If death is thought the ultimate

what price a part or two?

To be left as a mindless torpid trunk

the Elephant in the room.

And a limb’s not a limb – it’s a piece of shit

when blown into a muddy pit.

The scalpel only adds subtraction

in that theatre; sealing disconnection.

If death yields a hero – is life shame?

Return, with only self to blame?

Nobody t...

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(This poem was born of a Newsnight blogger's comment in 2008. Serendipity in 'spades'.)

The arms of the world reach up in despair

A desperate child, with no mother there;

As the armaments industry fashions war-ware

There is not much call for ploughshares.

The artisan’s hand cupped Britain’s prowess

When the smith made and mended the tools of success;

His arms now hav...

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As war’s abrasion strips his fine veneer

man’s inhumanity his ilk defines.

Bi-pedal dog, scent-primed, unleashed, packed off

he brings a licking to some wrong-tongued foe.

While back in civvy-street, his leaders rise

short-slept from tasting civilized excess

this day newborn in sinless rectitude

to move their boarded pawns with gifted guess.

In blinkered ignorance of C...

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