On The Front Line Tribunal
The speeches sway, turn, dance, sing then lie,
A lost soldier drawn dense into a military court tribunal,
An former army officer, naval worker, transferred over,
Barracked into tribunal rooms,
Talked down to, talked up, beaten, accused.
Morning abuse, holidays in the desert sun a distant memory,
Army fatigues lost in sand seen on wing-mirror recordings,
So many repeated facts, so many terms, harsh tactics.
Flashbulb memories, story tree time into hindsight and character;
House prices hiking up, rental impossibilities –
Born in Brixton, broken in the Royal Navy,
Born in Aberdeen, destroyed in the British Army,
Politicised justice, buried in a tribunal.
Raided, raised down, ruined into silence,
Out sleeping rough, questions to be asked.
A game of cards if his luck holds,
A bullying class fable. Forest of deceit.
So the soldier asks: “Will boredom’s door handle
Ever open to escape and pastures afresh?”
No wake up calls needed now, Nostradamus correct.
Mabus becoming King.
Morning Delivery
A faint blue sky dawns,
Freezing winter rain soaks the inner-city roads,
Lorries turning left right, up down,
5.50am South London dreaming,
M25 reckoning wrecked time,
At Sainsbury’s a shaft of new light
In newly fitted pristine shelves,
M&S lift shafts drive a fear…
Night drive south on the M1,
Sometimes somehow souls cling on,
Living in a lorry, rent unaffordable,
This democracy,
This crushing wheel-rim drama.
Fast asleep dividend shareholders warm in bed
Dreaming of sun-kissed golf courses.
In Deptford the lorry’s lift jammed,
Manual unload time, uncaring passers by,
Mabus flying high in the sky looking on.
Echoes on Holloway Road
(Poem for Joe Meek)
The Emirates Stadium glows a deep bright red, night skies new city space dreaming,
Glistening high above houses and flats, a modern architectural triumph.
Setting a neighbourhood, drawing in, invisible in monetary power, a NEW TONE
A city enclave drawing in
Not far on Holloway Road a winter chill echoes the glow
High contrast, lights dimmed in mild protest forms.
Time flies back on a pocket full of hope:
On the second floor somewhere in the past at number 304.
A military snare drum set in a biscuit tin surrounded by pebbles,
kitchen utensils into sand. Audio captured by
a fine German microphone transmitted, recorded to tape,
down free form basement acoustic into the pavement.
Mixed into filters of constant screams of police and ambulance sirens.
Spector’s ambition grown into Telstar visions merged.
A home studio set up, breaking the mould, far from Abbey Road.
Lights blurs in council estate dreamland one side /
On the other, rows of disused shops, flats barely surviving in damp decay,
Bubble folk walking, happy post Covid, masks still worn in markets
In cries and whispers, thinking on tomorrow,
Life moving through hope on a pocket full of change.
Concrete Cracking
A low drone hums beneath the soil at the Sellafield Nuclear Waste Plant, concrete bunkers starting to crack.
Shards of the first morning light break over a grey West Cumbrian sky.
The nuclear waste site secrets for generations to come.
Voices Off: “Someone died today, heart indefinable.”
Washed down and burnt out.
Voices Off: “Jesus had a knife, God had a gun.”
Walking on clods that topple and fall, over surveillance times.
Concrete bunkers starting to crack.
A Doomsday Clock now at 85 seconds to midnight.
New drones on patrol, constant insecurity.
Voices Off: “Someone died today. Someone will die tomorrow”
Control and Escalation. You decide.
Radioactivity, guarded in absolute discretion.
The nuclear waste site’s secrets for generations to come.
Voices Off: “Someone will die tomorrow.”
Voices Off: “Someone singing in the shower.”
Cooling the nuclear arms race, addressing biosecurity threats, pushing for renewable energy. Regulating AI.
Danger levels too high. Towards the hum.
Voices Off: “Jesus had a knife.”
An ending. Radioactivity in transmission, corrupt to the core.
Voices Off: scientist, activist, Ill person