harakiri-----stephen francis

Harakiri

Is it possible for a land to dream

Of Harakiri.

Gouts of screams and tears abound

Self-destruction is such a sweet sound

Particularly when told from afar

By those so clearly in the know.

But is that the truth, what we are told?

Does this land dream of a death all of its own?

Or perhaps tales of its expiry are greatly exaggerated

For profit and shock.

Could this be true, that they are lying to you?

Or does Peckham wish to fall on its sword?

Perhaps once, in the span of three days

Did this land wish to see itself burn,

To see itself consumed in the fires of greed,

Of hatred,

Of ignorance.

Tell me, is that all that this land has to offer?

Will it willingly trudge to such a dishonourable demise?

Or will it rise

And show those in the know 

That in truth Peckham dreams of a fate more honourable than Harakiri. 

Honour

They have used me and I have served.

How could I not?

They made me what I am.

A servant to their cause.

I’ve seen Queens crowned.

Threats of invasion from afar.

Overseen their communications.

Remained steadfast

As a good subject does.

I serve Queen and country.

I provide shelter for the Virgin

And light for her successors.

I trembled as planes flew above

And celebrated as they flew no more.

I’ve watched from afar, as the great playwright worked,

As theories and principles that would shape the world

Were committed to paper for forever more.

I’ve seen evil and good, hatred and love

Entangled in their eternal battle

From high above.

And as I waned, as I began to fall

Like all the Queen’s servants must do

Even those that had once stood so tall

Above it all, yet never apart

I can fade happy knowing this oak has honoured thy Virgin. 

Goodbye London, my one true love.

Parakeets

Where once there were none now there are many.

They don’t belong you see.

They invade without a care in the world.

Don’t they know the trouble they cause?

Stealing food is their goal,

And shelter that’s rightfully others.

What will the pigeons do, the paragons of London

When those filthy freeloaders spread further

Like a disease, they won’t stop

And soon what’s left of those true Londoners will be gone.

What next? It won’t end with Peckham.

They’re remorseless,

They just don’t care what gets in their way.

Perhaps those poor grey squirrels

They won’t know what’s coming when death swoops from above.

They’re not safe I swear.

But under our care things could change.

Perhaps we could contain them in Peckham

Like you contain an epidemic.

Let them spread their disease amongst themselves

As we watch and sigh in relief.

‘They won’t get us now’ we’ll say and we’ll cheer.

We’ll be right, till the next lot arrive.

Away and Home

They walk and stare and walk and stare

Like I am some alien, not meant to be there.

I ask for help, they smile and nod

And then they simply walk off.

Is it me I ask? Is it me?

Should this place me free

Of one so clearly of another breed?

No, surely not.

That can’t be right.

I ask again, I beg, I plead.

Yet one by one they ignore me

As if I were a rotten seed

Planted by a foreign hand.

It is me. It is me.

They want this place free

Of one so clearly of another breed.

Funny that.

I leave.

I return.

With warmth and smiles I am greeted.

Refinement it may lack

Without a doubt that’s a fact.

But at least it has its humanity intact.

Parakeets 2

At first they were a wonder

Soaring above our skies

Nesting in our trees

Impacting on our lives.

But soon they multiplied.

Clearly they had lied.

The invasion, it began

Undermining us was their plan.

They took and took and took

Like a simple common crook.

With no remorse they watch

From their perches high above.

They gaze with unnerving eyes

Impacting on our lives.

Soon we’ll be the wonder

Driven away from our skies.

Don’t believe me?

Fly high, take a look below.

It sickens me, you know?

I long for the days

When we grey pigeons

Could call this place our own.