Press button to summon assistance.
Squirt sample in funnel.
Scream ‘Help me!’ down tunnel
Till system confirms your existence.

Obviously it is sensible that machines should validate the identity of their human masters, before coming to our rescue. We should applaud the Authorities who have programmed them so assiduously in their own image.

319 • Autumn Offensive

319 • Autumn Offensive

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It wasn’t much fun in the army.
The bullets and bombs didn’t scar me
But I hated the stench
From the opposite trench
Of stale sauerkraut and salami.

It is a shining privilege for the journeyman doggerelist to contribute this humble morsel to the glorious banquet already served up by the longer-established War Poets.

309 • All at sea

309 • All at sea

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Terrible typhoon in Tampa.
Washed right out to sea in the camper.
Weather in Florida
Couldn’t be horrider.
Lots of love, Granny and Grandpa.

A postcard, serendipitously delivered this morning, summarises the tempestuous climate back home, now that America is Great Again. How thankful I am – as an ex-pat – to be breathing a (marginally) less toxic atmosphere than my beleaguered countrymen at this time of count and counter-count, rhetoric and threatoric, and gaseous White House bombast. Is there any decent American who would not prefer, at this filthy hour, to be marooned offshore in a foundering RV that reeks of terrified Gray Nomads?

306 • Regicide

306 • Regicide

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With all common sense in abeyance
I summoned MacBeth, at a seance
(The usual procedure
The cards and the ouija)
But no one ‘came through’ (except Fleance).

In Shakespeare’s time the monarch was revered as God’s representative on earth, and to kill him (or her) was a sin without parallel. Today, of course, such potentates as we still acknowledge are more typically reviled as emissars of Satan. In our moments of deepest despair, therefore, we might wish to be possessed by some high-flying assassin, and to accomplish what needs to be accomplished; but in fact all we can muster is the spirit of an obscure runaway, remembered only for fleeing a scene of monstrous injustice – an epitome of cravenness in crisis.

302 • Against the day

302 • Against the day

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America, rise! There’s a war on
More epic than Gandalf v Sauron:
You can vote, by the 3rd,
For The Truth and The Word,
Or the megalomaniac moron.

An Amazon blurb in 2006 announced a new novel set in ‘a time of unrestrained corporate greed, false religiosity, moronic fecklessness, and evil intent in high places’. Some believed those words were written by the novelist himself, Thomas Pynchon. Others are certain that they were penned by a time-travelling fugitive from today’s Washington, where a farcical tragedy is unfolding in which we have all been given a part. If this were played upon a stage … I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. But fiction it ain’t. We gotta get shot of the Ramblin’ Man. I’m pynchin’ myself, but I don’t bite my tongue: You hear me Tolkien to ya?

282 • Discharge

282 • Discharge

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“This golden-haired Man in the Moon,
This fat-headed, pus-filled balloon,
This bag of black bile
Laced with venomous guile:
His discharge can not come too soon.”

Adapted from last night’s two-hour call with my one-time class-mate back home. No idea who or what he was ranting about … I just enjoyed hearing his rage … hardly needed a phone … [thanks bigly, Hooch]

281 • Incompetence

281 • Incompetence

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Please note: your chiropodist, Pete,
Will be shot, should he enter our street.
He made such a botch
Of repairing your watch
He sha’n’t get his hands on my feet.

It’s all-too easy to suspect across-the-board incompetence when, in fact, ineptitude has been proven in one field only. The luckless ‘Pete’ here may indeed be a jackass-of-all-trades, but what would become of US society if we took pot-shots at every bungling nincompoop who came to our attention?

264 • Snake in the Boudoir

264 • Snake in the Boudoir

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Coition continued full-tilt
Till a cobra crawled out of the quilt;
This dampened the heat
In the Honeymoon Suite
And a quart of Veuve Clicquot got spilt.

Ordinary folk have little to fear from the proverbial ‘snake in the grass’, because the snake in the grass is minding his or her own business, in the same way as a bridal couple does on their wedding night. The non-proverbial ‘snake in the bedding’, however, is another story, and its kinship with the Garden of Eden narrative – from which humanity didn’t emerge particularly well – is not easily overlooked. For those who will wish to reflect on this matter a little, until we meet next Sunday, a suggested topic: ‘This House believes we should all be a lot happier if the cobra remained in the quilt next time: out of sight, out of mind.’

216 • Carruthers

216 • Carruthers

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I was baiting a bear named Carruthers
At a church of the Carmelite Brothers.
I’m ferociously strong
So he didn’t last long,
But I guess they have plenty of others.

Musculature and morale falter infallibly in captive animals: it’s not the strength of the vainglorious aggressor we marvel at here, but the weakness of his victim. Monks may be ‘known for their unpleasant habits’, as the old joke goes: but should we perhaps applaud this compassionate Brotherhood for allowing its bears to be slain outright? Worldlier bear-baiting gangs are obliged, by commercial imperative, to keep their victims alive, to suffer – for our delight – day after day.

208 • Body and/or Soul

208 • Body and/or Soul

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There are Driverless Cars in our town.
Small wonder pedestrians frown:
One went for a jog
With her Bodiless Dog
And a Riderless Bike knocked it down.

Just as Modern Man has dispensed with the idea of the soul, so his cleverest machines now rove at large without their once-crucial guiding hands. Emblematically, in this Sunday’s searching parable, we witness the extinguishing of a Spirit Companion (easily the best kind of dog, in that it does not slobber, yell, bite, excrete or fornicate indiscriminately) by exactly such a futile, mechanical zombie.

204 • United State

204 • United State

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‘Now we’ve pictured the Earth from the Moon,
All Nations shall Sing the Same Tune.
All Rifts shall be Whole
As we Share the One Goal.’
Great words – but I hope we start soon.

This Utopian creed, this Moon-Age Daydream, was overwritten, as the 60s’ influence waned, by warmongers and capitalists – the enemies of humanity – to the point of obliteration. Half a century on, however, our invisible ally, coronavirus, rides in like the cavalry with a blistering counter-attack … and we’re united once more.

198 • Pillow talk

198 • Pillow talk

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I was giving myself CPR
While two gunslingers trashed my guitar.
Yet, perverse as it seems,
I’d give forty such dreams
For the way that things actually are.

At first glance, this verbatim account suggests the heart-stopping hold any delicate possession exerts on us. At second glance, it appears impenetrably stupid. Yet, as an afterthought, perhaps we should ponder the worries and woes of waking life, and deplore the feverish parodies of it that are discharged by a toxic subconscious as we reluctantly escape from sleep.

189 • Dr Campbell recollected

189 • Dr Campbell recollected

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Our Deputy Dean, Dr Campbell
Told us ‘God’s out to get those who gamble’.
Yet she died, in a bet,
Playing Russian Roulette
Which the School needed skill to unscramble.

This somewhat garish episode from childhood taught us more about adult hypocrisy than we could have learnt from any number of bookish fables or homilies. The school Governors reacted to a popular employee’s death by proclaiming a string of revisionist accusations … how she had ‘lied to the Board who appointed her’ … how her college degree had been ‘incorrectly specified’ … how dates of her previous employment ‘contained inaccuracies’. In short, parents could not blame the school for appointing such a dissolute daredevil to be their children’s moral guardian, because ‘Donna Campbell was not the person she purported to be.’ Well, which of us is? Even as a child I was mesmerised by the Establishment’s feeble catalogue of squirming, pedantic and ineffectual exculpations. Hats off, say I, to a memorable teacher, whose gift for non-verbal demonstration imparted such significant life-lessons.

186 • Potus Alert (6)

186 • Potus Alert (6)

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I’ll tell you what makes for good neighbours:
It’s not any wall-building labours.
It’s missiles piled high
Backed by spies in the sky
And ominous rattling of sabres.

It’s supposedly Independence Day back home, but tragically we are still living in chains, shackled to vindictive incompetence, risible, solipsistic ignorance, and benighted self-delusion.

175 • Infesting Voltaire

175 • Infesting Voltaire

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At the start of the soirée Voltaire
Had several large worms in his hair.
As the evening wore on
I observed that they’d gone,
Though I dread to imagine quite where.

Some readers will suppose that our narrator has been hallucinating: possibly the soirée itself, or the celebrated host’s writhing hairdo, or – most likely – the vanishing of a tonsorial infestation. But let’s not be guilty of underthinking a righteous parable, in which even the lowliest creatures – like rats, instinctively quitting a sinking ship – desert the living corpse of a shameless anti-Semite.

133 • Potus alert (5)

133 • Potus alert (5)

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Was ever a leader alive
More ripe for his P45
Than the 45th Potus?
So who are these voters
Who want his regime to survive?

‘P45’ means different things in different territories; back home, it’s that contemptible clown in the White House; here in Britain it’s a ‘pink slip’ document you receive from your employer when your contract terminates. The rhyme above, on the occasion of the Nebraska Primaries, optimistically brings the two meanings together in a transAtlantic alliance.

108 • In the dark

108 • In the dark

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Enough of your ifs, buts and maybes,
I need to know when I’ll catch rabies.
Please, Government analysts,
Pundits and panellists,
Treat us like brothers, not babies.

Ever feel you’re being patronised, kept in the dark about the virus crisis, by the vested interests that run the media or stand to profit from the pandemic? More comfortable, isn’t it, than recognising your histrionic worries for what they truly are – the atavistic bleating of the self-obsessed toddler you continue to cherish at the core of your being.

090 • Evasive inaction

090 • Evasive inaction

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On balance, I share your dismay
At the meteorite heading this way.
Such rumours aren’t new
But if this one is true
We’d be wise to start packing today.

Oh, these Overgrown Etonians with their sang congelé in the face of a population-threatening calamity, acknowledged by all neighbouring Governments! Where was the decisiveness, the adrenaline? This entitled lassitude, this phlegmatic indifference to the Commoners’ Fate, shall not go forgotten.

067 • Empty Shelves

067 • Empty Shelves

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Slim pickings … the neighbours are dying …
I’ve left it quite late … panic-buying …
Found five plastic forks …
And this small bag of corks …
But nothing you’d call ‘death-defying’ …

Corona Virus is a gift to the right-wing media that elected the present UK government; amid their craftily-orchestrated furore of hand-washing and panic-buying, who has headspace to worry about the vicious incompetence of Our Leaders? Nobody sane believes that Shopping will Save the Day … but who has the courage not to stock up on indispensibles, ‘just in case’?

060 • Leap lines

060 • Leap lines

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The lemming’s reputed to leap
From clifftops, to die in the deep.
But none of that’s true,
It’s what Britishers do
When they follow some self-serving creep
And vote ‘Leave’ while their minds are asleep.

Leap Day entitles the poet to employ a Leap Line, the better to evoke the Leap of Faith, lately made by our British allies, into the icy depths of worldwide contempt and opprobrium.

058 • The new tobacco

058 • The new tobacco

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The roll-out of 5G’s complete!
Humanity’s stupidest feat!
For most of my life I
Have hidden from Wi-Fi
But now it pollutes every street.

Smoking, the cool trend of a previous generation, is now proven lethal. Likewise this shiny communications technology, foisted on us by profiteering corporations, will probably show its true hand in years to come.

046 • Potus alert (3)

046 • Potus alert (3)

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“My wall will be tall, and much finer,
Than even the Great Wall of China.
Gonna fly to Beijing
Meet with President Ming
And head-hunt his brilliant designer.”

The author apologises once again for having befouled readers’ imaginations with such a contemptible waste of DNA. Should the speaker take that flight, it would surely be a heartbreaking tragedy for the world if he were to succumb to the current plague.

043 • Infiltrator (4)

043 • Infiltrator (4)

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Before I arrived in this county
I hoodwinked a gullible Mountie:
‘You steal on the sly,
I turn a blind eye,
We share ten percent of the bounty.’

We’ve met this conniving character before. The remainder of the ‘bounty’ will presumably be salted away in some Offshore Fund. [See also here]

035 • Westminster

035 • Westminster

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No wonder this country feels callous,
While its Parliament plots in a ‘Palace’.
If you’re democrats, meet
On some ornery street
Where the air isn’t dripping with malice.

So I rail against my adoptive country? I rail against my home country too.

031 • Infiltrator (3)

031 • Infiltrator (3)

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Before I arrived in this town
I traded my clothes with a clown.
Written off as a berk,
I may openly work
To turn the whole world upside down.

For the day my adopted country throws out the baby with the bathwater. The guile of the demagogue matching the gullibility of the person in the street. [Related story]

030 • Island mentality

030 • Island mentality

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Why, hark! ’Tis the hornet-detector:
‘Intruders at large in this sector!
We don’t want our honey
To taste or smell funny.
Go home, and stop nicking our nectar.’

Island Mentality in a nutshell. The xenophobic bee whose words we report seems to have scant understanding of the mechanisms of his own livelihood. Free movement of ‘outsiders’ is clearly about to end.

029 • Infiltrator (2)

029 • Infiltrator (2)

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Before I arrived in this city
I wrote to the Central Committee
Announcing my scheme
To rescind their regime
And abscond with the keys to the kitty.

Yes, indeed, announce your crimes well in advance. Then, once you’ve perpetrated them, the witless electorate will revere you as a person of your word. [Related story]

009 • Press Barons

009 • Press Barons

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I pity all those who aborted
My plan, unexpectedly thwarted,
‘To succour the needy
With blood from the greedy’
Which not one Press Baron supported.

Well maybe one Press Baron did support it, but regrettably our metre doesn’t readily permit that level of precision.

006 • Nero

006 • Nero

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For Boris, the Emperor Nero
Was clearly a personal hero:
Self-centred, uncouth
A stranger to truth
And with street-credibility zero.

I blanch to have polluted readers’ minds with such a contemptible waste of DNA.

001 • Something is rotten

001 • Something is rotten

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Adrift in a city of fools
Where all the king’s horses are mules
We are drenched in deceit
From an ersatz élite
While callous incompetence rules.

Happy New Year to all. This is perhaps more solemn and direct than I expected for a first report, but My Dog Errol insists I should stick with whatever’s in mind as I wake.