THE BOTTOM HAS NO FLOOR

He falls again,

and still his country waits for the thud

but – there is no thud when

a man has carved away the floor beneath him.

There is only faster, deeper, falling.

On a day meant for grace and thanks

he opens the sewer of his heart

and plunges in,

hurling slurs built from decades of hurt.

His cruelty is not an error,

it’s a base instinct.

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In the small hours,

he scribbles social media tantrums as decrees;

declaring another’s signature void,

as if ink bowed to spite,

as if law were plasticine in his fists.

This is hardly governance;

more a corrupted mind

pretending to rule.

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While families grieve their dead,

he dances beneath shiny chandeliers,

a puffed, vacant spectacle,

twirling through sorrow

as though grief were beneath him,

as though dignity were optional.

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His outrage is never about principle.

It is always about targets.

He strikes the vulnerable,

never those who mirror his reflection.

It’s hate wielded with some precision,

but absolutely no passion.

His viciousness has no depth,

only sedimental dregs,

layers of malice settling

on the bed of a poisoned river.

He sinks there, still swinging,

still tilting at shadows.

Yet we are watching.

And history watches too.

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We will not kneel,

will not forget,

will not surrender truth

to the noise of his decay.

For when the final page is written,

he will not rise as king,

but stand remembered as the man

who mistook cruelty for strength,

and danced

while the embers of his legacy

burned at his feet.

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GOTTA LIFE PLAN?

Forget the dream of your ‘five-year plan’,

Your PowerPoint to glory’s gate;

Just do the thing that’s in your hand,

And do it well – the rest can wait.

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Don’t chase down joy like it’s a fox,

You’ll scare it off – it hates the fuss.

Stay busy, kind, unorthodox,

And let delight ambush the bus.

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Remember the cosmic fluke, we call ‘luck’.

The sperm that swam, the school that taught.

Don’t strut as if you wrote the book,

‘coz you borrowed pages someone else bought.

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Move your body, stretch, don’t moan,

It’s cheaper than religion’s fee.

A jog can fix what fear has grown,

And keep your mind from entropy.

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Be brutal with your sacred views,

They age like milk, unlike fine wine.

Test every thought, adjust and renew

Admit when you’re wrong, you’ll still be fine.

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Teach what you know, a trick or a tale,

A recipe or a way to beat fear.

We’re as brief as sparks on Lucifer’s thumbnail,

light up the dark whilst you are here.

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Respect the ones who clean your mess,

Who pour your drink or sweep your floor;

The measure of your gentleness

Is how you treat the tired and poor.

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Don’t worship money, fame, or clout,

They rot the brain, they twist the gut.

You can’t buy grace, as you’ll find, no doubt,

That death gives change and keeps the cut.

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And don’t rush life, it’s not a race,

You’ll trip before the banner drops.

Be lost, be late, it’s no disgrace;

The best fruit grows when hurrying stops.

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But most of all define your flame.

Don’t waste breath telling of stuff you hate.

Love loudly and don’t be shy or tame,

Help the world to carry its weight.

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Singing of books, or jazz, or rain,

Of every laugh that saves your skin.

Let cynics choke on their disdain,

Joy is rebellion so let’s begin.