A Variegated Polar Bear

A further series of random musings.

Another Overpriced Abstraction
Three for the price of one.

Marx told me to do it,
Yeah, Marx told me to do it:
Carve a workers' paradise from the bones of bureaucrats,
Sculpt statues on every factory floor,
Scrawl platitudes across the mouths of the bourgeoisie,
And torch the bank, the mansion and the stock exchange.
Torch the bank, the mansion and the stock exchange.

Saatchi told me to do it,
Yeah, Saatchi told me to do it:
Build a bed and sleep in it,
Buy a book and spit on it,
Slice a calf and worship it,
And torch the portfolio, the museum and the gallery.
Torch the portfolio, the museum and the gallery.

God told me to do it,
Yeah, God told me to do it:
Fling whitewash on a bloodstained shawl,
Synthesise the concrete from the speculative,
Tattoo oracles on the skin of courtesans,
And torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue.
Torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue.
Torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue:
When God tells you to do it.

You're My Father and I Won't Renege It
For Kenneth.

You are my father and I don't deny it,
You are my father and I won't decry it,
You are my father and I don't denounce it,
You are my father and I won't renounce it.
In sickness as in health,
In poetry as in wealth:
You were my father, for better or worse,
For good or bad, for happy or sad,
In covert prose and overt verse.
You were my Father and now you're dead,
You're still my father in my head

Hark! The Chicken King Lives!
Almost a sonnet.

The Chicken King lives by the sea
In a castle made of sand.
The Chicken King has daughters three
For whom their father seeks the hand
Of a cockerel with a sense of fun,
A cockerel who will get things done,
And a cockerel who will never run
When wind and hail and lashing rain
And high tides threaten his domain.
For the Chicken King he is no fool,
And he has learned the golden rule:
That when your Kingdom's in the shit
Get your son-in-law to deal with it.

Russell J Turner - April 2010

'I Agree With NIck'

A series of random electoral missives.

A Love Letter to the Tories

Dead David.
You make me moist.
Not moist in a sexual way of course -
I'm not fucking mad
And besides, you're a married man.
No, I mean the 'I want to cry and wet myself at the same time'
Kind of moist.
You know what I mean.
The kind of moist which oozes out of your every orifice.
Ooh, now that really does make me moist.

A Message to Labour

Dear Gordon.
Oh dear Gordon.
Not looking too sharp, is it?
Best you hole yourself up in a cave in the Highlands
And twitter incoherently until it's all over.
And they give you a life peerage.
And all those lovely speaking engagements come rolling in.
Life's a bitch, eh?

An Ode to the Lib Dems

Dear Nick.
I don't really know much about you.
But that Vince Cable seems very nice -
Just the kind of mildly irreverent,
Slightly humorous chap we need running the economy.
Every body's favourite mad old uncle.
Shame you're the party leader and not him :(

Another Ode to the Lib Dems

Dear Nick.
I know a bit more about you now.
Apparently you're almost as popular as Churchill.
How the fuck did that happen?
But I still prefer Vince Cable.
Sorry :(

A Limerick for the Greens

Dear Caroline, you really are right-on,
As you scrap for their votes down in Bright-on,
For no-one should mess
With the Green high priestess,
The kind of girl I could excite-on.

A Note to UKIP

Dear whatever the fuck your name is.
I really want a suit just like yours.
So I too can look like an English gentleman.
Instead of a xenophobic twat.
Indistinguishable from all the other xenophobic twats.
Except for the colours of your rosette,
Which I will pin through your face if I get the chance.
Just to teach you a lesson.
So there.

A Haiku for the BNP

Dear Nick, I will vote
for your party when Hell free-
-zes over you cunt.

Russell J Turner - April 2010