Nativity
Away in a Pret a Manger
Baguettes make shit beds.
Greek myth believer speaks
I’m proper Olympics, me
I’m drinking Coke
With a Mastercard-branded
Curly straw
I’m proper Olympics, me
My excrement shares the
Same archaic sewer system
As Usain Bolt
For two weeks whole
I’m fucking Olympian
As fuck, me
I’ve installed a DIY
Anti-aircraft gun
On my roof
I’ve arsoned up a Muslim
Family’s home
Using a replica Games torch
Yeah I support the troops
Against the enemies of
Ancient Greece
I mean Team GB
I mean I don’t know
Anymore
But anyway;
Sebastian Coe would
Surely agree
That no-one could
Ever remotely even try
To be the slightest bit more
Olympics
Than me.
Crime scene tape borders
All city incarnations
In every city
Subtitles and dub
CSI is never
Not on
But ponder this:
Will it inspire
A worldwide rash
Of talented
Forensics
Or highly efficient
Murderers?
The lone ranger: redux
Start with espresso of course
Look at building
Look at church
Another espresso
Look at building
Look at church
Walking in circles
Double-double espresso
Heart palpitations
Stare distrustfully at
German tour groups
Sense that another espresso
Would calm you right down
- it doesn’t –
Look at ten more buildings
Half a dozen churches
A monument to
Some non-specific
Something or other
Some trees a river a glacier
Maybe it wasn’t a glacier
Board a bus any bus
Start muttering in tongues
No-one sits near
Anywhere near
You started this holiday alone, son
And by God you’re going to
Finish it there.
The bitter and twisted tale of Phil Masinga
Ooh aah Masinga
This is a chant that never caught on
Not that anyone really tried
A man who entered as feted bride
Exited as ugly bridesmaid in
A South Leeds car park
While his imported friend
Considered a lesser light
Broke that bond of trust implicit
By being a star
Becoming a Chief while
Phil became a footnote
Whenever a friend steals my thunder
I think of Philemon Masinga
Whenever I see someone who
Never asked to be hyped
Not living up to the hype they
Never asked for
I think of Philemon Masinga
Possibly all he wanted was to
Be the impotent
Racial epithet directed at
African people when Leeds
Play in the capital
But he could not be that
Ultimate dubious badge of honour
Bestowed upon the godlike
Anthony Yeboah
Volleying them in
Off the bar
Seemingly every week
Ensuring future YouTube sensation
Ooh aah Masinga
They didn’t sing it in Italy either
A poor goals-to-games ratio there
But not quite poor enough
To be revered by Italian anarchists
Like Luther Blissett
The nom de plume of a thousand
Renegade pamphleteers
Another qualification failure
For another dubious honour
And so it goes:
33 goals in 132 pro appearances
An inevitable stint in the Gulf
An inglorious return to England
With Coventry City
Thwarted by work permit knock-back
Messy divorce, alimony, near-bankruptcy
Back to the township where
It all began
The neighbours swear they hear
Him humming to himself
Ooh aah Masinga
Ooh aah Masinga
The Alarmist is a new, dark and twisted limited-edition printed literary magazine.
…It’s not about trying to prove how clever or well-read you are, mind - we’re not the Paris Review. We want to buck the modern trend, and tickle and entertain with what we publish.
The way the world works
Kids and a God
Kids and a God
That’s all you need
For a platform
Preferably smiling kids
Preferably a frowning God
But any kids
And God will do
To make your
Opinion valid
Your stance respected
Your lies and bullshit
Firewall protected
God God kids kids
Kids kids God God
Now go out and nuke
The planet.
The prayer
“There’s always someone having a worse time than you”
Not true
There is definitely someone at the very bottom
Of the pile of people making other people feel better
And I wanna meet that fucker.
The Real Illuminati
I’ll have you know
They’re plotting against us
Those little swirly bits
You can only see
When you half-shut
Your eyes on a sunny day
Locking up your daughters
Will do no good
Those elusive specks of evil
Are above sexual mores
They care only for destruction
Your eyelashes will collaborate
Come the hour of reckoning
Who knows if even your eyes
Can be trusted
They’ll run rings round us
One day
Those little swirly bits
You can only see
When you half-shut
Your eyes on a sunny day
Who knows they’re
Probably in charge now
For all we know
Wake up!
Open your eyes!
Do something about this!
NB.
You should also open them
Because when you shut them
They stare at you resting
And pull shit out of your brain.
