the weekly


One hundred days on the rostrum

One hundred days on the stump

One hundred days of anti-colostrum

One hundred sups from the sump

Thoughts well inside me of murder most foul

Referee please, may I throw in my towel?


Soundbites are carved from a soap-cake

Soundbites are frothy, like scum

How many feet of old rope make

The cost of their hanging, old chum?

Off with their tongues! Someone please minute us

And act before all of us die from sheer tinnitus


Here are the keen correspondents

Shining from top lip to eye

The words coat their teeth as if fondant

(There’s nothing beneath them, is why)

Here is the noise of excitable babble

Based on an idiot’s version of Scrabble


Everyone look at the lens

Everyone squint at the birdie

Everyone wave at their friends

There’s isn’t a hurdier gurdy

There isn’t a noisier party in town

‘I The Returning …’ Oh please turn it down





Click here for an Independent story

Click here to buy a copy of Bill’s poetry collection Ringers

Click here for Bill’s New Statesman research project





It is one hundred days till the general election.

27 January 2015


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