Grenfell Tower: How many dead?

a tall charred tower
parades for eyes who wish to view.
& though I wasn’t there

people burnt in their rooms
while others scampered
the hallways.

some sought relief
jumping high balconies –
children, mothers, fathers, friends

frantically screamed
as a rabid fire uproots
a community and shines

a spotlight on a nation
(the richest will not cater for it’s poor).
cladding on the Tower,

and a Hotpoint fridge
notably mentioned
stirs this negligible nightmare.

79 deceased,
imprints on the psyche
but Brexit and May

storm back on the agenda.
the media complies
wistfully reporting

failed safety checks
but others want to know
who’s missing?

who’s dead?
who’s grieving?
who’s homeless?

who’s penniless?
who’s angry?
though I wasn’t there

a resident said
“we are not angry –
we are traumatized.”


Grenfell tower survivors believe ‘many more’ people died than in current official death toll @

Staked in Canary Wharf

committed to root out funding extremists,
emboldened by Donald Trump’s
war dance – Saudis and allies blockade Qatar –
in Harrods, the Shard and Chelsea Barracks,
she bathes in swathes of capital.
but isolated and the critical investments
prompts London to ogle possibilities?

Down Here On The Ground

Down Here On The Ground
Down Here On The Ground

Down here on the ground,
Negro male striding
through a part of Manchester
‘Gay Village,’

Where rent boys play.
Not pretty boys.
At night the ghouls
Come into prey.

He turned onto Canal Street,
Cruising past the bars.
I can hear the feline foes
Talking La-Di-Da.

Butch boys dressed up tight,
Some folk looking thin.
Searching for a horny scout
To ram his domed head cock up in.

Can you smell that rancid scent?
But wait!
Rousing up the rowdy street
Amyl Nitrate.

Carried by an atmosphere
– delightful breeziness –
Men and women mingling,
Gay capital of Northwest.

A thing that translates exit,
Is not a frigging entry,
Notwithstanding heteros,
Who claim to no gay tendencies.

Squealing at the Town Hall,
We deserve our rights.
We got deep resources,
Our time for civil rights.

In the valleys, up the craggy
To the highest court.
We demanding, fighting hard,
We ain’t stopping short.

Even in the Church of God,
We want blessings too.
Recruit a fruitcake pastor,
Transgress us not we do.

For Jesus died for all of us,
He wipes away our sins.
Like I do love and wipe away –
Then toss the shit stained rag in the bin.

Caramel flavoured,
Bust my top!
Kiss my ring –
We’ll never stop,

For God looks down upon us all –
We are his children too.
And you’re a sexy negro.
I like my angry boo!

I-God is not feline,
I shall never be boo.
I love strictly pussy –
Separating me from you.

Rights I desire
Are just to be black man.
Rights you desire
Deviate the plan man –

Woman and Man –
Created creating.
Blessings from the Most High God:
The gift is in producing.

Not grizzly sword fighting –
Jeremy versus Rick.
Up and out the sewer man –
With chocolate on your prick.

Never read Leviticus,
Sodomy is a damn.
Now you wish to rewrite law
That man can marry man.

As for buffy lovers:
They don’t know the score.
A royal rod they have not graced
From 10 in the morn till gone past 4.

Instead she craves Sir Dildo.
Strapping him to her bottom.
Then rams it up her girlfriend,
As if her name was Henry Cotton.

He storms out from the Village.  *They laugh*
Negro wears a cutting frown.
This is what is going on,
Down here on the ground.


Aleppo: The End of The Old Silk Road ﺣﻠﺐ

The End of The Old Silk Road

Kumarbi sank teeth into Anus’s balls,

His screams detected in Uranus.

Heinous thunder the sky discharged,

And Teshub grew the people’s inheritance.

His city gave milk to travelling men,

Hellenistic code the rage,

Pale fertile soil, rich marble prized –

The end of the silk road, a golden age.

Masorah transported from the holy land,

To this aged old city still breathing.

In antiquity, Khalpe or Khalibon,

Amidst dead cities of Byzantium.

Thousands of skulls outside the gate,

Left Jedi elites and the Council –

Teshub is One now, Committee decides,

Black-axe-welding God duly cancelled.

Now set in Sadallah Al-Jabiri Square,

Hash-smoking turbaned man in a traduced state:

Was keenly surveyed and watched him there,

Twirling in Aleppo, a conspicuous fate.


A thousand years of civilisation pulverised by months of battle: Aleppo, Syria.
A thousand years of civilisation pulverised by months of battle: Aleppo, Syria.

Syria’s heritage in ruins: before-and-after pictures



What crisis?

The headdress glitters,

a throne enticing artisans – downtrodden,

abounding around suckles

of an age old milk that feeds,

nourishes animate needs.

The rich, aristocrats, rulers too

petition tears

running into Iris as the eonile:

They heard and experienced


delusions of grandeur, senile,                             weighed down

heavy then disintegration.

So what crisis?

Isis the mass squabble among

circumcising spirits in pursuit

headlong for the calipha –

a catharsis view requiring

a god-man to sit upon that Dark Chair,

seated briefly, usurping the grieving

Mother from her rightful place.