THE REVOLUTION WILL BE ADVERTISED

For MF

The Gulf War will not take place
The Gulf War is not really taking place
The Gulf War did not take place

This tastes like the real thing,
says our man in the cotton shirt
from a desert jeep near Tripoli
on the trail of the Arab Spring.

The freedom frighters have skewered Gaddafi
and Union Brand bombs made it possible!
Scotland votes No!

In other news the central highway
is closed in Hong Kong.
Commuters are advised to make alternative
travel arrangements to avoid
the sit-ins protesting our glorious executive.

We want more democracy,
says the Sprite drinking man.
We want freedom to make more money
and buy luxury foreign goods,
to be the captains of our own industry.

Even the President wears
V for Vendetta.

In Tripoli things have taken turns
from Baghdad to worse.
Militant ISILamists have damaged
the corporate image.
IEDeas tremor under the asphalt.
Scorpions scramble.

DO NOT ADUST YOUR SET!
This is reality breaking through.

After the following messages and beheadings
blanket coverage will resume.

SAVING THE LANGUAGE

Cunt. A word that's under threat
from overuse.
I'd like to save it for the Cunt
that thumped his door
through at sunrise on Friday morning,
and the Cunt that flashed the warrant.
The Cunt that held the gun
to his head
as he knelt,
fingers interlaced behind his head.

The Cunts that put him up
at Her Majesty's Pleasure <Cunt>
without her medication.
That Cunt doctor that prescribed it
and kept his gob shut.

What about the pilot? Cunt.
That warmed the engine
while fifty shivering fuckers
shivered - frightened
in the terminal at Heathrow.
No Cunt asked to see their passport,
they just waved them through,
the Cunts.

But funnily enough, I wondered
did some daft Cunt stand
and wave his arms in English,
Cunting on
about the exit doors,
life jackets, the seatbelt light,
not smoking
as if they were all Cunts.

The Home Secretary
and all her junior ministers are Cunts.
Shuffling and signing papers,
not even reading them
or thinking of the names as lives
that live among us -
"Saving the English."

Let's us save us for ourselves
and not them Cunts.
Let's us save us
From them Cunts.

PASSPORT INTERVIEW (OR THE "ARE YOU BROWN?" TEST)

Imagine we are at your house;
what colour is the front door?
When we open the front door,
what can we see?
Give me the guided tour.

Where are you going? Anywhere hot?
And how long for? And who with?
Does her husband know the pair of you
are carrying on like this?

What does your mother do?
And how much does your housemate earn
a week? What was the balance
on your father's last bank statement?
A dinnerlady then.

Excuse me a moment please.
I just need to take two of these.
I have a migraine coming on.

What have you eaten in the last four days?
When did you last dream?
When did you last have sex?
Or commit adultery?
What do you wear to bed?
Describe yourself naked.

Place your finger on the fingerprint reader.
This photo seems to be in order.
I'm sure we'll let you across the border.
If you'd been brown
we'd have given you murder.

Imagine we are at your house.

MR FARAGE AND THE TIDE

Mr. Farage looked at the coast and bawled,
through a BBC megaphone
sponsored by Gazprom, at the sea.

All this water, coming over here,
taking British shingle from British beaches!

Kelp coming up through the stone.
One high tide.
Mr. Farage plays Cnut
in his highchair, throwing all his rattles
at the oncoming flood 'til it turns
and hangs him dry.

A conference of molluscs applauds.
Crabs lick their claws and descend.

MR. FARAGE APPLIES THE GREASE

probably you might say that
it was possibly racist perhaps
you may infer homophobia in any 

major party there are rotten 
apples threatening
to spoil the upset cart but look

no-one holds a clean slate
and the donations were received 
in good faith by the treasurer potentially

you could dig up dirt but the fact
remains that possibly probably
you could infer or say that maybe

SWEET CHARITY

Dear Mr. Bates, please may I
apply to your foundation
for funds to build a hospital
in our country. You could visit
with a television crew
once the building was completed.
We might even name a ward
for you so you can come
in a helicopter and be photographed
speaking to mothers
nursing skeletal infants,
awaiting AIDS medication
and food. This one was raped
by militia after they had butchered
her son and husband
in the village square. Mr. Bates,
if you could not build a hospital,
perhaps a factory will do.
Our government is offering good rates
to foreign investors with a mind
to make our country great. Our people
are desperate for work
and money and food. Electronics
is the future, Mr. Bates, and our country
has the skills but not the means.
A six-figure sum could build a workshop
and a school. We would not ask
for much by way of wages.
I'm sure you'll find our terms
competitive. Think of all we could earn.

The ladies fan their sweat with jeweled hands
and sip Tom Collins. The gentleman kick back
with gin and slims, smoking finest Havanas.
They tip the waiters handsomely,
easing the pain of their savagery.

IMMIGRANTS

The shores are overrun with immigrants, flooding in
on high tide with the boats. False widows
hiding out in banana consignments and crayfish,
bigger than the native species, invading streams
the length and breadth of England. In some counties,
catching non-natives is legal due to the threat
to the indigenous white claws. They hate our laws.

Off the motorway, bodies swing at regular junctures.
Flies dizzy the corpses and beyond, at the horizon,
a distant city glows like an explosion. You drive fast.
Your headlamps, worrying the country lane hedge-bottoms,
riddle hares into the road. You are coming Deep South 
to the white folk. Here, their blood-cross flag swears
something gonna happen. Somehow.

SHIPBUILDING MK II

I'm torn in two unequal parts by news
that one thousand seven hundred and seventy five lives
will be decimated by job cuts. In Portsmouth
shipbuilding will cease. Yet, can I grieve
that hands will not be put to beat hulls to carry
death machines to sand filled countries? It was not Bill
or Mark or Ged that gave diktats to the Middle East.
They just hit the metal where the man telled them.
These could be pleasure steamers
for all they care. The profits of their labours move
like dunes at night between the wealthy and the powerful.
It is sad. The harbour slimed with seaweed is silent save the smack 
of waves against the concrete breakers where hammers once clanked. 

BONFIRE NIGHT

I'll turn Fawkes under rain slicked leather,
humping the explosive in a waterproof rucksack,
my dimmed torchlight making for the cellar.

My fingers thread the wires, red and black,
round the silver pins on the ignition device.
I've rigged the whole basement; front and back.

Tonight I'll exterminate the filching lice,
in their Armani and ermine supping their scotch.
The bastards above are parasites.

And when the fireworks blow I'll stand and watch
the bursts, the sparks that flame and ember
until Parliament is razed by white-hot scourge.

Every fifth of November I know they'll remember
that lions can bite when kicked from slumber.

SLEEPING WITH THE DINOSAUR

for BC, MF, AC, JMG, SG, SM, SD, BM, CF, GF, GT, MG, SB, JR, NF, AN, SJ, BW, AG, LCB

We haven't woken up. The dinosaur's still here.
Ireland, Greece, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Cyprus, who's next?
I wouldn't really blame U2 entirely, but still...
We both work and struggle; are we wrong?
Ireland, Greece, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Cyprus, who's next?
Lucky to be working, but still struggling on.
We both work and struggle; are we wrong?
Money's too tight to mention, just an illusion.

Lucky to be working, but still struggling on.
We are lambs slaughtered for the bankers' sins.
Money's too tight to mention, just an illusion.
We've been fucked over by some elite psychopaths.
We are lambs slaughtered for the bankers' sins.
This is why I get no pay rise.
We've been fucked over by some elite psychopaths.
Bankers sank us and now we pay shit.

This is why I get no pay rise.
Break off your landlord's nose and sell it.
Bankers sank us and now we pay shit.
Counting every penny because every penny counts now.
Break off your landlord's nose and sell it.
Turn down the downturn. Frivolity. Spend. Spend. Spend
Counting every penny because every penny counts now.
Infinite growth on a finite planet is insane.

Turn down the downturn. Frivolity. Spend. Spend. Spend.
Pay frozen for 4 years! Where's my bonus?
Infinite growth on a finite planet is insane.
Economic plummet has Great Britain on her knees!
Pay frozen for 4 years! Where's my bonus?
Many paying for the greed of a few.
Economic plummet has Great Britain on her knees!
Banks, unregulated, made hay at expense of poor.

Many paying for the greed of a few.
My dead cat would make a better Chancellor.
Banks, unregulated, made hay at expense of poor.
Stealing from the poor, 'banking' up the rich.
My dead cat would make a better Chancellor.
I wouldn't really blame U2 entirely, but still...
Stealing from the poor, 'banking' up the rich.
We haven't woken up. The dinosaur's still here.

DER SPIEGEL 41/1980

for RB

Outside the Festival Hall: Rachel Brodie, 11,
wanted to do with what was happening to
the Labour Party Conference in Blackpool 
Winter Gardens to nothing,

though their parents as delegates, but participated. 
With youthful idealism, they distributed 
a pamphlet to which they protested
against the 'sexism' of a Labour badge

that is offered for sale since one and a half years
everywhere: "Ditch the bitch".

ELECTION PERMS

Liberal Labour Tory

Labour Tory Liberal

Tory Liberal Labour

Labour Liberal Tory

Tory Labour Liberal

Liberal Tory Labour

BURN DOWN THE JOBCENTRE PLUS

for RB

Burn down the Jobcentre Plus
The Jobcentre has to burn
They've got no jobs for none of us
The Jobcentre has to burn

Burn down the Jobcentre Plus
I'll get the matches and petrol
Burn it quick without a fuss
I'll get the matches and petrol

Burn down the Jobcentre Plus
Burn those bastard machines
They've got no jobs for none of us
Burn those bastard machines

Burn down the Jobcentre Plus

I'll get the matches and petrol

Burn it quick without a fuss

I'll get the matches and petrol

Incited by this article: click here

THE TEMPERATURE AT WHICH PAPER BURNS

for the Freedom Bookshop

At 451 fahrenheit or 450
or a little higher or a little lower
paper combusts. Though its contents

may send the thermometer gun
racing up through russet, cerise
to white. Paper burns fast and fires

can come quickly out of control.
If a bookshop were to burn
the metal stacks would buckle

under the pressure of the words
burst into scalding smoke,
scorching the walls, refusing to choke.


Read more about this: here

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THE BALLAD OF CAIT REILLY

for IDS

They told her it was training

and would only last a day,

but she stacked shelves for two weeks

and didn't get her pay.

She raised it with the JSA
in her fortnightly interview,
but they told her to get off her arse
or they'd cut her benefits too.

So she raised it in the High Court,
with Mr Justice Foskett, judge,
who banged his gavel down and said,
"Get to work you bludge!"

They told her it was training
and would only last a day,
but she stacked shelves for two weeks
and didn't get her pay.

So she raised it in appeal court,
said the government broke laws,
said the ministers were slavers
funding profit with the poor.

Lord Pill, Sir Stanley Burnton
and Lady Justice Black
concurred forced labour's unlawful
and sent the regulations back.

They told her it was training
and would only last a day,
but she stacked shelves for two weeks
and didn't get her pay.

Now Cait Reilly is the victor
but the government won't repent
and to Poundland and to Tesco
the jobseekers are sent.

They'll paint them all as scroungers
in the Torygraph and Mail,
but let's fight them with Cait Reilly
and ensure their workfare fails.

They told her it was training
and would only last a day,
but she stacked shelves for two weeks
and she made the ministers pay.


Read Cait Reilly on today's decision here

ROCKETS

In Jerusalem they could see the flashes

of the fireworks they volleyed

at Palestine. They were Roman

Candles, Catherine Wheels and Air Bombs.

I counted four traffic light flares that returned

over the border towards the Knesset;

red — amber — green — amber.

The upturned faces burned in the afterglow.

PLAGUES

It was the machines that went rust
and collapsed into lakes and ran red
among the boat oil and chemical spill.

Sumped in the marshlands, the mayflies
were swarming with sex and the frogs
multiplied like oleaginous oligarchs.

They struck up the dust with the drill,
but it was their fingers that itched
at the bites in the sand grained heat.

Whether it was oxen or mosquitoes
or tsetse or goats or wasps,
we flinched some at hooves and wings.

It came from the lab and killed horses,
dogs, livestock and pigs.
The pyres released virals into the crops.

What we have burned. What is ash.
It is fallout. A snowfall of radium
that dusts our skin with boils and rash.

Strange weather that coats
the Statue of Liberty in ice and snow.
Hurricanes belching from cooling towers.

Stripped cornfields. Grasslands stripped.
The factories stripped of their guts.
The workers stripped. Stripped bodies gassed.

They shone so many lights there were shadows
in every direction. So much light
it was impossible to see through. Dark truth.

If you painted lamb's blood on your door,
a lamb died in vain. Man made the future
and it swept them aside like a scourge.

Listen to the poem here: http://soundcloud.com/gavin-hudson-1/plagues

THE SILENT MAJORITY

I went for them in working class towns,

where I'd heard their curtains twitched

at the sight of an asian or black man

bicycling through the main street.

Were they a whisper? Because I couldn't

hear their complaints in the kebab

shop or curry house, the drunks

were more focused on Bhuna and rice

and the police were untroubled

by women (whose husbands were out

at the rugby club dinner) in fear

of their vaginas being penetrated

forcibly by Polish migrants with vodka

laced breath. Their lights went out

at 10 and 11 pm and they went to bed.

Silence descended on the town like a shawl

on the shoulders of a sleep-dead aunt

and the majority snored.

TSUNAMI

for RB

It came out of the sky and over the tops of buildings and up

out the sewers and smashed into windows and doors. A bailiff

that swept away families, spilled into gutters, collecting their debris —

a pushchair, a repossessed car, a settee, cutlery, carpets —

ripped off the floorboards, the walls, bare concrete and broken

to fists of rubble. A rising onrush of misery; batons and helmets,

a crash of riot shields thundering inland and northwards.

Some say the levees were purposefully weakened, that sluice gates

had not undergone the mandatory checks, flood defence budgets

were cut. Four years of waters continuing to rise, it's swim or die

or be eaten by the sharks, contract dysentery or starve or buy a speedboat.