Source: The Times
More than five weeks since the Deep Water Horizon rig collapsed and oil started spewing at a rate of 2.4 million gallons a day B.P, that's BRITISH Petroleum have been busy poisoning the whole of our waters, the waters of coral, of plankton, of porpoise and of dolphin.
BP are still unrepentant. In fact they're trying to buy off anyone with a mouth, a fishing permit and a Gulf of Mexico address. They've got money to burn you see, as well as to poison. May their consciences take them to a watery grave.The consciences of all who consume the stuff and demand it must be shamed also.
Water will never
be deep enough to drown those
Deep Bilge Poisoners.
Friday, November 5, 2010
On discovering a failing bee-hive 06.06.210.
They were general bees
coming and going
to the trenches
dressed in livery,
marking out their time and duty,
sliding, charmed, down the crevasse;
burring out luxuriously.
I watched one,
smaller than the rest,
paler, labouring his way out,
saw his particulars,
his clambering doom.
They were all marked men
marching out
from that moment
onwards.
coming and going
to the trenches
dressed in livery,
marking out their time and duty,
sliding, charmed, down the crevasse;
burring out luxuriously.
I watched one,
smaller than the rest,
paler, labouring his way out,
saw his particulars,
his clambering doom.
They were all marked men
marching out
from that moment
onwards.
At the Nurse's Station 03.06.010.
Julie, the duty nurse
In green scrubs
Has burst out of the sick bay
In stitches. She has accidentally
filled in two triage reports
Of the same case.
“I’ve seen two of that gentleman”
she tells the registrar
in blue.
”Funny, that.”
“Errr, time to go home, love”
shouts the triage nurse from Bay Three.
“You’ve had one more than the patient.”
Close at hand,
Mr Malik’s safe, brown Specialist
arms are bent over the file, the screen.
They are sturdy,
standing him at ease.
As Julie’s laughter
Reaches him.
A smile starts to slip up his face
like the sun trying to slip out
from abiding clouds.
A slight shade of blue
and dismay
has tinged the whites of
his downcast eyes as
he reels off the figures
internally.
His glinting stethoscope is still neatly
Curled around his neck,
a hard-won badge.
A yawn blooms in his mouth.
He half suppresses it, half allows it.
It’s still only three in the afternoon;
(time and space in the triage bays
has stiffened, too)
Elsewhere, nurses fly about.
The man in Bay Five
notices their agility,
their freedom of movement
because he has none.
On the only monitor not currently in use,
the acronym P.R.O.U.D unfurls itself,
shimmers on the light-filled screen.
The following lines form slowly
out of nothingness, then slide away
over and over again,
as shoals of fish from a tank.
P…patients are at the heart of all we do.
R..respect for others at all times.
O…our hospital is for you.
U…united in all our services.
D…dedicated to public healthcare.
The registrar writes up
Mr.Malik’s report with
a white pen.
There may be four hours
to kill before x-ray, so
I puzzle over the pen.
It is a replica of the bones
of a human leg.
The tibia and fibula are the part
gripped by the living carpals
of the registrar’s hand,
the nurse’s hand,
the specialist’s hand
Julie and Mr. Malik alight and depart
as deftly as swallows on a wire
at either end of the nurse’s station,
stoke up the ‘to be seen’ crate.
The triage curtains swish closed
and the fallen man is divided from
his care by blue fabric and the afternoon.
In green scrubs
Has burst out of the sick bay
In stitches. She has accidentally
filled in two triage reports
Of the same case.
“I’ve seen two of that gentleman”
she tells the registrar
in blue.
”Funny, that.”
“Errr, time to go home, love”
shouts the triage nurse from Bay Three.
“You’ve had one more than the patient.”
Close at hand,
Mr Malik’s safe, brown Specialist
arms are bent over the file, the screen.
They are sturdy,
standing him at ease.
As Julie’s laughter
Reaches him.
A smile starts to slip up his face
like the sun trying to slip out
from abiding clouds.
A slight shade of blue
and dismay
has tinged the whites of
his downcast eyes as
he reels off the figures
internally.
His glinting stethoscope is still neatly
Curled around his neck,
a hard-won badge.
A yawn blooms in his mouth.
He half suppresses it, half allows it.
It’s still only three in the afternoon;
(time and space in the triage bays
has stiffened, too)
Elsewhere, nurses fly about.
The man in Bay Five
notices their agility,
their freedom of movement
because he has none.
On the only monitor not currently in use,
the acronym P.R.O.U.D unfurls itself,
shimmers on the light-filled screen.
The following lines form slowly
out of nothingness, then slide away
over and over again,
as shoals of fish from a tank.
P…patients are at the heart of all we do.
R..respect for others at all times.
O…our hospital is for you.
U…united in all our services.
D…dedicated to public healthcare.
The registrar writes up
Mr.Malik’s report with
a white pen.
There may be four hours
to kill before x-ray, so
I puzzle over the pen.
It is a replica of the bones
of a human leg.
The tibia and fibula are the part
gripped by the living carpals
of the registrar’s hand,
the nurse’s hand,
the specialist’s hand
Julie and Mr. Malik alight and depart
as deftly as swallows on a wire
at either end of the nurse’s station,
stoke up the ‘to be seen’ crate.
The triage curtains swish closed
and the fallen man is divided from
his care by blue fabric and the afternoon.
Aspirin for bowel cancer 16.09.2010.
Source The Metro
Researchers at the University of Edinburgh have discovered that a daily dose of the painkiller aspirin or other non-steroid ant-inflammatory drug can significantly lower the risk of bowel cancer.
Inflammatory
findings prove that scientists
gut feelings were right.
Researchers at the University of Edinburgh have discovered that a daily dose of the painkiller aspirin or other non-steroid ant-inflammatory drug can significantly lower the risk of bowel cancer.
Inflammatory
findings prove that scientists
gut feelings were right.
Ashes for cash 01.05.2010.
Source: The Independent
Lots of claims are being made by disappointed would-be flyers against the natural disaster in which an Icelandic volcano thankfully stopped the perpetual orgy of flying that goes on across British skies. Well, for a few precious days.
Ashes to money,
cash to gold. Payouts may reach
volcanic levels.
Lots of claims are being made by disappointed would-be flyers against the natural disaster in which an Icelandic volcano thankfully stopped the perpetual orgy of flying that goes on across British skies. Well, for a few precious days.
Ashes to money,
cash to gold. Payouts may reach
volcanic levels.
Let's hole trump in one
29.06.2010.
Campaigners of the pressure group 38 Degrees have bought a piece of land slap bang in the middle of the Balmeanie Estate, an SSSI, which the self-aggrandising popinjay billionaire Donald Trump is buying, grace of Aberedeenshire Council. Under a CPO, those living there are to be evicted from their own houses and land. I have signed up to the ownership of the patch of land, known as 'The Bunker' (for obvious reasons) and ANYONE READING THIS CAN DO IT TOO.
The idea of buying a piece of land technically owned by a very large number of people is that it makes the business of selling the land technically (legally) very expensive. This was the reasoning behind the initial purchase by a few buyers, followed by additional purchase by hundreds of other people of a piece of land inside the proposed siting of the Third Runway. Greenpeace and Plane Stupid were the architects of this idea. Et Voila BAA have cancelled. But watch out, they could just be lying low in an aircraft hangar!
Tee-ed off by Meanie
Council's Trumpery? Let's hole them
in one big bunker.
Campaigners of the pressure group 38 Degrees have bought a piece of land slap bang in the middle of the Balmeanie Estate, an SSSI, which the self-aggrandising popinjay billionaire Donald Trump is buying, grace of Aberedeenshire Council. Under a CPO, those living there are to be evicted from their own houses and land. I have signed up to the ownership of the patch of land, known as 'The Bunker' (for obvious reasons) and ANYONE READING THIS CAN DO IT TOO.
The idea of buying a piece of land technically owned by a very large number of people is that it makes the business of selling the land technically (legally) very expensive. This was the reasoning behind the initial purchase by a few buyers, followed by additional purchase by hundreds of other people of a piece of land inside the proposed siting of the Third Runway. Greenpeace and Plane Stupid were the architects of this idea. Et Voila BAA have cancelled. But watch out, they could just be lying low in an aircraft hangar!
Tee-ed off by Meanie
Council's Trumpery? Let's hole them
in one big bunker.
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