PMQ

They all wore grey carbon copy suits
with their own unique choice of tie,
propped up on shiny green leather
they took it in turns to shout.

It was Prime Ministers Question’s
and the grey Scot addressed the room,
a dull rumble that sent some to sleep,
pounding the desk, he made his point.

A whoopee cushion face rose in riposte
shouting insults across the room,
a good solid mocking written by the Mail
and on cue, the rabble jeered and groaned.

They shrieked and cackled,
and they slapped their knees
and each other’s sweaty backs
as their hard mates fought it out.

The Speaker was not amused.
He raised his voice over the braying.
“Keep it down you animals,” he bellowed
“This is why the public want us dead!”

There was a silence in the room,
brief but sobering. The Speaker cleared
his throat. Just then, somebody farted
or perhaps David Cameron spoke.

They all fell about laughing then,
sloshing each other’s gin about;
their red nostrils whinnied and wept
at the rich smell of booze and farts.

Post Room Rights

The post room was overflowing with politicians.
They were silent, crouched with closed eyes
facing the walls in coned hats that read “D.”
All of them had been very bad, Gordon said.

And they should be ashamed, like he was,
they’d been stealing from the piggy bank
with nasty receipts. Jack Straw was patrolling,
smacking his cosh in his hand with abandon.

He was in charge now, him and Mandelson,
the dark lord and the demon headmaster,
flushing the dirty dregs. Milliband was crying,
letter mountains piled up around them.

Harriet Harman had worked an eye loose.
She scrabbled at the envelopes until there it was!
The Legg Report. She ate it, but Straw saw
paper crumbs at her lip. He whirled the truncheon.

Blair watched the private feed, laughing in his yacht,
having just sold sole rights to his mate Murdoch.
He opened the Budweiser fridge, there they were,
golden quail eggs. He gobbled them. They were free after all.

The Theory of Chaos

The big bang is universal point zero,
the epicentre of a feedback loop,
a cosmic pendulum swings through it
that we follow without a clue.

The fast elapsing of the present
in an instant becomes our past.

Our futures are unwritten chronicles,
we measure our progress as time,
gravity, the constant driving force,
powers pumping pistons along the line.

Mutation of patterns shift atomic structures
to create complex systems from simplicity.

We judge imperfection as humans
with our five senses we are blind,
we stare at our watches obsessed
while fractals fracture inside our minds.

The theory of chaos.