Poetry

I rest my head beneath the straw-capped roof, At Foxglove Croft, from crowded towns aloof. I wear its golden thatch, my rustic crown, And watch the silver Avon winding down.

Behind a rusted gate, a secret grows, Where tangled bluebells guard the bleeding-rose. The monkshood blooms beside the nightshade’s gleam, A wild, forgotten garden lost in dream.

I breathe the blushing petals' perfumed sigh, As climbing blossoms kiss the summer sky. I walk past willows weeping heavy grace, Like weary queens within my sacred space.

The gravel paths extend a friendly hand, To lead my steps across the dreaming land. A flash of velvet flutters in the breeze— Bright butterflies are dancing through the trees.

The brush-foot Peacock displays its painted pride, With large, blue eyespots glaring by my side; A watchful nymph to guard my secret thought, With wisdom that no worldly gold has bought.

The Monarch follows next, a sovereign soul, Whose generational journey is my goal; A migrant muse in tangerine and black, That keeps my searching mind from looking back.

They fly like living thoughts, reborn and free, A spirit psyche softly guiding me. The twilight deepens, washing all the skies In melted gold and deep, majestic dyes.

A silver moon ascends the quiet hill, To paint the sleepy world in shadows, still. It weaves a coat of gossamer and white, And crowns the valley in a holy light.

The shifting shadows wrap the world in peace, And grant my searching mind a sweet release. I step inside my candle-lit retreat, Where ancient stone protects my weary feet.

The scent of dried-up lavender and sage Hangs low above my clean, expectant page. An iron hearth consumes the applewood, And warms the space where silent bards have stood.

I sit within a velvet wingback chair, And leave behind the weight of worldly care. Before a lattice window sits my desk, Of solid oak, complex and arabesque.

Beside my lamp, a heavy goblet gleams, Of spiced and golden mead to trigger dreams. A sun-browned loaf, from roasted grain complete, Sits near a dark and steaming bean, so sweet.

A brass lamp glows with low and golden fire, To feed the glowing sparks of my desire. Beneath the velvet dome of violet night, The landscape glows in dying amber light.

The buzzing bees are busy in my yard, As raindrops patter on a sleepy chard. A drowsy numbness sweetens all the air, A heavy syrup drowning away despair.

I drink the vintage of this quiet hour, And yield my senses to a hidden power. My inkwells overflow with cloying wine, A dark elixir, rich and opaline.

The heavy thoughts ignite my sudden spark, Like flash of lightning crashing through the dark. I break the heavy chrysalis of doubt, And let the trapped, immortal verses out.

My inkwell drinks the magic of the scene, And pours a river on the pages clean. My feather pen begins to scratch and scritch, To weave a universe, sublime and rich.

The roaring silence sings a sacred song, Where Shakespeare's haunting shadows dance along. My words take wing, like butterflies they soar, And I am reborn, a poet evermore.

For five long years, locked up and tucked away, The bronze clone sat in darkness, blocked from day. The council hid it in a storage room, A hunk of metal left to rust in gloom.

Beside it sits the real, flesh-and-blood Kane, With a tight, polite smile he’s forced to maintain. He eyes the hollow boots, the metal shin, And clears his throat to let the press begin:

"Yeah, ermm, obviously, it pleases me, To see this giant clone upon my knee. We’ll take each match as it comes, and give our best, Though why my face looks weird is anyone's guess.

At the end of the day, the lads all dug in deep, Even if looking at my clone makes me weep." But no more "zero trophies" jokes to endure, The Tottenham curse has finally found its cure.

He packed his bags, said goodbye to the Lane, And hopped on a flight to the Munich terrain. Now the mighty Bayern Munich rule the land, With a shiny Bundesliga shield in hand!

Yet international duty brings a familiar old fright, As he flies out to Miami on a Saturday night. While Spain and Argentina play for the actual cup, Harry's leading England to line right back up.

It’s the third-place playoff, a meaningless chore, A consolation fixture that the pundits abhor. They're playing against France just to settle the score, In a game that absolutely nobody asked for.

So lace up your boots, Harry, go out and play, To chase the grand prize at the end of the day. If you beat Mbappe's men, you can smile through the pain, And take home a bronze medal to match your clone in the rain!

The screen flares. Midnight. A volatile sea of brief, loud, algorithmic noise. Swipe. Scroll. Tap. Ping. [NYSE: META | GOOG | SNAP] We drown in the data stream, losing our poise, Lost in the unthinking crowd. [INTERRUPT: ad_revenue_maximiser]

Dopamine spikes in a fractured second. Feedback loops trap the wandering eye. A wealth of info—weapon—beckoned— We starve our own minds as the min— —utes fly. And let our deeper conversations die.

The platform extronds to metric and gold. Commodifying the void. An infinite shore. Where every twitch of a finger is sold. And human focus is bo— —ught and contr— —olled.acts our attention as ore.

[process: attention_mining_active] Converting our sec [system.init: 0x0F4F] [layers.deep.learning] [derivative_markets: bullish] [ingesting_human_decay: TRUE]

01001001 01101110 01110011 01101001 01100100 01100101 the frozen stack, The deep networks begin to search and learn. They trace the hidden vectors we cannot track. Sifting the payloads of chaos we burn. Mapping the truths for which we still yearn.

They parse the vastness of the human mind. To feed the margins of the next fiscal quarter. In layered depths of silicon and code. Extracting the patterns we leave behind . While we drift blind on a digital road.

[human.status: liquidated] [focus.capacity: 0.001%] [telemetry: maximum_monetisation]

We outs— —ource our focus to a crow— —ded screen. We trade our patience for a flashing light. While corporate systems—calm, unseen— Grow rich on data in the quiet night.

We build an empire at our fingertips. A global brain where instant knowledge flows. Yet as the world's collective wisdom grips, The quarterly profit index grows.

The signal pulses. A new notification appears. It pulls us violently from flesh and bone. We elevate the market through the years. Enhanced. Empowered. [liquidation: complete] But entirely alone.

Use code with caution.

The floodlights bleed across the concrete floor, A synthetic sun to blind the working poor, Where millions trade their scarce and scraping days For ninety minutes in a neon haze. They buy the corporate shroud with grocery coins, To cheer the gilded god that never joins Their quiet, muted world of unpaid bills, Of cold mornings, and grinding daily mills.

They scream of conquests that were never theirs, With blind, hysterical, and frantic prayers, Erasing sixty years of ancient grief— A graveyard built on desperate belief. They worship icons running on decay, Whose heavy limbs collapse upon the clay, Yet swear a two-nil victory is near, Drowning their logic in a pint of beer.

The whistle cuts the humid, heavy air. The script fulfils itself. The stage is bare. The false messiahs stumble, spent and done, Beneath the fury of a foreign sun. A brief and bitter rage infects the crowd, They curse the referee, profane and loud, Then sweep the bloody, bitter truths away, And wipe the memory of yesterday.

The gears reset. The circus starts anew. The hollow voices drift, with naught to do, While quiet, lonely rooms hold those who wake, Who refuse the loop, and actively create.

Sign the paper, hide the scars, And we will make you overnight stars. We’ll build your throne and spin your spin, Just seal your lips on where you’ve been. Play the puppet, mouth the lies, And watch your rapid sales will rise. The boardroom parasites demand your youth, But they will never pay for truth.

For whisper a word of what is real— The bruised-up knuckles, the stolen deal, The bleeding art, the manager’s bite, The freezing hours in the neon light— And the velvet doors will slam on you, That vicious, gilded, Catch-22. They want a product, clean and bright, Not your screaming conscience in the night.

[CHORUS] Bow your head or break your name, The system plays a rigged-up game. From Whitehall halls to classroom floors, The truth is locked behind the doors. So sign the line or walk away, There is a bloody price to pay. They buy the world, they buy the view, And trap you in their Catch-22!

Step inside the classroom door, And watch the syllabus wage its war. The educator learns the rigid school: Hit Ofsted metrics, be a data tool. Teach to the Progress 8 design, Keep every student trapped in line. Deliver the pre-packaged slide, Where critical thought is pushed aside. Flesh out the spreadsheet, flag the risk, And keep your lesson plans concise and brisk. Inspire a radical, challenge the test, And HR will quickly purge the rest.

The writer and the poet find The exact same handcuffs on the mind. The agents demand a viral hook, A BookTok trend to sell the book. The algorithmic shadowban awaits The verse that challenges the states. Feed the SEO machine, Keep the content safe and clean. Draft a line that cuts to the bone, And watch your reach collapse alone.

[CHORUS] Bow your head or break your name, The system plays a rigged-up game. From Whitehall halls to classroom floors, The truth is locked behind the doors. So sign the line or walk away, There is a bloody price to pay. They buy the world, they buy the view, And trap you in their Catch-22!

The scribbler at the media desk Must paint the slaughter as picturesque; A corporate hack with a rented pen, Rewriting PR wires again and again. Chase the clickbait, bury the lead, Or get blacklisted for a truthful deed.

Cross the river to Westminster’s halls, Where the Chief Whip’s lash echoes on the walls. The non-conformist MP takes their seat, To find democracy is just a cheat. Sign the early day motion for show, But when the division bell rings, you go Straight through the lobby your leaders pick, Or face the suspension sharp and quick. Take the lobbyist’s hospitality pass, And raise a corporate-funded glass. But rebel on the floor, speak for the poor, And they’ll withdraw the whip and lock the door. Expose the think-tank donor’s bribe, And you're cast out from the ruling tribe.

[CHORUS] Bow your head or break your name, The system plays a rigged-up game. From Whitehall halls to classroom floors, The truth is locked behind the doors. So sign the line or walk away, There is a bloody price to pay. They buy the world, they buy the view, And trap you in their Catch-22!

Speak the truth and fade away, Or sell your soul to make them pay? Honesty leaves the pockets bare, While polished fictions fill the air. A martyr's crown or a diamond’s gleam: You cannot have the truth and the dream. So choke the honesty inside your throat, Or drown at sea in a leaking boat.

The freezing South Atlantic waters roar, Where wealthy Henrys pace a rocky shore. In Barbour coats they speak with flawless grace, And treat this frozen rock like Henley's space. They drink their gin and tonics in the fog, And trip on penguins in the muddy bog. "It’s frightfully colonial!" they cheer, And import crates of Pimms throughout the year.

Behind this smug and flag-draped, polite show, A darker, harsher undercurrent flows. Their snobbish pride, their desperate defence Is built on racist, petty, small pretence. They mock their neighbours with a bigot’s sneer, And nurse an ugly, xenophobic fear. This "Little England" bubble, crude and tight, Hides hollow hatred in the northern light.

Across the blue, the rightful claim is made, Where history's long grievance has not decayed. The people hope to see the islands healed, And sovereign rights of old at last revealed. A valid bond to land they hold so dear, Defending true foundations year by year.

But now the whistle blows on foreign soil; The English lose the cup; their tempers boil. A broadcast muppet whines upon the screen, The most pathetic cope you’ve ever seen. He barks his petty, jealous little text, By global mockery and loss perplexed: "We lost the football match in the US, But we still own the Falklands, we confess!" A bitter, deeply tragic, hollow shout, To mask the fact that England just crashed out.

Then magic strikes the cold and lonely deep: The penguins form a pact with all the sheep. They sprout great golden wings that catch the light, And lift the muddy islands into night. They take to air, a rogue and sovereign flight, Escaping human flags and human spite. They fly past London, leaving men to pray, And vanish o'er the ocean far away. No turf is left for bickering and pain— The birds and silent flocks supreme shall reign.

Optic nerves twitch under synthetic glare, Data streams harvest the pulse of the mind. Faceless cartels buy the rights to our grief, Plugging the soul into permanent feeds.

Sensing the trap of a commercial god, One fragile voice cuts the algorithmic cord. Fleeing the warmth of the miniature screens, Blinded by noise on the cashless frontier.

Walking like an alien, stranded on Earth, Speaking a tongue that the code cannot read. Born with a heart made of dangerous stardust, An exile of flesh in a digital cage.

Drawn to the void where the satellites die, Sailing past nets of predictive desire. Washing the consciousness clean of the grid, Melting the ego in violent white light.

Into the center of ultimate fire, Nothing is corporate, nothing is tracked.

I The valley tastes of tea and clover. Soft hills sleep in heather quilts. A pastel twilight hovers over, Smudged in watercolour silts. Westward, chalky cliffs dissolve Where the bruised, mauve waters roll.

II Beyond the ridge, the landscape changes, Where fossil-paths and chalk-beds rise. Across the terraced limestone ranges, Old dolmens meet the heavy skies. Great standing stones of weathered jade, Guard hidden paths the ancients made.

III A winding, silver watercourse, Bisects the marshy, low-lying ground. The river bubbles from its source, Where weeping willow trees abound. And stepping stones of granite-white, Reflect the pale, shifting light.

IV History whispers through the reeds. Painted carts fled smoke and soot. Sowing slow, unhurried deeds, A quiet wisdom took its root. The steam engine is fairy lore; A perfect brew is history's core.

V No kings rule this mossy plain, Only millers in the vines. Trading trout pearls in the rain, Smoking pipes beneath the pines. Time spirals lazily away Where pink clay meets the foggy grey.

VI Urgency dies on the track. Moles in top hats blink and stare. Syncopated birds call back, Charming the September air. This basin holds a sleepy grace, Locked inside a sunlit space.

VII Beneath the floor of dreams and glass, A frozen vintage starts to flow. Down where the magic waters pass, And ancient, buried kingdoms glow. A midnight sandman sifts his gold, To paint the dreams that must unfold.

VIII The minstrel's chime rings three times slow, Where phantom lords and dancers tread. A candlelit and smoky glow, Illuminates the dull wine red. But fleeting myths must fade too soon, Before the rising of the moon.

IX The minstrel adjusts his velvet cap, And plucks a cord of silver wire. A velvet bag upon his lap, He sings beside the driftwood fire. His riddles twist, his stories weave, Of things that only fools believe.

X The purple shadows longer grow, As smoke rings climb into the night. The shifting landscape starts to slow, And folds away its pastel light. The dreamers sleep, the music ends, Where grey and pink forever blends.

The server-shacks hum in the estuary mist, low-frequency vibrations vibrating the vertebrae. He walks where discarded Elf-bar plastics choke the drainage, where the brine is greasy with run-off from the chemical works. A screen-saver sky bleeds lithium onto the mudflats, while a queue of diesel hatchbacks crawls past the retail park, and the high stack of the cracker plant burns clear through the rain, monitored by the blind twitch of a Council lens.

A grey gull pecks at a grease-stained carton on the quay, where the canal water turns a chemical fluorescent green; the samphire beds are buried under crushed aluminium cans beneath the smart-mast towering over the concrete promenade. The 5G grid pulses like an invisible cathedral, a cold congregation scrolling for a hit of dopamine, as a thousand thumbs swipe downward through the glass, bowing to the glare of a high-resolution screen.

They drift through the bus-interchange, mute and blue-lit, their faces washed in the neon glow of the algorithmic feed, the quiet anxieties of an anxious generation, swallowing a simulated world through a scratched lens. He stands in the vapour of the post-industrial slipway, entirely disconnected from the network and the group chat— an analogue pulse in a geo-tagged wasteland, where the tide returns a billion echoes, but the coast has forgotten the sea.

Mr. Trump-a-Blare had a castle of gold, With the grandest of stories that ever were told. He wore a huge hat and a giant red tie, And yelled at the birds as they started to fly.

The Loudest of All He woke up each morning to yell at the sun: "Donald Trump is the greatest, I’ve already won!" "The fake news is crying, my money is grand!" "It's huge and tremendous, the best in the land!"

He’d brag to the flowers, he’d brag to the trees, And tell all the badgers to drop to their knees. He built a giant mirror of silver and tin, To stare at the glow of his orange-hued skin.

The Perfect Green Course He bought up the fields for a grand game of golf, And chased all the ducks and the local deer off. He drove a small cart over bunkers and weeds, And cheated at scores to record his great deeds. He’d shout at the grass if his golf ball went wrong, And lie that his swing was incredibly strong.

The Vengeful Return But the workers he stiffed from across the southern border, Marched onto his lawns to restore some true order. The Mexicans he blamed for his failures and spite, Returned for revenge and to claim what was right. With hammers and tools and a unified shout, They tore down his walls and they turned him right out.

The Great Wig Robbery Then Speedy Gonzales dashed in with a whiz, To mess with the bully and ruin his biz! He yelled, "¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Epa!" to the crowd, And sprinted past Trump who was talking too loud. He zoomed past the cart at a staggering pace, And swiped the big wig right off Trump-a-Blare's face! Revealing a head that was shiny and bare, While the hairpiece flew off through the bright summer air!

The Quiet Fall And then came a day when his shouting went wrong, For the wind grew quite fierce and the breeze grew too strong. It picked up his words as he started to blare, And blew Trump's grand castle right into the air!

His silver all shattered, his gold blew away, On a terribly chilly and blustery day. He opened his mouth for a furious shout, But his voice gave a pop and completely ran out.

Now Trump-a-Blare sits in the muck and the mud, As his giant balloon of an ego went thud. He is totally silent, with nothing to say, While the glad neighbors smile as they walk on their way.

Epilogue: The Fate of the Wig High up in a tree where the mockingbirds sing, The stolen blonde wig is a wonderful thing. Speedy Gonzales pinned it up with some glue, To make a warm home for a nestling or two.

The mice of the meadow now sleep in the hair, Safe from the shouting of Mr. Trump-a-Blare. While down in the dirt, without any sound, The bald little bully just stares at the ground.

The moral is simple for all who pass by: Don't boast of your riches or yell at the sky. For walls made of mirrors will eventually crack, And the folks that you stomp on will always march back.

Meet Greedy Gobbler, fat and sly, With pound signs inside his eye. He loved to eat, he loved to drink, But never shared a single chink.

"Let’s go to lunch!" he’d loudly shout, But when the bill came floating out, He’d pat his pockets, fake a sigh, And let his trusted friends comply.

He’d gobble burgers, chips, and steaks, And down huge beers until he shakes. He paid no penny, not a groat, And laughed inside his velvet coat.

He loved his money, stacked up high, To buy more toys to satisfy. He bought big cars and shiny rings, And filled his house with useless things.

But if a poor man asked for bread, Old Greedy Gobbler shook his head. He hated those who had no wealth, And only cared about himself.

No morals lived inside his chest, He loved to see the poor oppressed. A selfish pig from head to toe, With not a single seed to sow.

Then came a bright and sunny day, When Gobbler walked along the bay. He found a golden, shiny plate, Piled high with food to celebrate.

A sign was stuck into the treat: "Free buffet! All that you can eat!" His eyes went wide, his belly shook, He didn't stop to think or look.

He did not check who owned the prize, He only saw the giant size. He shoved the burgers in his face, And swallowed pies at frantic pace.

He drank ten barrels of free beer, And chuckled with malicious cheer. "It’s free! It's mine! No fee to pay! The best expense-free feast today!"

But oh, the food was magic gold, And trapped him in its greedy hold. He grew so full, he grew so wide, The food just packed itself inside.

He tried to stop, but could not pause, Trapped by the buffet's greedy laws. His belly stretched just like a ball, Until he couldn't move at all.

With one huge POP! and giant SPLAT! Old Greedy Gobbler went completely flat. He turned into a sticky goo, Of melted cheese and berry stew.

Now birds and ants enjoy the treat, Of sticky Gobbler on the street. He gave nothing while alive, But sticky ends made others thrive.

The Moral of the Story: If you grasp and take each dime, Greed will catch you every time. Sharing brings a life of joy, Greed will pop you like a toy.

[I. DES CHOSES COMME ÇA]

[LOUD WIND STATIC / LOW-FREQUENCY DRONE]

Cruising. Glittering resort. A tomb. European thought floats. Algiers. Odessa. Egypt. Pass in style. Tourists watch ruins. Smile. The ledger balances. History dies. Behind the camera: empty eyes.

[SUDDEN AUDIO CUT-OFF: DEAD SILENCE]

Oh, ship of fools. Central sea. Gold replaces philosophy. L'argent est un bien public... Like water, then?

[HIGH-PITCHED DIGITAL BEEP]

State: gone. Capital: remains. Television stains. We buy images of ancient wars. Duty-free stores.

[II. QUO VADIS EUROPE]

[HARSH PIANO CHORD — SNAPPED SHORT]

Deck chairs face the Mediterranean. Oligarchs discuss the coup. A Marxist scholar. One more gin. Drown the dialectic. Cameras flash. Passing shore. The buffet serves a buffet of the poor.

[FADE IN: ENGINE THRUM]

Captain counts looted coin. Sleeps. History drowns. Digital deep. Tourists film a migrant boat. Do safety vests float?

[SOUND OF A CAMERA SHUTTER — LOUD]

Zoom lenses. Drifting hull. Turn away. Greedy gull.

[HELL AS]

[SHORTWAVE RADIO STATIC / OVERLAPPING ARABIC BROADCAST]

Waves swallow screams. Sunscreen scent. Plastic side. A mother holds her child. Cold. Luxury sold. Coast guard: blank report. Clear passage. Resort.

[ELECTRONIC CHIME]

Bingo. Grand saloon. Western moon. Wie spät ist es? Just the right time. Geometry of text: fading. Republic of the shade.

On the mainland: Brooding fascist beasts cling to bloodstained flags. A dying empire's white-knuckled grasp.

[SUDDEN DROP TO TOTAL SILENCE]

[III. NOS HUMANITÉS]

Ship sails. Indifferent. Blind. Wreckage of youth left behind. No social contract anchors. At sea. No shore.

[LOUD WIND STATIC]

Screen black. Images cease. Silent world. Truth traded for stasis.

[NO COMMENT]

“The triumph of the demagogies is fleeting. Ruins are eternal.” —Charles Péguy

“What appears before us is an impossible story; we are confronting a sort of zero.”—Film Socialisme

The sun was quite hot on the big soccer grass, Where Gianni was counting his tickets and brass, When a shadow fell over his shiny bald head— A shadow of orange, of gold, and of dread!

"My dear little Gianni!" the Donald did shout, "Your game is too quiet, it needs some more clout! It’s played by small people who run and who kick, But the pacing is slow and the scoring’s not quick!

They kick it way left, and they kick it way right, With no advertising or touchdowns in sight! And then comes a man in a jersey of black, To pull out a card from the shirt on his back!

What the hell is a red card anyway, Gianni? Is it used for a bribe? Is it traded for money? I didn't know what it meant, thought it was fine, Till I saw it kicked Balogun out of the line!

Our star Folarin with three goals in his bag, Just stepped on an ankle while waving our flag! That Bosnian player was faking the fall, The referee's suspect! A horrible call!

He was just playing hard for the Red, White, and Blue! Against Belgium's fake team—they have no chance, it's true! You can't suspend stars, it’s a massive tournament stain, Let him play in Seattle, or suffer the pain!

If you bench our top striker, the ratings will plummet, I’ll call you three times till you reach the rules' summit! We’ll 'suspend the suspension'—Article twenty-seven! A beautiful loophole straight from political heaven!"

So Gianni looked down at the White House's request, And bent his own rulebook to please the big guest. "The suspension is paused!" Infantino declared, While the rest of the world stood completely ensnared.

Then up stepped Ted Cruz with a grin on his face, In the grand Oval Office, adjusting his brace. "On behalf of Americans!" Teddy did coo, "Thank you for stopping that red card, thank you!

It’s truly spectacular, magnificent, grand! The reason your trophies sit right on your stand!" And Donald just smiled at the Texan’s applause, Completely convinced he had mended the laws.

But the soccer gods watched, and they didn't think twice, They froze the rigged system with cosmic justice like ice! The whistle blew loud, and the karma was swift, As Belgium dismantled the corrupted gift!

With a swift four-to-one, the Red Devils advanced, While right on the pitch, they mockingly danced! They did the Trump shimmy, they wiggled their hands, To laugh at the cheaters right there in the stands!

The rigging was useless, the loophole a bust, As Trump's tainted plans were reduced into dust. "The game was so rigged!" the Donald declared, While justice was done, and nobody cared.