Calling Citizens Of The World (After ‘The Great Dictator’ By Charlie Chaplin)

So I wrote this poem inspired from a song I co-wrote nearly ten years ago (available on request) at Performing Room in Northampton.

Additionally, this is also inspired from the film The Great Dictator, written and directed by Charlie Chaplin and his speech in that film.

in 2016 my country split in two
48% voted stay the rest to leave the EU
in the wake of Brexit and Windrush
when we moan we’re told to hush hush

workers continue to suffer under the bourgeoisie
saving every coin so they can survive this austerity
men, women and children hurt and alone
many don’t have safe places they can call home

in halls of residence students sweat
whack to the knees crippled under government debt
you know these loan sharks in suits
playing judge, jury and hangman ready to drop the noose

these are images on a news reel
this history we’re living in now is sealed
it’ll be written with photo-shopped pictures
as you know that history’s written by the victors

you can see lies written into faces
discussion puts world leaders through their paces
they tell us what they want us to hear
but critiquing their actions fills their minds with fear

politicians thinking what they think is right
turning people against basic human rights
deporting British citizens and funding wars
street slabs acting as veterans’ floorboards

Photo Credit: T-Chick McClure on Unsplash

Black or White; Christian or Muslim; Gay or Straight
through othered visions the powers that be discriminate
destroying communities, minds and souls
they’re not yours not for corporations to own and control

Northampton, campus incorporated
degrees and education hyper-monetised…
Town Centre – litter-ridden, takeaways and charity shops
in addition to police on the beat and All Saints’ sighs

fake news, false media, forced slave labour
form systems that change narratives and model behaviour
it causes nothing but anger and distress
look at the world in protest and continuous civil unrest

like Goebbels and Lord Kitchener with propaganda
they use words and pictures to play on our anger
like Darth Vader they use the force to enslave us
using false media and stories to garner our trust

peace exists on Earth with the breathing and the living
not with us murdering those who are giving
don’t pollute the world with plastics and aerosols
pollute it with children who dare to be brave and be bold

humanity has been through so much pain
but those who’ve maimed must take responsibility
if they don’t things will never change
fix up and for once take some accountability

we should guide each other
like Indiana Jones in his quest to discover
one race – one people – one destiny
as we scout in pedigree and human history

Photo Credit: Annie Boilin on Unsplash

Citizens of the World, have your say
we’re not pieces in games chess for them to play
party politics’s been casting us in sin
boxing us based on gender, beliefs, race and melanin

those of you preaching what you think is right
turning people against basic human rights
experiences have given me perspective
it’s made me who I am and taught me to live

live in peace and your lives in tranquillity
live in peace and your lives in tranquillity
live in peace and your lives in tranquillity.


“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

Semiotics: Observations Exposed

Semiotics is the study of signs and I wrote this poem inspired from ‘Motives and Thoughts’ by Lauryn Hill.

The severe lack grammar and punctuation is to show that thoughts and signs are not scripted. They just exist.

This is one continuous ramble with no structure. How we think is not always linear from point A to point B.


mumbling rappers confusion of sound
negative messages holding us down
time and capitalism socially constructed
human consciousness motives corrupted
impulsive reactions brexit and war
from slavery to windrush injustice galore

western media tools for
synthetic mythologies modern folklore
global newsreaders creating misdirection
claiming munitions are for our protection
wicked news anchors killing our brains
misleading us with newspeak again
war is economics designed for profit and gain

mr trump glows in the dark motives exposed
we can all see through his baggy clothes
this klansman confines kids to cages and woes
with human rights disposed written into code
Tory government party of jokers court jester logic
always answering questions with statements off topic

uncivilised people with colonialist knowledge
system decline and still wont concede
using religion as a saviour analysing behaviour
eton MPs kings and queens of corruption and greed
impulsive politicians on prescription meds
wishing brexit negotiations were all in their heads

ethical standards pride is the source
born with silver spoons on the back of a horse
imperial leaders led by whitewashed history
churchill and nelson racists it’s no mystery

Cackling Theresa May GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

global economy in for number one
banks hiring mercenaries and guns
war designed to kill fathers and sons
to the sound of cannons and drums
as number ten paints beautiful pictures
from myths into theology and scriptures

both west and east are after diamonds and pearls
as lies and deception take over the world
blind with hate deep in our hearts
neo-colonialism is a poison dart
deceive your neighbours so well get ahead
modern day deceit is what we’re being fed

Mother Ireland (After “The Troubles”)

I’ve written this poem (preemptively) for International Women’s Day on March 8 for which I’m going to be reading at an event next week.  I realised I don’t have many gender-related poetry so I put this one together.

It’s inspired from a very good nonfiction book called Only the Rivers Run Free: Northern Ireland – The Women’s War (1984) by Eileen Fairweather, Roisin McDonough and Melanie McFadyean.

It’s a book about a period in Irish history called “The Troubles”, also known as the “Northern Ireland Conflict.” Only the Rivers Run Free is written from the point of view of the women on the street-level.

Every wondered what it would be like to see the Vietnam War from the point of view of the civilians? This book takes the reader and puts you in the shoes of those who lived it.

I’m not a historian. The following poem is simply many thoughts and feelings I had when reading the book. Interpret it as you will.


I want to write a poem for
the women of Northern Ireland
who had their houses broken into by the English
before taking their kids to school –
who hacked and cursed,
and Shannon from Belfast who has
strong opinions about colonial rule,
says “it’s us or them”
ready to condemn those
from across the sea.

And her mother remembers
The Easter Risings.
Her grandmother’s mother
remembers the Potato Famine.
Shannon remembers The Troubles.
She breathes through her nose
and out through the mouth.
Thinking about this history,
she lights a cigarette
and calls her friend Siobhan
and they talk.

About:
The Suffragettes,
The Freedom Riders,
Angela Davis and second-wave feminism,
and Betty Friedan and The Feminine Mystique,
Sylvia Plath and The Bell Jar
They talk about their
ancestors who sailed to the New World.

Photographer: Leon Bliss

But Shannon’s world was the Women’s War
in the streets of Belfast where
the rivers ran free with blood and bone.
Where homes were pillaged,
where families were broken,
where the workhouse had made a comeback.

Years later, the two women run into each other
on the streets of Belfast.
They ask one another how they’re doing.
Siobhan drops her shoulder. Shuffles away,
her gaze dazed by this awkward silence.
She knows her friend hasn’t changed.
Siobhan calls Shannon reckless.

If she was to ask her what she’d done all these years,
Shannon would have talked about her history degree.
She would talk about her pro-human rights activities.
She would have talked about the marches she’d been on
against the counter-productive, sex-shaming
methods of organised religion.

Photographer: Nathan Dumlao

I want to write a poem
for the women of Northern Ireland,
whose words stretch like elastic bands –
who fought like the Amazons,
who survived a red scare from
those who had a dystopia for a heart,
who sold their souls to the Queen and Empire.
An ode to the cloth – chaotic, broken,
the international anecdote of Victoria and Elizabeth.

And read it out loud through this land –
statues, stately homes and street names.
Flags like body bags. Great Britain.
What a metaphor for colonialism.
The women are a stitched seam.
Split-tongued like the Caribbean,
like India and Indonesia,
and Benin and Ghana and Scotland.

They had to watch their sons though,
because they couldn’t put it past the boys
to not do something stupid for glory.
Even their own kin who have their
fathers’ hands, sweat and blood
and last week when a boy was murdered,
that was a mother’s son, a sister’s brother.

Photographer: Christopher Campbell

The boys were simply jail bait,
primed for the guillotine. I want to write
a poem for the women of Northern Ireland,
who did the real work. I show them a gun
and they tell me it’s not a big enough.
They were waitresses and mechanics
and social workers and housewives
and so much more than our
hypermasculine history books suggest.

But life comes fast you know.
One minute you’re fighting the red coats
and next you’re in the midst
of fourth-wave feminism in your new job
at a university. And then it’s almost over,
life I mean. You fought your way through it
and I can tell by the way your daughters
talk that there’s power in oppression.

And when they call you terrorists,
say thank you. Thank you very much.

Just One More

Just One More was written in response to Wilfred Owen’s Last Laugh and my poem follows an unnamed woman who gets drunk one night as she can’t get over the death of her childhood friend.


“O fuck! I’m hit”, she said; and passed out.
Whether she meant it, or said it in passing,
Mr Gordon released his chute – closed fist,
open open! The hyenas cackled, and the
klaxons guffawed.

She came too. “Help! Mom! Dad! Johnny!”
she roared. That was her childhood friend.
Like a brother. Three years her junior, the
dead soldier who’d sooner desert the flag
than defend civil conflicts over sand and oil.

“My friend!” she yelled. Dismally-drunk was her
temperament. Till cradled, was her chin in thin
shells, like her own, but not. Mrs Mother groaned,
holding her child’s tired, exhausted face, and the
pavement hissed.

I’m Never Drinking Again: A Parody Poem

I wrote I Am Never Drinking Again…  in response to Attack by Siegfried Sassoon.  My poem is a satire of what it means to be young and carefree, mocking my college days as I don’t do stuff like that anymore (well not like I used to).

Siegfried Sassoon was an English poet and soldier during The First World War. Whilst in a hospital in Scotland in 1917, he met fellow poet Wilfred Owen (I spoke about him earlier). They were friends but he also acted as Owen’s mentor.

Sassoon is mostly remembered for his polemic and compassionate poems about his time at war and his thoughts on the war itself. This made him a controversial figure, bringing him to public and critical acclaim.

Avoiding the blind patriotism and romanticism of the war, Sassoon wrote of the horrors and brutality of trench warfare. He satirised generals, politicians and the clergy for their incompetence in support of going to the front.


At first light, the young emerge drunk and done
staggering through the town’s tired sun,
drifting in hoards of women and blokes that manifest
tremors in the footpath’s yolk; and one by one,
toy soldiers tumble towards the wire.

At 7am, food joints open. Then some soberly, and
hopelessly – filled with Jägerbombs, Schnapps shots and
their loss of dignity, these partiers crawl to meet Subway’s choir.

Like Tamagotchis with dead faces, masked with fatigue,
they finish their sandwiches, climb over the top,
while time is an illusion – hungover heads and
hysterically hoping with fortune, that they drop down dead.
As they crawl upstairs past mom’s wagging finger
and flounder through the grass, O Jesus make it stop!