Ray Miller

Ray Miller

Ray Miller is a socialist, Aston Villa supporter and faithful husband. Life's been a disappointment.

Anarchy Rules
Friday, 17 April 2020 15:31

Anarchy Rules

Published in Poetry

Anarchy Rules

by Ray Miller

We'll begin at the top -
send someone to the loft
to shed light on what's dark and spooky,
seek out the machines
that have captured our dreams
and other instruments of cruelty.
Let's excise and expose
what lies under clothes
and strip the whole joint naked,
so that nothing's intact,
let's be ruthless, in fact,
and if it ain't broke then break it.

Go dismantle the beds
where the uneasy heads
will no longer lie a-mending
and then eradicate
everything that lies straight
until the infrastructure is bending.
Bring out the wrecking ball,
it's unprofessional
and against all we ought hold sacred,
but just take a knife
to this dying life
and if it ain't broke then break it.

Come, shatter the screens
that spy on the scenes
where we spent our time in quarters;
and when the cops discover
that we've killed Big Brother
then the camera won't have caught us.
We'll ransack the clinic
of all that is in it:
if it says Do Not Shake, we'll shake it.
Let's call time on the calm,
raise a general alarm
and if it ain't broke then break it.

Exchange the sedatives
for any drug that lives
and the potions which disinhibit.
Spend the spare cash
on a superstore dash
through the zone marked wine and spirits.
When there's no money left
we'll pursue petty theft,
whatever we want we'll take it.
If the weather is nice
we'll have drinks with ice
and if the ice ain't broke then we'll break it.

Excavate the files
where the treason trials
were dramatised and documented.
Overwhelm the shredder
with each word and letter
that was wrung from the tormented.
Start the final fire,
build a funeral pyre
just as tall as we can make it.
To the flames consign
each Thou Shalt Not sign
and if it ain't broken break it.

Let us run amok
before they stop the clock;
there's no points for good behaviour.
Let me be the man
who will fling the flan
in the face of last year's saviour.
As the days approach
that we fear most,
when we're cast into the snake-pit,
pause a while and reflect,
pay your last respects
and if it ain't broke then break it.

Shame
Monday, 16 December 2019 15:54

Shame

Published in Poetry

Shame

by Ray Miller

The morning after, my wife said she didn't
know anybody who voted Tory,
as if they might be possessed of two heads.

One for public display, one kept hidden,
like the wicked witch in a fairy story,
who every five years produces a hex.

She'd woken to find a transfigured Britain:
its foot-soldiers were travelling northly,
men-at-arms unravelling safety nets.

And yet the borders grew thick as a prison,
circumscribing the poor and the poorly
sleeping unsoundly on corridor beds.

People mostly do just as they're bidden
by the sun, by the stars or by sorcery,
for the public must want what it gets.

An Unannounced Inspection
Tuesday, 08 October 2019 15:25

An Unannounced Inspection

Published in Poetry

An Unannounced Inspection

by Raymond Miller

and the royals are in for questions, under threat
of Special Measures. The Household Cavalry
shake and spray on popular street corners,
then watch the kettles boil, before they burrow
under cover to bugger those who wished a burkha
made Her Highness less familiar.

Miss Camilla has been cautioned for frightening
the corgis and the treasurer's been collared
with his hands in young girl's panties.
Prince Phil must pull his finger out in Art
and Social Science or face endless
cocktail parties in the land of Bongo-Bongo.

There are murmurs of tomatoes selling memoirs
to the red tops and people in glass houses
throwing stones at modern buildings.
Lizzie looks determined to hang on to the ermine
and turn a blind eye to the bevy
of bookmakers at the portcullis.

The lads are worried. The stag night capers
have been captured and the video's gone viral,
starring Bosnians, Bulgarians, champers
and black stockings. The Civil List arouses
both nausea and nostalgia. But never
in equal measure: we are not in this together.

Hands Down
Wednesday, 03 July 2019 15:24

Hands Down

Published in Poetry

Hands Down

by Raymond Miller

Once the sniffles had begun
my wife joined in accord.
I could see the ending come
and still rose to applaud

just like all those years before
and Fahrenheit 9/11,
I stood up for Michael Moore
and haven't learnt my lesson.

It makes me want to swing a left
at our tight-fisted state
after witnessing the death
of I, Daniel Blake

and this audience that's beaming
approval all around,
when the other side are winning
hands down.