Donald Trump was removed from Twitter
His message was unacceptable, said the Democrats
We need to feed the Media Industrial Complex
So up they woke the Tranny Rex
We need to sheepdip the people
And cut out all their tongues
We need to hogwash the deplorables
Whatever could go wrong?
We need to contaminate the herd
So they are seen and not heard

© Michael Clifford 10/22

Poets live between bars
Their imaginations are always better than reality
Great expectations lead to the needle
or to neglect, or at least
to some form of nemesis

They say, “How dare they imagine the world to be
misunderstood by their elders and betters?”
Haven’t they grown up by the age of 50?
Are they still living with mum?

But I love the poet’s imagination
If it leads to hope and action
Even if it is another charge of the light brigade
It is good.

© Michael Clifford 10/22

A warning to the young buck on the winter landscape.
A wondrous princess is approaching.
A diagnosed wolf in sheep’s clothing.
The manic-depressive she-wolf,
the partner and friend.
Tea and sympathy in the snow.
In the pines.
What do she-wolves really want?

The delicate white wool of the lamb darkens,
coarsens as the moon waxes
And now a she-wolf is here
Howling for dominion
That sweet suckling lamb that you took to your breast
has grown in stature
and is now too big for taking under your arm.
It is now of preditory mind
Ferocity lies just below the surface.
Buyer’s regret

Cuckoo in the nest;
The enemy within;
A she-wolf at the breast:
It looks the same,
it still comes to its name
But its softness, its kindness, its love
has gone in an impossible moment

Werewolf?
Juices taste of abject disatisfaction.
Amidst Intense ice and fire
Carcasses leave no creativity,
they walk with the Iron Heel.
Unhappy with self it cannot
bear the contented prosaic nearby.
Captured, the reversed mind is sullied,
intent on contaminating.

Their insideous danger comes from swings:
Just look at their logos
The Freemasons, the Fabians
and the hitch knot,
the greatest puppet master of all.
Blizzards comes after the fall
so beware of the cold
in the Winter landscape.
Don’t allow your heart to freeze.

© Michael Clifford 10/22

To walk around
and keep saying,
‘My eyes are bad
My legs are bad’
is the hopelessness of old age
And the way we look.
Crumbs!

This is how the young see the old;
sadoes, those with failing technology
and sagging skin,
who no longer flaunt the kudos of success.
Yet what they forget is that old brains
are a hidden and mysterious tech
old but analogue
with a surprising long history of
stability and dependability
A wonder to ride on
And to sleep securely in, confident of arrival
With no daft illusions, just windows passing quickly
Nothing could be sweeter
Than to be a world beater…
To look around at growing generations is sad.
The young man thinks the old man is stupid
The old man knows the young man is stupid.

© Michael Clifford 10/22

Should I stay or should I go
Say goodbye or say hello?
Make them high that feel so low
Feed the seeds or stop the growth
Quicken the world or make it slow
Make it static but increase the flow

If I stay, how will I pay?
Pay to play to fly my kite ?
Who’s to say?
Or should I leave like a thief in the night
Every dilemma, it’s the same old show
Should I stay or should I go?

© Michael Clifford 10/22

Pictures of the Queen
Symbols of the era
Dumping from on high
Queue up get to feel her

Cannot be the last
of the brutal barons
Speeding in the fast lane
of fate’s blasting cannons

Out there in the dark
Are forces there unknown
Speaking on the box
Highness hit her low tone

Pictures of the Queen
Always you will see her
Is this Queen-free zone
Or is this North Korea?

© Michael Clifford 10/22

In all the bric-a-brac of drawers
behind the buttons and penless pen tops
underneath the broken wallets
and anonymous keys
I search for the something
I search for you

Inside this wooden rectangle
of hair grips, combs and badges
of batteries, spent and lonely
of pencils, tacks and string
I find something of yours,
a message on the back,
scribbled on a receipt in biro:
“Someone rang, told them you’d be back at four. Love Anna”

And like a time machine
I am back where I belong

Cotton reels and elastic bands
bind me in confusion
You are the thread that allows me
to avoid the dread
of trying to cut the Gordian knot
of my being

© Michael Clifford 10/22

Over the fence never seen before
A smiling face at me while she clips the hedge
An empty walk with a headful of trouble
A thanks from a dog owner as I allow him access
A joke from the shopkeeper to the man in front
A gentle word, a lovin’ phrase, meduck

A kind discourse, the walk of a cat between my legs
The sun on my problems dries them out
The neighbour helps me with my garden
A young girl says she likes me
A bit of a shock, it’s nice to have your hand being held
Innocence holds such surprising joy

Worthlessness is a disease humans suffer from
But hold your head high and thank the universe
for kindnesses from the unknown
Count your blessings as my dad used to say
Alpha to Omega
Trust and it happens, say the tongues

© Michael Clifford 10/22

In Memorandum: Salvador Dali

The melting fobs of Dali
denote the contraction
of the cosmos,
time is redundant,
matter disintegrates
beyond its nuclear structure,
space and time congeal.

Astrophysicists now confirm
this phenomenon os about to commence,
as the universe has stopped
its expansion.

Expansion elasticates into contraction,
time decelerates matter’s incestuous
relationship with time
begins to evaporate

These series of images
will persist in the memory.

© David McCormack 05/22