It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care to act,
it starts when you do it again after they said no,
it starts when you say we and know who you mean,
and each day you mean one more.

Marge Piercy

Hands Off Rosa Luxemburg
Sunday, 31 July 2016 19:56

Hands Off Rosa Luxemburg

Written by
in Poetry

Hands Off Rosa Luxemburg

by Peter Raynard

Red Rosa was carved from timber
in a Poland that was not her own.
She was not ‘mistaken, mistaken, mistaken’,
dear Lenin. Your eagle of the working classes
hawked a different path never landing
on another’s arm. She was Spartacus,
who kept moving to hear her chains,
advancement through struggle, the true manifesto.

She could smell the stinking corpse of Germany
when people held their nose. Called the workers
to revolt as gravediggers of the state, to lay down
their tools and take arms not against a common
class in some Great War they didn’t own.

Rising up she took the butt of a rifle to her head
followed by a bullet; her hands and ankles wired,
severed like her struggle but not her history.
Her country was a flag she never raised, her blood
without borders flowed into the river she was flung.

Freedom is the freedom of the dissenter; it does not rest,
not in peace, but within the, ‘I was, I am, I will be!’

After the Big Vote
Wednesday, 20 July 2016 09:56

After the Big Vote

Written by
in Poetry

After The Big Vote
Intellectual Begins To Decompose

by Kevin Higgins

You sit minding that cup
as if it contained, post-Brexit,
the last frothy coffee in all of Brighton.
You’ve the look of
a pretend Elvis Costello,
or the rejected fourth member
of Bananarama.

Your claim to notoriety
that one of the Sex Pistols
once failed to cross the road
to avoid you. Your opinions
what it said in all
yesterday’s editorials.

Your new secret hate
the ghastly Adidas tracksuits of Gateshead,
the sweatpants of Merthyr Tydfil,
for daring to go against your wishes.

Your sneer is a threatened Doberman
with the charming personality removed.
Scientists are currently trying
to bottle your lime-green bile
and make it available on the NHS
as a homeopathic remedy for psychotic
former Guardian columnists.

Your words are the gusts that come out
immediately before
a terrible bowel movement.

Even in the face of bitten
finger nails, the broken hinge
on the upstairs window, and my own
sack load of mistakes,

to be you would be
a fate worse than life.

Kevin Higgins is still under 'administrative suspension' from the Labour Party for writing satirical poems like this. He has also suffered the cruel and unusual punishment of being removed from the Labour International closed Facebook group.

A Regressive Centrist Speaks Electability
K2_PUBLISHED_ON Wednesday, 13 July 2016 14:23

A Regressive Centrist Speaks Electability

in Poetry
Written by

A Regressive Centrist Speaks Electability

by Kevin Higgins

“Imagine if a huge new influx of Labour members gave a mandate to a progressive, centrist leader who could win an election.”

- Caitlin Moran

Our plans for you
will be enthusiastically endorsed
by the popular musical group
Coldplay, and some comedian once considered
edgy. To make you like us even more

every August thirty first, we’ll re-enact
the crash that killed Diana, Princess of Wales.
Our leader’s reaction to camera
will be so perfect
it’ll bring a tear to your jerk.

We’ll employ a team of pale thin advisors
to ascertain what our opponents hate –
beggars, Latvians, adolescents… –
be against such things too
before the enemy get around to issuing
their bastard press release.

We will make sure
Police Special Branch shoot
no more Pakistanis
than absolutely necessary
in the circumstances
we hope, with your support,
to create.

 Kevin Higgins has just been suspended from the Labour Party, see http://mentioningthewar.blogspot.ie/2016/07/administrative-suspension-uk-labour.html

The White Queen claimed to belive six impossible things before breakfast
K2_PUBLISHED_ON Friday, 08 July 2016 20:23


in Poetry
Written by


by Steve Pottinger
(with apologies to Lewis Carroll)

‘Twas Brexit, and the slithy Gove
did frottercrutch in dwarfish glee;
he snicker-snacked the Camerove,

Beware the stabberjock, my son!
The empty eyes, the robo-glint!
who fellobrates the Murdocrone
the Ruperturtle übergimp!

He pallerised the BoJo cloon
they chummed upon their sunderbus
emblazoned it with fibberoons
and bambulluntruthoozled us.

The tousled toddler slaughterchopped,
his destiplans an Eton mess,
the slubbergubby gollumgove
a shadowhand of viciousness.

O gipperchund! And vomberblast!
The skitterchit of slick and sly
the snicker-snack of backstablades
the scrabblage to ruthlerise.

The bubberchut of charismissed
the turdletruck of banalbore
is patterfrondled on the head
a pawn upon a checkerboard.

Beware the stabberjock, my son!
The empty eyes, the robo-glint!
who fellobrates the Murdocrone
the Ruperturtle übergimp.

K2_PUBLISHED_ON Wednesday, 06 July 2016 19:32


in Poetry
Written by


by Kevin Higgins

for Darrell Kavanagh in his hour of need

There will be no more thunderstorms
sent across the Channel by the French,
no acid rain floating in from Belgium.
Pizza Hut will offer a choice of
Yorkshire Pudding or Yorkshire Pudding.

You’ll spend the next twenty seven bank holidays
dismantling everything you ever bought from IKEA.
The electric shower your plumber,
Pavel, put in last week will be taken out
and you’ll be given the number of a bloke
who’s pure Billericay. Those used to caviar
will have jellied eels forced
down their magnificent throats.
Every fish and chip shop
on the Costa del Sol will in time
be relocated to Ramsgate or Carlisle.

All paving stones laid by the Irish
will be torn up to make work
for blokes who’ve been on the sick
since nineteen seventy six.
Those alleged to be involved in secretly
making spaghetti bolognaise
will be arrested and held
in a detention centre near Dover. Sausage dogs
will be put in rubber dinghies
and pointed in the general direction
of the Fatherland. Neatly sliced
French sticks topped with Pâté
will make way for fried bread
lathered with Marmite.

There’ll be no more of those new
names for coffee your gran
can’t pronounce. The entire royal family
will be shipped back to Bavaria, with the exception
of the Duke of Edinburgh who’ll be given
a one way ticket to Athens. Curry
will no longer by compulsory
after every twelfth pint of Stella,
which itself will only be available
by special permission of the Foreign Office.

We’ll give India back its tea, sit around increasingly
bellicose campfires in our rusting iron helmets,
our tankards overflowing with traditional Norse mead.

NOTE this poem was written ten days before the referendum. It looks forward to the miniscule England of which Nigel Farage’s damper dreams are made, except for the bit about sending Lizzie back to Deutschland and putting Philip on the next flight to Athens.

Chilcot Report: George Bush laments his dogs
K2_PUBLISHED_ON Tuesday, 05 July 2016 00:06

Chilcot Report: George Bush laments his dogs

in Poetry
Written by

George Bush Laments his Dogs
i.m. Barney (30.9.2000 – 1.2.2013), and Miss Beazley (28.10.2004 – 17.5.2014)

I wish I could have been there when the golden statue fell
walking with Barney somewhere in Scotland was always a dream
team is what we were. Yo, Blair. What are you doing?
What they need to do is get Syria, to get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit
on my shoe. I blame Koni. He’s bigger, faster, tougher,
meaner, I mean, what did I mean? O Barney. He never had the operation
Shock and Awe he was so cute, but that little Scottish Terrier could be a
terror. It was a war on terror. Wars on terror are justified.
I will not withdraw even if Laura and Barney are the only ones
supporting me was his only option. Categorically he was no lap
dogs like Barney should be honoured. And Miss Beazley, don’t forget
mission accomplished. Barney’s and Miss Beazley’s bronze
statues in my library remind us of what befell. Yo, Chilcot, do you get
the gist of our conversation? In pursuit of peace: we were dogged.

The George Bush Presidential Library and Museum has a bronze sculpture honouring his two dogs. Koni was Putin’s black Labrador. Some of the lines are from a transcript of Bush's and Blair’s unguarded talk when they didn’t realise the mic was on.

Monday, 04 July 2016 20:00


Written by
in Poetry


by Peter Branson

Poems everywhere - no time to shape them all,
not birds and bees, dark stuff, more sinewy
than sunlight through high trees - of cities; there,
on dire estates, lined up like coffin boards,
abandoned dominoes, shop fronts expire
in rows. To make life bearable, food, drugs,
hard booze, most seize the day, back-burner, ‘Ye
are many – they …’ still simmering away.
I search bright eyes, young Jack-the-lads, the girls
(my time) beehives, coins dropped, like-minds aboard
entitlement express ; unstoppable,
alive, where whippet men, their wives with head-
scarf rollered hair, ignore the bollocks They
contrive, conceal tab ends behind clenched fists.

Cakes and Balloons: The Queen's Birthday Poem
Sunday, 19 June 2016 15:25

Cakes and Balloons: The Queen's Birthday Poem

Written by
in Poetry

The Queen's Birthday Poem

Cake and balloons,
Cake and balloons,
Can’t you see they’re brainwashing you?
They want you to love the privileged few,
So they give you a flag
And cake and balloons.

Why do they do it?
They’re brainwashed too.
Newsreaders, teachers,
Royal dragoons,
When they were young
Got cake and balloons.

After the UK
Thursday, 16 June 2016 15:13

After the UK

Written by
in Poetry

After the UK

Shreds of the UK
flapping in the downturn,
decayed Britain
broken into smithereens.
No Kingdom now,
no United State.
We are
with no obligation
to genuflect
in front of an overstuffed Queen.

Get the UK out of your system,
no going back.
We take the power
to rule ourselves,
make community,
build our own spaces.
the hegemony
of dead parties,
lifeless institutions,
let debate flower,
conflicting views rage.

We want to breathe
and strip away
executive power,
the beauty and culture
of these islands
Make good things,
good love.
Empower ourselves
with an autonomous freedom
in a new England,
in a new Europe,
in a New World
of real ownership
and delicate emotion.

Diptych of Drones: a Brechtian poem
Tuesday, 07 June 2016 21:32

Diptych of Drones: a Brechtian poem

Written by
in Poetry

Diptych of Drones

1. Convenience Killing

Over eight thousand miles away
from where the devastation was
a zap-happy, kapow-cowboy
yeehah'd from his computer screen.

A funeral party had died
in the same way as the deceased
they were assembled to honour –
zapped at the press of a button.

Pacman and Super Mario
and later Sonic, the Hedgehog
may have been the apprenticeships
for today’s Killer Drone cowboys

Who sit, as they have always sat
when playing games on their consoles,
enamoured by technology
and lost to life’s great mystery.

They sit somewhere in Nevada,
yeehahdists killing jihadists,
the new dialectic of rage
that fails to think of consequence.

2. New Medal

They award medals now for remote-controlled
killing. This has nothing to do with gaming
consoles and their stages or levels reached.
It is much cruder than that. Much cruder.

The Distinguished Warfare Medal for button-pressed
killing, thousands of miles away from the carnage
created by the pressed button, honours ‘the extraordinary
actions that make a true difference in combat operations.’

But there are no medals for the burnt funeral parties,
none for the burnt children – all are collateral damage.

Calgacus, referring to the Romans, said they created
a desert and called it peace. Now they seem to create
a high-tech hell and they call it freedom. Freedom!

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