DOWN THE CO-OP

New assistant,
seems OK,
smiles.

Then at the end
of the transaction
says
"Can I interest  you in our
offer on cherries, one pound
a punnet?"
She points at a pathetically
small punnet
containing five or six limp
cherries.

"No, you can't"
I reply.
"And in fact I don't really
like you asking.
If I wanted cherries
I'd get them off
my own volition."

"Oooh, I'm sorry"
she says,
"I was only trying to
get a conversation going,
y'know a bit of interaction."

"That's is a noble intention,"
I riposted,
"However, I feel it being
accompanied by a commercial
proposition
somewhat diminishes
its sincerity."

At this point she seems to get really
wound up and tells me
she doesn't like my tone.

This is an instant,
a moment
in which I have to confess
on some occasions
in my elongated life
the situation has escalated:
become unpleasant and
disagreeable.
The dispute has often got
personal.
Things have been said
on both sides that
perhaps in the pure light of day
would have gone unsaid

However,
the passing of years
perhaps, have taught me something.
"I'm sorry you don't like my tone,"
I responded.
"I was merely pointing out
a fundamental flaw in your
argument. Also I come here all the time
and this is the first time someone's tried
to flog me something in this way."

She now gets the wrong end of the stick
but
a debate has been established.
we progress upon paths of reasonable
discourse, well fairly reasonable,
there's an element of lingering danger,
the possibility of fireworks.

But in the end,
it all ends happily.
We even end up establishing the fact
that she thought I said
the shop assistants in the co-op
pester me continually,
when I said the exact opposite.

They're OK, they're cool,
they leave me alone
or maintain a low-key
conversation.
Which is probably, probably
what she'll do
next time
she serves me.

INSIDE SOMEBODY ELSE'S SOUL

I have raved
down subconscious alleyways
covered in mud graphene and silicone

pecked by butterflies
with the faces of rats
and surrounded by passions
I barely understood

I have raved
Oh yes I have raved

I have exploded
at the bottom of thoughtless
oceans
embraced by hysterical seahorses
caught between the mad laughter
of blissed-out porpoises
and staggeringly
intransigent sharks

I have exploded
Oh yes I have exploded

Inside some messed-up future
where nobody has a soul
I sometimes crawl and dither.
I'm only trying to convert myself into
a dijinn and save the world
where's the harm in that?

I have upset the cart
I have tossed rotten apples into
salads
and
never had the slightest doubt
that all the bickering and
background interference
is the only true way
to alternate
between
elevated hopes
and
deflated
consequences

I have somersaulted
through hoops of reason
and trod tripwires
of exuberance

I have raced
through columns of
combustible gas
and zigzagged
through calamities

And I didn't stop there

Yes, yes
I have somersaulted
raced
and zigzagged
and I didn't stop there

That beauty you were talking of
the one I found in the courtyard
I let her loose

Now she calls everything impermanent

Form of a woman
snake donkey, lion goat
dijinns
fire fire fire
ruins jungles marshes

Inside you
everything's on fire

I WILL RIP YOUR HEART OUT

Y'know somewhere out on Highway 61,
or Highway 57
or whichever fucking highway
it is that ends up
in Chicago

Out there
with the sun spitting down
with ghastly giant Irish type crows
fluttering about,
with great fields of cornflake corn
waving in the breeze

With Bette Davis by my side
a couple of 30s hoodlums hanging around
a bit further off,
and Billie Holiday waiting for me
in a car with the motor running

yeah, right
with my Hitchcock gaze
and filthy fingers of hate
with my visions of bloodthirsty cherubim
and Mohammed looking over my shoulder

God be praised,
with silent grace
and noisy enthusiasm
with my eyes half-filled with tears
half-filled with something I can't
quite put my finger on

I will
I will
I will rip your heart out

ON HAVING MY HAIKU REJECTED BY THE JOURNAL 'MODERN HAIKU'

I sit rejected
a sad unwanted kitten
waiting to be drowned

TRANSLATION OF 'SON DE NEGROS EN CUBA'
BY FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA

SON OF BLACK CUBA

When the full moon arrives
I'm off to Santiago de Cuba
I'm off to Santiago

in a carriage of black water
I'm off to Santiago
The palm-tree roofs will sing
I'm off to Santiago
When the palm tree wants to be a stork
I'm off to Santiago
And when the banana-tree wants to be a jellyfish
I'm off to Santiago

With the blonde head of Fonseca
I'm off to Santiago
And with Romeo and Juliet's rose
I'm off to Santiago
Oh, Cuba, rhythm of dried seeds!
Paper sea and silver coins
I'm off to Santiago

Oh, waist on fire and drop of wood!
I'm off to Santiago
Harp of living tree-trunks, alligator, tobacco flower!
I'm off to Santiago
I always said I'd go to Santiago
in a carriage of black water

I'm off to Santiago
Breeze and alcohol in the wheels
I'm off to Santiago
My coral in the deepest shadows
I'm off to Santiago
The drowned sea in the sand
I'm off to Santiago
White heat, dead fruit,
I'm off to Santiago
Oh, the bovine coolness of sugar cane!
Oh, Cuba! The sigh of the curve and the mud!
I'm off to Santiago

HOW THEY WHINE

You know that shit
that shit that moronic artists
spout

about
like how their 'art'
isn't about
providing answers
but asking questions

Well,
I vomit
into their
lonely little souls

I defecate inside their
rusty ego-stewed
minds

For in the
magic brew of
my words
you
will
I promise
I GUARANTEE!
find a thousand solutions

You will find
the answers
to all the mysteries
to all the paradoxes
to all the indefinable wonderings

You will
rise to the surface of
the intoxicating
stirring of my creations
and find yourself
speechless
from revelation
and
resolution

otherwise
I'd be wasting my time
and you'd be left dangling
in a sort of vapid
bourgeois nothingness
and we wouldn't want that

SOMEWHERE UNDER THE RAINBOW

Balthasar
stooped
spat out the
unsteady gaze
of everybody
who had smelt
his hate

I was cleaning the dung
from the stables
at the time
I knew nothing
of silly people
who could not create
a universe
in the blink
and flutter
of an overwhelming
undernourished
lonely
split-second

Gaspar
I beat him to
a fucking pulp.
But my cruelty was kindness!
He deserved everything I
served up
I was just struggling to find my
true self
and you know what?
I never did find it

Yeh, the wanker
just came into the stables
at the wrong time
and with the wrong attitude
even the flies
were outraged by his
stranded behaviour

and
yes, it was jealousy
that drove me.
and hypocrisy
that picked me up
it was isolation
that spurred my bones
and every blow I delivered
lived with me
forever

Melchior
sat by his camel and mocked
my antics
"You're a
miserable tosser"
he said
with a smirk

The lazy lizards
crawling out his ears
turned their
indolent eyes
in my direction

I didn't like the look
they gave me

NOW I REMEMBER WHO I AM

all golden bleat it was
like a heartbeat in secret
sending all those visions that
economics presenters
swat away in their
sweaty brain-washed
summaries

Yes, I was wallowing
in words again,
my swords were numerous.
Ahhh, the blade as it cuts,
the thrust,
the dizzy adventure
of lunging
by degrees

and then I cough up everything
the blaze
the flames
all the colours
all the thoughts
I'm sick of reading the thoughts
they're like awkward adventures
you'd rather forget

In spite of everything
the moon went out
the lamb
roared
the apocalypse was dissappointing
the dawn was crass
but the fire, the fire
could explode my mind!

the house that sat on top of the hill
was swaying as I began to make love
to the memory of
everything that had never really happened
and imagine my dismay
when your poison began to work
and all the flowers were
transformed into
a sort of trite torment

Today I caught the X9
and it was like hell
and it was like heaven
we laughed as we stared
down on everything

all golden bleat it was
like purified oxygen mixed
with some difficulty
into the hum of a bus
with a mysterious name

and we fly
we fly along
past me,
past you
because we're no longer here,
no, we don't for a minute
think anything will stay still
we just enjoy the company
of the wading birds
and the loving ghosts

CORRECTION

I wrote a poem in
my book of poems,
about fuck-arsed poets
who stick semi-colons
in the middle of their
tedious lines of twaddle

however
I was wrong
that's not what they do

I check out all
these modern shit poets
by reading idle snippets
of their bilge,
whilst browsing
in bookshops,
you remember them?

and
I have now observed
it ain't semi-colons
they bang around,
it's full stops. Like this

So,
I stand corrected
you stand corrected
we all stand corrected

I do wish
they'd stop doing it
though

DID SOMEONE REALLY WRITE THIS?

Trawling through
the swampy wastelands
of modern poetry
in some vain attempt to get
my 'stuff' about
I came across this:

"We prefer poems with these qualities:
image, subtlety and point of view;
a surface of worldly exactitude,
as well as a depth of semantic ambiguity;
and a voice that negotiates
with its body of predecessors."

Well, I'm fucking up for that!

Oh, body of Predecessors!
Sorry, I just kicked you in the nuts,
I didn't know who you were.
If I'd have known,
I would have, like,
semantically,
and ambiguously,
and showing a fucking fistful
of worldly exactitude,
not to mention using
real subtle imagery,
torn your heart out from your body
and thrown it to the dogs

How's that
for a point of view?

POEM FOR SOMEONE ASKING TO BE TAKEN OFF MY MAILING LIST

Your soul
stirring in the breeze

Your soul
swaying like a bucket of bile
on a cruel wind

Your soul
lilting,
trying to escape
the awkwardness
and the uncomfortable
conversations;
more english than you can
ever imagine

Your soul
disintegrating in
front of  our eyes

and you know what
I'm doing
..while all this is
going on?
Well, I'm waving...
y'know...
fond farewell,
all friendly like,
a dainty 'will not darken your
doorstep again'
look on my face

Here I am,
No, here I am.
Can't you see me?
Can't you discern me?
Come on!
I'm everywhere

YOU HAVE BEEN SIGNED OUT DUE TO INACTIVITY

Signed out
due to inactivity,
what a way to go

Hung out to dry,
slung down the basement,
lobbed up the attic,
kicked into the alleyway,
ditched in the canal,
downloaded into oblivion

Left to rot,
yes,
ROT!
and all because
I was inactive.
And all because
I did not,
I did not do anything

Cruel computer
screen,
carrier of hurtful messages,
harbinger
of cold, icy cold,
large, blue fonted
words of dismissal.

Staring upon your
present passive perfect
notification,
I do not feel stronger,
I do not feel like a rainbow,
I do not feel like a bud about to burst

Signed out
due to inactivity,
and there ain't nothing I can do about it,
except
sign back in again!

ARSEHOLE

Malingerer,
voider.
Whipper-snapping
proximity of
a human being

Jerkhead,
pissed off,
pointless, mouth-farting
lump of
uselessness

Everywhere person,
crap-faced,
non-thinking,
hole of desolation

Slithering,
withering
negation
of any semblance
of joy and
sincerity

Off you go,
go on, get out there,
into the world!
You've got lots of people's
lives to fuck up.
Why waste time
reading poetry?

FRENZIED

The previous 98
poems on this here blog
have been gathered into
an e-book thingy
called
'Selfish City will not fall'
available from
Kindle, Smashwords
and hopefully all the others
when I overcome
some teasing technical challenges

There's a vid
of me reading two poems
on youtube,
called, errr, 'Two poems'.
I'm out with my novel
A.N.D./O-R,
in a little while
and there's music stuff around

I hope you too,
dear fan,
you are also
living a useful life.
We all must try,
mustn't we?

The shit will inevitably
hit the fan.
Humiliation and
disappointment
will crunch our brittle bones.
Indifference and
failure
will lock us in their
unforgiving embrace

but if we don't do
anything,
who will?

I'M OUT OF HERE

Last day in the Civil Service,
eight cruddy years

The chief statistician
a man of devout Christian
beliefs calls me into his office

He is as bland as the
monochrome, open-plan surroundings,
as soulless as the glass lifts

He has been instructed to
give me a final warning
for excessive sick leave

Despite my protestations
this slave of protocol insistingly
delivers the absurd reprimand

I was out of there in two hours
for forever! Gone!
But right now I was sitting petulantly
listening to some shrivel-arsed
tit telling me I could have no more days off sick
even though that was clearly an
impossibility

I maintained my surly
demeanour
throughout his pathetic performance.
When it had ended,
I got up, went down the cafe,
had a coffee and a bun,
went for a smoke
then returned to my desk
and half-pretended to work

Only another one hour
and twenty five
minutes to go!

HEAVENSLIGHT 3

Sleep cannot go on forever,
the unconscious divinity
that lies at the foot of Albion
stirs in his den.
His long, somnolent
night of wild imaginings
is drawing to a close.
His eyelids flutter

Around the bird cages
in Victoria Park,
the sickly pungent smell
of burnt meat.
The leader of Portsmouth City Council,
tory Donna Jones
is being roasted.
She is stretched out on a spit,
rotating clockwise
as the flames of an
indecent fire
lick her ample bulk.
Hideous, cross-eyed goblins
and twisted creatures
from the darkest corners
of the netherworld,
emit shrill squawking shrieks
of cruel delight;
the precious lawn sizzles,
a choir of winos
sing Bach's cantata Number 113

Baffin pond's
murky waters
are alive with
pen-pushers, supermarket
delivery personnel
and the entire workforce
of First (profit before people)
bus company.
All wallow in splashy despair.
Alas, their fatty flesh
is being ripped apart by
diet obsessed piranhas
who have no truck
with modern ideas
of free-market competition

The spirit of Portsea Island trembles.
It mutters in its sleep,
its indecipherable words
haunting the vodka
and sports bars that
huddle in cowed submission
down Guildhall walk.
Slumber no more!
Tell the denizens of
the Continental Ferry Port
to gather up their
transitory possessions.
The ground is moving!

Inside the Holiday Inn
just down from The Navy Club,
seven-eyed sea monsters
who have returned from
a watery grave,
scrawl
abusive grafitti
on the tasteful walls
of executive bedrooms.
The bowling green
has been turned into
an open-air brothel.
The fenced-off piece of ground
near the bombed out church
is a site for sacrifice
and vengeance.
Napoleonic prisoners
circle the moribund
statue of Nelson.
When their vicious ceremony is over
they dig one last hole
in Grand Parade
and throw into it
a gaggle of whimpering
clergymen and women

St James' hospital site
guided by wild visions
of a million hopeless
tomorrows
allows a swarm of
armour-plated locusts
to crush its
miserable memories
into dust.
When they have gorged their fill,
the locusts stroll down to
the prison,
where they insist on
giving every inmate
a copy of the complete works
of Conan Doyle.
A grotesque pack
of starving hyenas and
bloodthirsty jackals
romp into the Royal Marines
Museum.
They eat all the exhibits
then crank up the volume.
The weight of history
is not upon them

Portsmouth wakes!
The weary giant
scrambles to his feet.
In a daze he stares to Portsdown Hill,
half-asleep he
glazily registers
the outline of Spinnaker Tower.
Dormant no more,
his true self rouses!
All doubt and ignorance swept out beyond
Palmeston's follies.
Tired of everything but life
his mighty hands stretch out
to the Isle of Wight,
they seize the isle,
hoist it up and hurl it
into the furthermost vortex.
Now he stamps on Gosport,
kicks Hayling Island about
like a punctured football.
Portchester feels a thousand
heavy hammering blows.
Drayton is torn to shreds
in the storm of his arousal.

Awake!
Awake!
The Island City is free!
Its chains lie at the bottom
of Langstone Harbour.
Set forth
Set forth!
Joy and the eternal now
can no longer be
restrained.
The age of cowardly
conformism
is gone!
London will crumple
at the sight of such
unrestrained energy!
The North of England
will writhe and moan

Portsmouth has woken!
From the dead of night,
from subconscious subjugation.
Portsmouth has woken!
From villainous abominations
and the tyranny of reason.

Portsmouth has woken!

ESSENCE 10

if there's always a wall of something or other
staring you in the face,
why carry a brick in your pocket?

if there's always a roundabout in your mind,
why carry a set of traffic-lights
in your haversack?

if there's always a church
in your chest,
why not break into the sacristi?

if there's always a fly in your ointment,
why not bludgeon it to death
with a ballpoint pen?

WHERE AMERICA WAS

Here, where America was,
we do a little dance
a simple hornpipe
over the scattered remains
of a once proud nation

Yes, here
where bloated pirates
ate raw fish
and surrendered
their innocence
to hypnotised petrol attendants
we feel we are better than no-one

Yep, out here
where the mockery blows wild
the mustangs quiver
and the windswept
raccoons shiver,
we say a prayer
around an imaginary
camp fire
and salute a flock
of unfrozen shaman coming
in from the West

Here, floating in the space
where America once was,
we honey our epithets
with the sweet languor,
the sugary regrets
of senseless
senate hearings
and impromptu bacchanals

Yer darn right.
On this the spot
where the
United States
chewed its calamitous cud,
we break open bottles
of sparkly cider
and shake our
cocktails
in phoney anger

We haven't
bothered to welcome
the dawn,
and we haven't done
any groundwork.
We are quite content to
rely on our natural wit
and innate entrepreneurial skills
as we empty the contents
of the basket
of history
onto the scraggy rug
which covers the site
where America was

PALAFRUGELL, HOLIDAY FROM HELL

My back had been paining me,
it was July, there was no work,
so Mafi suggested we take a restful break

I think she was motivated
by the dreamy, hippy holidays
she had spent grooving out
in Ibizan caves and Formenteran taverns

She suggested we hasten to Palafrugell
a dinky Costa Bravan seaside resort.
There, bathing in
the sweet, lush waters
of the Mediterranean
I would recuperate
and be reborn.
I assented, anything to get rid of this pain

I imagine we arrived
full of wide-eyed hope,
excited and eagerly looking
forward to
a joyous week by the seaside,
but maybe not even that's true,
maybe we arrived bad-tempered
and weary from an unnecessarily long
coach journey, maybe my
excruciating back had already hurled
me into a dark, irritable place

There must have been a moment
when we weren't arguing
but if there was I don't remember it.
We argued in the morning
as the mighty bronzed tourist horde
joined us on the beach
where curled up in our
tatty sleeping bags
we had been attempting
to doze.
We argued at lunchtime
as we swallowed mouthfuls
of jarred lentils and stale bread.
We argued in the evening
as we
wandered wearily, aimlessly,
irascibly round
the uninspiring
streets and squares
of this dispiriting town.
We argued as we stared up at the stars
and tried to get some elusive shut-eye,
We argued in our sleep

Everywhere we looked
people were enjoying themselves:
soaking in the gorgeous
sun; feasting on lush paellas
and mouth-watering mariscadas;
splashing and joking about
they knocked back
envigorating sangrias
and refreshingly ice cold beers.
I have never and never since
seen so many
happy folk gathered together
in one place, not surprisingly
the ongoing carnival
erupting around our weary selves
only excacerbated
our 200 peseta a day
misery

The last night
as we lay on the beach
attempting to reach
the world of dreams,
a gang of menacing, drunken,
motor-bike louts
cavorted onto the beach.
Shitting ourselves
we scurried into the bushes;
we spent a couple
of hours crouched in
prickly, sandy discomfort
while this merry band
of alcohol fuelled crazies
howled at the moon;
it was a fitting end


On the up side,
I swam about 15 times a day,
for the first time in a long, long time
my back didn't hurt,
and every holiday we had after
was fun,
except for the car crash one
in Extramadura,
and even then
in that one
we got some compensation
from the
car insurance company

EXOTIC MATTER IN THE UNIVERSE

Chuckling like a horsefly
up to its neck in manure
the anthropic principle
strokes its wispy beard
and directs its dark energy eyes
towards an enticing nest of multi-verses

Chortling, an incessant moth
buzzes round critical density candles
there is nothing it likes more
than waddling,
exoplanets clutched to its
hairless chest, into
the 120 orders of magnitude problem

'TIS DRAGON TIME

'Tis dragon time, 'tis dragon time,
can you hear their ghostly rustle?
'Tis dragon time, 'tis dragon time,
can you sense the psychic muscle?

Out by the Co-op,
right outside the
automatic doors,
a whole bunch of golden rayed
creatures glistening.
Exuding some indefinable,
alluring, mystical
pantomime of mayhem.
I try to ignore them,
bustle into the
store and head straight for
the refrigerated section.
Only chicken in a bag!
I want a chicken,
but I don't want it in a bag.
They are not doing me any favours,
it's much better to bask the chicken
yourself than put your trust
in the dubious meddling
of culinary scientists

'Tis dragon time,'tis dragon time,
can you feel it in your veins?
'Tis dragon time, 'tis dragon time,
is it seeping through your brains?

On my way out,
there's more of them,
filling the road,
filling the pavement.
Then, I spy a whole other crowd
of heavenly, multi-gemmed, winged
emperors of earth and sky
hovering
in front of the 'Anglican Cathedral'.
Blimey!
How did that happen?
And where's St George when you need him?
I try to strike up a conversation
with these unwieldy beasts,
but they ignore me completely.
Can you believe it!
Damn, I forgot to buy milk,
I will have to retrace my steps.
Whole milk of course,
any other type is a
chemically manipulated aberration

'Tis dragon time,'tis dragon time,
a thing of legend just got real.
'Tis dragon time,'tis dragon time,
this really is, this definitely is, a bloody great big deal

The bloke at the till
calls me 'mate',
I feel like pointing out
I am not his 'mate'.
I am a customer,
plain and simple.
I do not come to
the Co-operative 'supermarket'
in search of friendship
nor do I expect to find it there.
Besides 'mate' is
not a term of address
native to Portsmouth

'Tis dragon time,'tis dragon time,
watch out what you think,
'Tis dragon time,'tis dragon time,
or you'll vanish in a blink

On my re-emergence
I am struck
by a bright, sparkling,
scintillating,
Aleppo crystal sensation.
An uncanny combination
of magic carpet chicanery,
and supernatural bewilderment.
Still, I hold my head up high
as I saunter down the road up to
the Number One bus stop.
There, one vast, insanely magical creature
is gazing at the plinthed globe which
commemorates the site of the hotel
where Nelson spent his last night.
The dragon turns  to me,
blocks my path,
his nostrils flare, he snorts,
a puff of acrid, sulphurous smoke
stings the air.
"You, you'd better watch out!"
he mutters gruffly
"otherwise...You'll be for it!
Do you get me?"
I look around,
I am surrounded by light
and revelation
by pure colour and intangible longing.
I can no longer stand in the way
of progress,
"Yes, I get you.
Don't worry, you
won't have any more
trouble from me,
I want to be your 'mate'"
The dragon  shuffles aside to let me pass,
but pauses a moment
for one final observation
"We're watching you, smartass"

'Tis dragon time,'tis dragon time,
there is nothing you can do.
'Tis dragon time,'tis dragon time,
the time for starting out anew!

GOT TO GET AWAY

I must leap across chasm and abysses,
I really must.
I must wave goodbye to the grandchildren of oblivion,
it's on my list

I must red-eyed and wine crazy jump into a vat of bubbling compromise,
here I go.
I must take a hold and not jump into that vat after all, it may contain residues,
here I don't go

I must with the roar of the ocean in my ears, dive onto the shore,
I am preparing myself.
I must with the aid of the latest technology, examine my thoughts,
perhaps they are unnecessary encumbrances

I must, waving a stick, and daubed in blue woad, climb a mountain,
any old mountain.
I must whilst still not in my right senses, ford a wide river,
where is the river?

I must relieve the monotony by creating a personality,
who shall I be?
I must carve my initials on the walls of dark, ominous caves,
I'll do it after I've had a nice cup of tea

I must capture bliss, put it in a jar and release it on a moonless night,
It's in my diary.
I must hurl myself into the void and come out the other side,
I must, I really must

THE WONDERFUL MR TIBBS

Like a Pickwick from the papers
rotund, amiable and bright
Mr Tibbs will always cheer you up
he's so teasingly polite

His never ending ribaldry
his wit his words his grace
his relentless imagination
make the world a better place

Tibbsy is the best you see
he's a magic wand, a crack of the whip
he's a monument to irony
he's a dockyard, he's a ship

He's sensuously, self-helplessly Dickensian
and that I rather like
he wears a top hat and a bow-tie
and he rides around on an old bike

His frock coat is smart and elegant
his whiskers spruce, his eyes alert
it's hard to describe in words
the snazziness of his dress shirt

He's surreal and really out there
he's like a gentle punch in the ribs
he's a wicked ball of mischievousness
here comes the the one and only Mr Tibbs!

He's a shaman and a seer,
he's a bohemian, quite baroque!
he sparkles with enlightening excitement
he never glances at the clock

He never finishes anything
but it really doesn't matter
he's a totally original gentleman
though as mad as the proverbial hatter

It's hard to resist his caustic charm
you've got to admire his nerve,
he's cheerily provocative
he's loquacious and full of verve

He's original in every way
and he's certainly not prone to fibs
here comes the one and only, the most inimitable
the daring, the glaring, the wonderful Mr Tibbs!

RUTH LESS

The blind came up,
a rocky, waterfally
moist,
plant-ridden installation
revealed itself as
the metal folds
rose.
It made me sick,
everything around me
made me sick:
the minimalist furnishing;
the blaring non-stop eighties
music;
the mournful ornamentation;
the crappy coffee;
Ruth

Private classes
at the school
had cost her 25 euros
an hour,
and I got 15.
I underhandedly persuaded
her to leave the school
and do the classes
with me at her home
for 20 euros:
everybody happy,
except the school:
and fuck them

The first thing
she did was barter
me down to 17.50 euros,
I feebly submitted.
I figured I was still getting more
than the going rate.

Off we rocked,
twelve months
or so
of one-to-one
English between a master
poet and
a bourgeois piece of shit,
and I'm being nice here

Give her her due,
she always paid up promptly,
money-notes stacked up on
the table,
the way I like it.
Once she didn't lay the cash out
pre-class,
I innocently pointed out
the fact,
she nearly bit my head off

In fact the whole experience
was somewhat akin to
being savagely ravaged by some
evil, culturally pig-ignorant,
money infested ogre.
An angry, unhappy and
deeply bitter ogre

Yes, yes,
can you believe it?
In the privacy of
her own home
she had to
attempt to concentrate,
despite barely getting any sleep the
night before, as some bohemian twat
twaddled on about
the inane intricacies
of the English language

Early on we had breached the
question of race,
she had made it fairly clear
that she thought Moroccans,
and in a random
descending order,
all other non-European races
were despicable, idle scum.
I had offered an alternative perspective,
she had dismissed
my perspective saying
'You don't understand Spain';
well neither did she

She was tired, so tired
and life was so, so fucking hard;
in fact, it was unbearable:
she couldn't sleep;
she had a horrible headache;
she had to take the kids to school
(a knob school just down the road);
pick them up;
supervise their homework;
occasionally cook;
occasionally work in her husband's company
in some indefinable role
which never became clear;
well the list of unendurable tasks
went on and on and on

It was an astonishing
display of self-centredness.
The stupid (well not so stupid) cow
lived a life relative to the rest of us
of absolute comfort.
Her awareness of this fact
and her empathy with the human race
were close to zero

The husband sauntered in and out,
at eleven o'clock in the morning
fresh from a game of tennis;
a poor, sweet South American
(not Moroccan) girl
ironed, cleaned and cooked away;
the swimming pool in the garden
awaited the
warm rays of summer;
Ruth explained to me she bought all
her clothes in Milan,
nowhere else could compare,
and London, London as far as fashion
was concerned was
an absolute joke;

To be honest
the worst thing of all
was me.
I sat there listening
to this trite litany of egotistic,
masochistic codswollop,
and did nothing,
absolutely nothing
but obsequiously sympathise.

Throughout the lesson
the radio blasted
out
the ungodliest, most distracting
wall of musical shite
imaginable
and I said nothing.
No, not a tweet, not a trill
emerged
from Selfish's puny beak

Am I weak,
stupid senseless?
I wasn't that broke
that I couldn't have ditched
her and searched for
some other source of income.
Why, why did I put up with
this inexcusably vapid entity?
'Cos she was vaguely good-looking?
From a sort of fatalistic fascination?
Laziness?

Oh god, Every second felt like
a thousand, moaning,
irritable, unsatisfied years.
Every minute felt like a tortured,
parched trek across
an unremitting desert with
a death hound from hell.
Every hour felt like
a painful, sour-faced,
tedious eternity of
grudges, disagreeability
and cantankerousness

In the end,
it sort of petered out
as these things do.
Her dad got ill,
my confident allure
lost its tarnish.
Yes, we parted ways
none the wiser
for the experience,
but probably both quite
relieved we would never have to see
the other
ever again in
our lives

DEATH OF A POET 6

The greatest celebration of all!
The funeral of Jelal ad-Din Rumi

To Konya:
cannabis crazies,
vats of red wine,
merchants with no merchandise,
women with hearts of gold,
drunken musicians,
a wild, raging wind,
total abandon,
the promise of Spring,
caravans painting
the cosmos red,
nights without end,
illuminati,
thieves and mystics,
all the gods,
a sprig of misfortune,
the vast all-feeling
all-seeing
constellation
of Shams Tabriz,
the essence of nature,
the void,
contradictory sensations,
the future
tiny and infinite,
the uncontained
frenzy
of eternally
letting go,
whisps of wisdom,
hypocrites and liars
who will see the light,
permanently stoned
dancers spinning
effortlessly,
stars singing,
particles popping..

The greatest celebration of all!
The funeral of Jelal ad-Din Rumi

COSMIC QUESTIONS

Can you describe your halo
Galileo?

Can you see the stars shooting
Isaac Newton?

Can you dance on sunshine
Albert Einstein?

Can you get down on the dance floor
Neils Bohr?

Can you swim in a tank
Max Planck?

Can you never look back
Paul Dirac?

Can you jump through a ring,
Stephen Hawking?

Can you stop doing jigs
Professor Higgs!

JUSTICE 2

Waterlooville again,
I am 11/12
year of age

Coming down the avenue
after the interminable
bus journey from school,
two kids my age,
but certainly not of my kind,
approach.
They bully and cajole me,
one of them insisting I
fight the other.
They're nasty pushy
and belligerent,
I am not enjoying the experience

It was the age of skinheads
and strop,
there was a constant
threat for all us relatively
decent kids
from this troop
of young degenerates.

In this scenario type
there were generally
two options available:
run for it
or take the punishment;
resistance was futile

So, we're trucking
down my 'road',
and these kids are still at it,
getting ever more aggressive.
I'd had enough of this shit,
I knew it was an ongoing situation
but I sensed a window of opportunity

These brats did not know
where I lived!
It was a precious piece
of information.

The taunting continued.
I watched, waited,
patient, alert,
like a panther stalking its prey.
We reached the lawn
outside my house,
the moment had come!

Mid-sentence through
another stream
of provocative crap
I punched my prospective
opponent as hard as I could
in the gob,
tore across the lawn
and entered the safety
of my home

They were stunned
and defeated.
Shock and surprise
had worked their magic.
Fortunately they were just
a bit too young to dare
enter the house.
They hung around a while
in a menacing but ultimately
pathetic beaten way,
until my ma drove up
in her car
at which point
they beat a hasty retreat

PEACE BE WITH ME

Magnetised fragments
of insurance contracts
cavort and gambol
across perplexing fields
of disconsolation

Surveyor's estimates
prickle the sensuous morning
with their amusing
clown-like pranks

The phantoms of
itemised accountants
merge into autumnal silence
while the ghosts of their dreams
make love to the twilight

The art of auditing;
the relentless beauty
of spreadsheets,
hung out to dry

JAPANESE ENGAGEMENT

1.
fuck inspiration
writing kick-ass poetry
'til the cows come home

2.
like a cormorant
stretching its majestic wings
yawning at the sun

3.
there is no below
only above and beyond
so never look down

4.
conflict and chaos
enemies everywhere
danger never rests

5.
zen art is boring
emptiness is not empty
wake up you fuckers

6.
paddy fields in spring
snakes and frogs frolicking
drunken nature laughs

7.
one hundred and eight pounds
the bill from Southern Water
please act now or else...

8.
dance a dance of lust
let loose the juice of desire
whip up a storm!

9.
supermarket aisle
shopping trolley confusion
no wine reductions

10.
immerse your tired soul
in soap suds and womb-like calm
go on, have a bath

11.
breakfast, scrambled eggs
the posh blue eggs from Waitrose
toast, nearly burnt

ESSENCE 9

I gave fifty pence
to the cheerful rosy-cheeked
lady who stands outside
Waitrose
selling the Big Issue

"Thank you,
sir"
she said,
"You're a
star"

At last,
recognition

JUSTICE

my brother had this friend
right cocky git
went by the name of
'Bradman' or 'Bradbury'
or some suchlike

it was when we were living
in Waterlooville,
a  new town
on the outskirts of Pompey

'Bradman' had a
motor bike
smallish but new,
I guess he must have been spoilt
but I can't remember

he was showing off
in our drive,
revving away
and hoisting the front
bit of the bike
in the air
as these people do

well some heavenly
or satanic agency
must have been watching.
SUDDENLY
he lost control
of the thing,
shot off down the drive,
across the pavement,
across the grass verge
by the kerb,
across the road
up over the kerb
and the grass verge
on the other side of the road,
across a front lawn
and finally fortunately
for him, hit the front glass porch of
the house opposite
at a fairly leisurely pace

It was quite a
demonstration of ineptness,
how he did it I do not know,
don't these things have brakes?
I guess he panicked and forgot
where the brakes were.
whatever
it was a pleasurable moment
for all who witnessed it

HEAVENSLIGHT 2

Portsmouth sleeps
the old sea dog snuggles
inside the cloudy, urban blanket.
His legs, one the M275
the other the Eastern Road,
shuffle around
their shrinking shroud.
His arms, the High Street
and South Parade
scrape wearily
at the rustling sheets.

On Whale Island
a vast host of goblins, trolls
and spectres,
hoist high a long, bloodied pole.
On its point the ravaged head
of the tory MP for Portsmouth North,
Penny Mordaunt,
Very soon, before day is done,
these beastly hordes will
be boiling her bonce in a stew,
chewing happily on her
sticky brains,
washing it all down with
a nice cup of tea

A herd of stampeding mammoths,
shit heavily as they storm down
Commercial Road,
they pause briefly
outside where the HMV
used to be,
mourn its passing,
then storm through
The Cascades Centre.
Reciting Shakespeare sonnets
and screaming obscenities
they soon reduce this mournful
corridor of shopping
to a pile of dust.
The ghost of the Tricorn
chuckles ironically.

The shoulders of old Portsea Island
shudder: Albert Road and
Elm Grove try to come
to terms with the past,
they carry the burden
of a million Monday mornings,
they shiver in the rascally
afterglow of progress.

A ragged band of bohemians,
poets and popstars
has set barricades up at the roundabout
between Duisburg Way
and Pembroke Road.
They stop everyone who
comes their way  and demand they
draw a picture of their dreams,
but they provide no paper,
and their pens are filled
with invisible ink.
They have no songs
but they sing constantly.

A merry band of
magicians
wizards and witches
cavort, connive and copulate
about Eastney.
Having abandoned all
vestiges of civilisation,
they bundle estate agents and
property management providers
into their hastily refurbished temple
in the old, abandoned
Hampshire Constabulary Police Station
where they force these bungling boneheads
to change sex and colour
and live out another existence in
a new dimension,
their carnival is endless
their visions infinite

The adjunct between
hallucination and revelation
is located at
St Mary Hospital's
Rehabilitation Unit.
There, silky beings with
golden halos
play upon inconceivable
instruments.
The loving souls
in Milton cemetary
laugh and chortle,
joining in on every
celebratory chorus

The head of Portsmouth:
old Southsea Castle,
snores most heavily,
ignores the procession
of traffic wardens,
Waitrose employees, bank clerks
and charity shop assistants
approaching
from the
Pyramid Centre.
Soon they will all vanish
into smoke,

Palmeston Road turns
into a giant pond,
unworthy coffee shop
owners drown as the
impending waters
swallow up their paradises
of buns and over-priced
frapuccinos.
Swimming like soapy
sardines the alumni
of St Johns College
are swept away
and wash up on some
foreign shore,
where they are fried
in bitter butter

Negative thoughts
hover over
the Mountbatten Centre,
vicious, half-bat, half-human
creatures
burn Alexandra Park
to a cinder.
They howl and shriek,
their horrific mind games
erasing all memories
of FA cup final victories,
of D-Day daring.
They soar across the void
to Portsmouth City Museum.
An intoxicating eternity
is spent dismantling this
stately edifice
brick by brick.

The heart beats slowly,
each heavy pulse emanating
from Guildhall Square
is a thousand years in length
but passes in a flash.
Portsmouth sleeps on,
on and on,
through the thrashing nightmares
through
the celestial mayhem
bubbling above its
unconscious existence,
on and on it sleeps:
unaware,
oblivious

ESSENCE 8

death:
that's what I'm living for

GREEN DOOM

Green doom, spiky vegetable grenade,
Mediterranean meanderer.
Oh thick leafed spiteful lying meadow maid,
Worse than cow'rdly thief or slanderer.
So, so much of you and yet so little,
Score hours and ten to find your weeny bud,
Such travail is worth less than my spittle,
For all your flavour you are surely dud.
No, I will never curry your favour,
nor stray to Californy where you abound,
I will never look upon you as saviour,
For fundamentally you are unsound.
Get thee from my plate, it's not a joke,
Silence! Speak no more... of the artichoke!

SUCCOUR FOR SUCKERS

Some people talk
a right load of bollocks:

bollocks of the first degree;
stainless steel bollocks;
genetically modified bollocks;
bollocks with knobs on;
unremitting bollocks;
bollocks to tear your hair out;
artificially coloured
flavoured and
transmogrified bollocks;
smartarse bollocks;
bollocks with glitzy bits
and tassels

straight and simple:
bollocks

Of course we all speak
a fair amount of
bollocks
that's understandable,

but there's a limit
there's a line,
and if you cross it....
BOLLOCKS to your
bollocks!

DRAGONS ON THE BEACH

Lolling, lazing,
down by the Hot Walls,
spread-eagled,
soaking in the weak rays
of the sun magnified
by the curvy protected
fortifications round the beach
hence the name 'Hot Walls',
there they are...
more bloody dragons

They take up a lot
of space of course,
and the Hot Walls
is a limited expanse.
When you look in their
direction
magical encantations
seem to permeate out
from their lengthy bodies
and linger in the air.
Not only that
reality takes another turn,
sound becomes sight,
smell becomes light,
ephemeral choirs begin to sing.

Frankly,
it's distracting,
One goes down the beach
expecting to be pelted
with pebbles
by unruly brats,
expecting to be deafened
by mobiles/music devices
blaring out useless beats,
expecting to be battered
by a cruel wind
and a sporadic shower,
but creatures from another
domain
hogging the patch,
one cannot be expected
to expect that

Chomping on their
Dagostino cones,
their light chatter
trills and tinkles,
its swirly flow
conjuring up
scenes from mythological
pasts,
evoking profound
visions
of ecstasy and alienation.
Who needs that?
I mean you go down the beach
to get away from it
not to have your head filled
with unbearable
hallucinations and elusive
chimeras.
Someone should have a word
they really should have a word

PURPLISH DEVIL

Deep rooted, sly, devilish creation,
From nature a product dank, forbidden,
Wreaking nought but tongue-dyed devastation,
Your charms are exceedingly well hidden.
Oh purplish hell! Foul seed of soil and sun,
Oh ghastly component of our cuisine,
Oh what rank sight when put inside a bun,
Wretched sundry salad item, obscene.
Colour of tainted blood and queenly gown,
Reddish-crimson evil grown underground,
The thought of you brings on a stressed-out frown,
The sickly smell of you makes head spin round.
Cruel, vicious offspring of some ugly shoot,
Cursed be your name, Oh loathsome beetroot!

ESSENCE 7

Stuff to be ironed
loads of stuff
to be ironed

Sitting there
looking at me
waiting
waiting

Shirt of orange
trouser of linen
tea towel of rough texture

and on the line
another bunch of clothes
to be ironed

but perhaps
when I think about it
that bunch is not so bad:
mostly sheets
and socks and underpants

which do not
need
to be ironed

TO THE TORIES

Scumbags
roasted stoat faced dicks
smug snidey repellent vipers

Horse-faced
rug-robed bitch blighted
obnoxious toady souled runts

Bastards
Carcass-formed drivel squealing
pitiless hypocritical drooling dreary curs

Crap-filled
insect-minded slobbering pathetic
self-satisfied sanctimonious money-arsed twits

BANG BANG YOU'RE DEAD

Arms trade
it don't fade
air raid
feel the blade
bang bang you're dead
you're dead you're dead

So many guns
the stinking bums
they cost a lot
do your sums
bang bang you're dead
you're dead you're dead

Forever there
without a care
unaware
like Tony Blair
bang bang you're dead
you're dead you're dead

Arms trade
man made

nerves frayed

in blood wade
bang bang you're dead
you're dead you're dead

Circling the globe
like a filthy microbe

bang bang you're dead

I EGO SELF I ME

I ego self I me
me me self I me
ego ego ego self
I I I self self me

"Hey lads can you keep that
noise down, I'm trying to
get some rest!
You've been bickering
all morning,
The sun is shining
why don't you go for a walk or
something?"

"I am not a 'you' I'm an I!"

"Yeah, and whose a 'you'
to tell anyone what to do?"

"That's right, ego does as
ego does, don't listen to no-one"

"My self will not be taking a stroll,
no way.
Why don't you take YOUR SELF
for a promenade?"

"O come on guys!
Be reasonable,
You've been here now
for fifty eight years
and y'know
no offence, you're
increasingly
getting on my nerves"

"'You', 'you', 'you'
that's all 'you' ever say"

"It'll be 'we' next"

"Don't even think
about 'them'"

"And don't go near 'she'
or 'he'"

Me me me I self
Ego  I I self me
Self self ego self
Me ego ego I I I

I give up
I really do
I'm going down the beach

YOUR COMMENT IS TOO SHORT. PLEASE ELABORATE ON YOUR TRANSACTION EXPERIENCE.

It was wild,
I mean wild, man,
I mean that whole
transaction experience thing,
it still kind of scares
me and it still kind of thrills me,
You get where I'm coming from?

There's like knowledge in
one packaged item
and there's a torment
of atonement in another.
Putting your ear up to
these internet dainties,
you hear sea-shanties,
the cry of war,
spoilers,
adolescents whining
and
the howl of an eternal
winter.

I'm telling you
for real, man,
I'm not sure
if I can take much more
of this
transaction experience

BARBICAN BLUES

I was working at the Barbican
on and quite often off.
Temporary staff affair,
bottom-of-the-rung stuff,
standing at rope barriers
at conferences and exhibitions
in my white shirt
black tie and trousers

Sometimes the nature of the event
required an extremely early start
an ungodly early start;
I am not at my best
anytime in the morning
but 6/6.30 am
I do not exist

We were in the briefing
session Pete and I,
it was in the cinema
or one of the cinemas,
the downstairs one.
There were quite a few of us
must have been a big corporate happening.
The Barbican proper lady boss
addressed us, filling us in on our
duties and obligations.
We were silent obedient sheep
unthinking reverential automatons

Then she said something about
no-one ever having to stay in
one location for more than an hour
without being moved to another.
I think Pete too must have been suffering
from the strains of the dawn,
despite the overwhelming
hierarchical framework
he interrupted her,
pointed out that the day before
he'd been left stranded at the Level C doors
for three hours

Now it might seem an inconsequential act
compared to what goes on at
a rough bullet-proof projects high school
or a South London reformatory for wayward boys
but in its context,
a revolution had taken place.
Somebody,
no, no, not somebody,
a nobody, an utter nobody,
a dole-signing low-life,
had questioned the wisdom
of the authorities,
and we're talking big brother style
authorities here.
Unheard of!

Naturally, she did
what any person in her
position would do.
After a brief uncomfortable instant
she completely ignored
Pete's query
and carried on,
as if nothing had ever happened

As I was saying before
I am not a morning person,
the nature of my idle existence,
my disposition,
my tightly regulated social life
all contribute
to a disafinity with the pre-noon period.
I was not in the mood for it,
I was not in the mood
for someone not answering the question!

From the perspective
of the ruling classes,
the absolutely
unfuckingthinkable occurred,
"No, no just a minute,
You didn't answer his question"
I piped up.
When you're in this kind of environment
especially when you're being paid,
rebellion is sort of filtered
out of the possibilities.
I swear to god in the history
of the Barbican very few have shown
such total disregard for the edifice of power.
I had hurled a giant mallet
into the cogworks of the institution,
admittedly my mallet had been hurled
accidentally,
I wasn't actually intending to be rebellious
just factual, but there you go.

Yes, my interjection
shook the very foundations
of the City of London!
Well,
perhaps I exaggerate.
Her reaction?
Old what's-her-face
either avoided the question
or dismissed it with a peremptory comment,
OK, I don't remember which, but
she obviously wasn't going to get into
any kind of debate
with a reprobate

Later that day,
she made Pete apologise
for his insubordination.
But nothing ever happened to me.
No-one said anything,
I went on working there, undisturbed.
Funny that.
I reckon
my interruption was so
inconceivable they didn't conceive it,
it was so beyond any imagined
eventuality
they erased it from their memory.

It's like some private smacking
Lord Wellington in the gob,
like some bloke who puts
the balls in cannons
pouring
a freezing cold pail of water
over Lord Nelson,
it's like
Churchill's valet chucking
a potty of piss in the old man's face.

These things do not happen.
even when they do happen
they don't happen,
get my drift?

THE BALLAD OF SIR SELFISH

A sight of mighty majesty
was Selfish the Lord and Master
revered he was through all the land
by carpenter and plasterer

By paintman by bargeman
by flower-woman by laundry girl
and by classy types of ladies
who had an earring made of pearl

Yes, sassy Scarlet Johanssen types
who were versatile and pert
would pass out when Selfish passed by
and collapse upon the dirt

Yes, such was his magic charisma
among shoeman, ostler and scribe,
and for oenophile, lunch lady and actor
he gave off a very good vibe

For Yoeman, DJ and drag-queen
he was the leader par excellence
and need I mention the esteem in which he was held
in the kingdom of finance

Plainsman, woodland-people and highlander
worshipped at his feet
hipster poets and beat-poetesses
were part of his elite

What a cool and groovy guy
for this camelot type epoch in which this tale is set
and so far ahead of his time
that's something we shouldn't forget

Waitresses and business executives
hung on his every utterance
nymphs satyrs and wizards
were happy to go into a trance

And conjure up his image
and around it do a dance
and bless his glimmering shield
and enchant his simmering lance

Before I start up again this list
of people by whom he was adored
I'd better also mention
he had a god almighty sword

This is quite important you see
because a challenge he had to meet
he had to kill a wicked dragon
who was bossing everyone round the street

But back we go to the list
and let a merry polka rule our heart
before dark tales of evil creatures
allow happiness to depart

Sir Selfish was admired
by poacher, PR person and tout
by hard working couples
by ruffian and lout

by ratcatcher ombudsman
and midwife, by philosopher and stoat
by marriage counsellor and social worker
by professor, tart and goat

by carpet cleaner, cartoonist and witch
by curator, thug and bum
by surly city banker
by anyone who was anyone

Wow, they really thought a lot of him,
as he rode out into the sun
to kill this bastard dragon
who'd been doing everybody wrong

The pilchard seller and the novelist
the probation officer and the vet
the existentialist and the folk singer
looked on Selfish as if he was a shining minaret

The basket case and the abomination
the bricklayer and the man of law
put down their instruments of torture
and gazed at Selfish in true awe

How proud they felt as they saw him ride off
elegant and cocky
"he's bound to slaughter that shitty dragon" they cried
"It'll be as easy as playing hockey

For a bloke like that
so sure of himself, strong and 'confidante'
is even more threatening
than a New York maiden aunt

He'll have no problem in slaughtering
that peskerly dragon thing
no we believe utterly
in our great, all-wise Sir Bing"

The urchin and the barber
the perceiver and the perceived
were quite certain the reign of the dragon was over
they really felt quite relieved

The web designer, the poor and the illiterate
for a moment all were one
anticipating how wonderful the world would be
when Selfish had got rid of that bloody dragon

"We love you" cried the prostitutes
and the rent boys all chimed in
"If you murder that mythological beast
then you'll definitely be our king"

In more middle class districts
where pimping is not a frequent occurrence
doctors, teachers and accountants
were more than pleased to make the inference

that there was no way a glorified bird of prey
ok with a flaming snout
would have any chance over a knight like Selfish
No, of that there was no doubt

So it was, Selfish strode on
in his gleaming coat of armour
the ladies who espied him all fainted
what a desperately deadly charmer!

What an enchanted mystic romantic
what a self evidently brilliant lover
he was desperately desired by all those
models who appear on the front cover

of fashionable magazines
like Harpers Bizarre and Elle and Vogue
and by alluring exotic temptresses
all of them, except for Kylie Minogue

So it was, Selfish finally got
to where the dragon was
but what he met knocked the stuffing out of him
because, because, because

The dragon was bloody massive
yeah, a great big mound of muscle
Selfish quickly realised
this was going to be more than a quick tussle

But there was no way he could turn back
everyone was watching
oh why hadn't he stayed at home
instead of all of this hotch-potching?

So it was with great reluctance
and a feeling of impending doom
he charged at this bloody great leviathan
shining through the gloom

The sword, the shield, the lance,
they all proved quite ineffective
Selfish's ill-prepared attack
was worthy of invective

The result alas was inevitable
Selfish got thoroughly trounced
he managed to escaped within an inch of his life
and was then rapidly denounced

As a thoroughly unsavoury character
who should be looked at with contempt
who couldn't even beat a dragon
with a sword from heaven sent

So the seamstress and the psychiatrist
the freeman and the serf
never again talked of Selfish,
they gave him a very wide berth

The boards of many top companies
cursed Selfish's vain venture
'cos that damned dragon was still out there
and was bound to involve more expenditure!

THE EL CELESTE INCIDENT

It was 1983
or thereabouts,
El Celeste
was the centre of the
burgeoning Barcelona
punk movement

Yes, six years late,
but better late than never;
maybe

It was actually a
relatively cool venue
near the beautiful
Maria del Mar church
in a run down district
of narrow medievalish
streets
(god you should see it now,
you can't spit for
fear of splattering a tourist)

There was a crap band playing
with a useless female
lead singer.
We were plastered,
decided to go up front
and heckle,
which is what we did

The singer took umbrage
at our haranguing.
Said
"If anyone thinks they can do
better,
come up here and do it."

Invitation accepted,
I leapt up on the stage,
seized the microphone
and started to croon
god knows what.

Once again my earnest
endeavours were greeted
with miscomprehension
dismay and
a vehemently physical reaction

She went for me,
tried to grab the mike,
I resisted,
we ended up wrestling on the floor,
in a flimsy pathetic frivolous fight

I can't remember how it ended
I guess somebody or somebodies
jumped in
and pulled us apart

I know it sounds
a bit bad
having a fight with a girl
in public
but neither of us came
away with a scratch
so I showed gentlemanly restraint
and she gave as good as she got

If you ask me
it was all
quite authentically punk,
but I have a feeling
she didn't see it
that way

DEATH OF A POET 5

Some good
some bad
certainly at times
encapsulating
the pity of poetry

Good luck?
to nearly make it through
to the end
Bad luck?
not to get there

They say
nowadays,
the first world war
y'know like
with the perspective
of reactionary time
wasn't all bombs, bullets
horror and hunger

Wilfred Owen
rumbles on through
eternity
contradicting that
premise

SUFI'S UP

A crushing bore is borne
across the diamond encrusted lawn
dullards and swampheads
recline to the song
that flows from the throat
of an over-exerted swan

A boozing blabberer
blunders through musty curtains of doubt,
sets fire to the hole in his soul
smoke fills the room
no-one has had time to tell the singer
her song is over

Whip me up a sandstorm, corner the market
are you waking?

An idle popstar lurches over to the crack
that crawls around his under-excited mind
he's fat on self-congragulation
a flock of geese live in his deaf ear
they've got nothing much to cheer
about

Soak your sweaters in detergent, answer the phone,
are you back dozing, cardboard cut-out?

Flogging a dead horse, of course
the crushing bore is now holding
soirees over a precipe
seasoning the cocktails of poor taste
with a dash of bluster
and the ability to forget

Lusty ladies vanish
leaving behind
a perfume infused with
the later sickly sentimental
proferrings of Van Dyke Parks

Intellectual ceilings fall in
poets clamber among the ruins
like unlikely villains reaching
out for the wisdom of tired swans

Sufi's up
for everyone
no more arse-crawling.
The handy man
of make-believe
goes in search of
an elderly person
who hasn't been spoilt
by success and pampering

CANADA

I remember one time
with Juanjo

We were in his
office,
plans and shit
laid all over the table,
the lemon trees in the orchard
peaking in through the
window

The secretary had
just brought me a coffee,
one of several.

The large tall
thick mustachioed
multi-millionaire
property developer
had been blathering
on about his kids
(must have been in Spanish),
how
he was sending them
to this school for knobs
somewhere
in the dark depths
of Canada

This place of learning
was truly fab,
apparently.
The crown prince
of Spain had been there,
and plenty of other toffs

I sipped my coffee
sneaked a look at my watch

Oh yeah
this was the place
to send his offspring.
There, they would mingle
with the wealthy and powerful,
they would be dipped in
a sort of
quasi-British public school
tradition
that would imbue them
with all the qualities
needed to get on in the
world,
and of course
their  English
would be
faultless

I vaguely nodded
to show how impressed I was...
this was a high-paying class
I was well motivated

Not only that,
not only that
but should anything happen
in Europe
they would have somewhere to go,
a refuge.
I woke from my doze,
what the hell had he said?
What did he think was going
to happen in Europe?
A revolution? An earthquake?
An Islamic fundamentalist insurrection?
An invasion by a nameless
horde of demonic beings
from another dimension?

For goodness sake
who,
who in their right mind
would start thinking of such
contingencies?
Who would ever, ever
go there?

I had visions of Maria
Juan and the other one
whose name I can't remember
scurrying onto a luxury jet,
flames, explosions and
machine gunfire in the distance.
They stop briefly
on the steps up to the plane
to gaze one last
time upon the wretched
continent of Europe;
burning
and blazing,
exploding and imploding,
its death cries
whipping the tormented air,
a cauldron of
chaos and conflagration

Would they?
Would they as their jet
shot off into the horizon,
shot off for Canada and safety,
remember the people they had
left behind?
Would they for example
remember
their and their dad's
personal English teacher
who had enlightened
their in my opinion
not so fascinating lives
with his wit charm
and didactic skills?

I probably,
in response to his preposterous reasoning,
mustered
a vague consolatory
smile
and most probably
almost certainly
took another sip
of my coffee

COLOURS I LOVE

I was on a train
a long time ago
before the age
of overpriced fares

It was trundling through
the Hampshire/Surrey greenery
which is always a pleasant break
from the urban

There was a kid
and his mother
sitting across from me.
The kid had his little face
glued to the window

We passed a field of
rapeseed,
"Oh, yellow" cried the child
"I love yellow"

It was a great comment,
short and sweet
on the nose.
I feel the same way,
I love yellow
too

FULL FLIGHT

I was in full flight
hurtling towards
Portsmouth Harbour
slightly delayed
attempting to catch the 9.12
to Victoria

Up The Hard
sweating, I approached
the steps
leading into
this sweet
on the top of the water
station:
still open entry!
still no ticket barrier things!

In my haste I
disturbed a gang of pigeons,
they rose into the air.
Well you know that
theory about how birds
have some sort of incredible
radar technology in their heads,
which means that no
matter how impossible it seems,
they always avoid crashing
into people or rapidly moving objects.
Well,
so much for that theory.

One slightly sluggish pigeon
lumbered awkwardly
into the air.
It seemed to have
miscalculated everything.
Flapping ineptly
it came straight at me!
I kinda tried to
get out the way,
managed to avoid it getting my face
but
it firmly brushed
my head with its wing.
"Aaah" I went.
I mean, bloody hell.

So,
next time you see
a bird coming
towards you,
don't place your
faith in its aerial abilities,
take my advice:
duck!

RIDE ON

Let the horses of panic
gallop across beaches of melted plastic

Let the stallions of immediacy
trample the barricades of posterity

Let the colts of derision
grow rich on metallic malaise

Let the ponies of poetry
choke on their bitter words

Let the foals of contempt
leap into the unknown with one eye open

Let the mares of misery
murder the ghost of mysterious elements

Let the young bucks and the frolicking fillies
ride themselves into the ground

STEP THIS WAY

Some dull idolatrous evening
when the senses are beguiled
I'll take you by the hand
and lead you to a garden wild

You won't believe what's happening
as you walk among the plants
your thoughts will all be exaggerated
by the magic of their dance

You'll see the world as it really is
pure energy shining bright
your body will dissolve
into a thousand shards of light

You'll reach for my hand but it won't be there
I've vanished out of sight
I've been replaced by eternity
and raptures of pure delight

Flowery and multi-coloured
you'll blend into the night
you'll never come back from my garden
but that will be alright

THIS IS DEFINITELY A POEM

Zinc
Yawning
X-certificate
Warning.
Vampires
Urinate
Tourists
Salivate.
Record
Queue
Politics
Overdue.
Nameless
Misery
Leaden
Jee-whizzery.
Idle
Hunk
Galloping
Funk.
Ecstatic
Dons,
Cold
Bronze
Aeons

WHAT I GOT YOU

I got you a jersey
of pure heaven
and a plastic bag full
of promises.
I got you concentrated
conceit
and a belly-full
of unexpected laughs.
I got you
lots of chaos
and a smattering
of confusion.
I got you
turquoise tomorrow
and the
sorrow that
instantly
disappears...

...but my gifts went unappreciated

I got you
what the postman
never saw,
an empire of doubt
and my divided attention.
I got you assaults
on precincts,
perpetual
procrastinating
and a shower
of delightful dates.
I got you silken delights.
I got you priceless
treasures and security
in numbers...

...still, you weren't satisfied

I went to the bottom
of the earth,
and brought you
the root of infatuation.
I filtered
from the saliva
of a thousand unwanted whippets
the elixir of youth.
I got down on my knees and
cracked open
an eternity
of indecision.
I purchased an island
put it in your hand
without the slightest
hint of irony
called you princess...

...you didn't even say 'Thank you'

I got you
the sweet smell of success,
a succession
of excuses,
permanent dizziness
and a Shakespearian
epiphany.
I invented colours,
sent you a link
to the origins
of the universe,
I got you what
you always wanted
and never had,
I got you
a deafening silence
and
a riot of shadows...

...and still you were unimpressed

I conjured up
hosts of cherubim,
flew you to
the dark side of the Moon,
spoke to you in a
dialect
of sexual delectation.
I got you
the holiday of a lifetime,
paradise on a stick,
the sensation of
forever being in love

and you took absolutely no notice,
you went on being yourself

I can't get you anything else
I've run out of ideas

You're on your own now

THIS IS NOT A POEM 2

Azure
Bitches
Corrupt
Decent
Ebony
Figures.
Gross
Hounds
Implode.
Jovial
Kerrymen
Litter
Monsoon
Nano-spheres.
Only
Poodles
Question
Relatively
Simple
Tasks.
Under
Venus
Wait
X-Rated
Zealots

THIS IS NOT A POEM

A
Bouncy
Cockroach
Danced
Energetically
Frantically
Gladly.
Hi-jacking
Insect
Jailbirds,
Kicking
Lice,
Massacring
Nouns.
Overcoming
Philosophy,
Querying
Roseslugs
Scream
Tainted
Undeniably
Virulent
Wanton
X-rated
Zen-poems

JUDGEMENT

I don't know which
I hate more,
poetry or poets.
It's a close run thing

The current vacant post for
Oxford professor of poetry
is being tightly contested,
I guess there's a lot of money
and prestige at stake

Simon Armitage
some big wind
has written
a statement of intent

"to discuss the situation of poetry
and poets in the 21st century,
to address the obstacles 
and opportunities
brought about by changes
in education,
changes in reading habits,
the internet,
poetry's decreasing 'market share',
poetry's relationship with the civilian world
and the (alleged) long, lingering
death of the book".

what a fucking bore,
the guy should be strung up,
and whatever happened
to poetry's relationship with
the military world?
huh?

here's some of his poetry:
"It is not through weeping,
but all evening the pale blue eye
on your most photogenic side has kept
its own unfathomable tide. Like the boy
at the dyke I have been there.........."

On it babbles, a soupy
slovenly syrup of half-baked words
and feeble observations.
Save me from these people
please,
save me from their pathetic world
and their nauseous
blatherings

IAN AND I IN PARIS

We went to Paris
me and Ian,
on the train
that went via
the Dover/Calais ferry

We arrived virtually penniless
and
naturally
with nowhere to stay.

So, we settled down
for the night
in some boarded up
roadworks
we managed to
break into

I think we
probably had sleeping bags
though it is possible
we had nothing more
than ragged blankets

I have never
and never since
felt a dawn
like that.
There we were
out in the open
the essence of the city
wrapping its half-awake
eyes
round our abstract selves.

As the early morning
revealed its portfolio,
we bathed
in the slow ascending
rhythm of the city,
transported off
into a cacophonic
symphony of sound

For a few hours
we were Paris,
we were the traffic
we were the people
we were its noise, smells
and mutterings.
We were the glitter of transitive gold
on the eternal pavements

Ian,
despite being a scummer
felt it the same way as me
so
the sensations
were not mine alone
but
part of something else

That something else,
you don't come across it
that often
and
it always catches you by surprise

After a few days
for some reason
Ian left
and I started busking
and made a few francs.
If it hadn't been for
those bastard French gendarmes
confiscating
my unamplified guitar
I would have come away
with quite
a good
impression of Paris

DEATH OF A POET 4

What a horribly
long
agonising death
Rimbaud had

OK
he had turned
into
a total bastard
by then
but still
you wouldn't
wish that
on your worst enemy

Some stinking
Marseilles hospital,
the starchy staleness,
the mouldy sun,
rotting flowers,
writhing
in unbearable pain

Oh, god!
In some other life
everything purred.
Neo-Baudelarian felines
sipped
lush heavenly
cream
and shook their
milky paws
in feverish delight

JOLLY UP

Hoist your
black hole spangled spanners
high!
Hurl high-faluting
curses
across polyphonic voids

Do a jig
and then a reel.
Operate on another level.
Serve unconscious remedies
to the undeserving.
Speak in colourful languages

Take the smile of an ox
the stupidity of a scientist
the alertness of a gazelle
the monotony of existence
a sprig of weather
a posh butcher's doubts,
mix them up,
and water the garden of regrets
with their liquid
essence

Sprint while reciting
a string of pointless proverbs.
Jump up into an abyss
fall down into the sky.
Lick the half-hearted dew
as if you were a wolfman
from another dimension
in love with the temporary

Raise the banner of friction
up your rusty flagpole
salute it
and then set off
in another direction.
Mow the lawn of despair,
clean the windows
of desperation,
wash the dishes
of uncertainty

Leap into the heavens,
press any button you like.
Uncoil
like a snake,
let your poisonous joy
sting everyone
back to their senses.
Swirl, whirl.
Froth up the magic
I hid in the kitchen
cupboard
behind the bleach

PENUMBRA OF UNCERTAINTY

From young fool
to
old fool,
learning zilch

Streaking through life
with head well down and
hands firmly gripping
the steering wheel

Informed by nothing
but sad prejudices
and a lack of curiosity
and y'know insensitivity

Money spins
the world about on its axis,
the lack of it
defines us

No Sufi surfers
riding surrealist waves
No contradictions
no dangerous corners

Cushioned from pain
family-orientated
not really alive
but running the show

Everyone feels death
surely?
Everyone smells
the end

Money and
stultification
seem to go
hand in hand

Poverty is
ignorance's best friend
foot on the accelerator
overtake overtake!

We're here
to grow
that's all
I know

LET ME THROUGH, I'M A POET!

I was in a queue
waiting to show my passport,
to the cop at Barcelona airport

I was in a hurry,
my interminable journeys
between Pompey and Barna
meant I had the itinerary
down to a tee:
if the plane arrived on time
and
I slithered
quickly through
customs etc.
I would get to
Premia-de-Mar
in time for my class,
and evade,
not that I truly cared,
the wrath of my evil
rodent-creature boss
and
more importantly than that
get paid
for the aforesaid lesson

I was third in line.
The woman in front of me
was a ridiculous distance
from the woman
showing her passport.
I mean they've got that silly yellow line
you're meant to stand behind
but
for Christ's sake
we're not in a bank,
nobody's imparting any secrets,
almost everyone ignores that line
and stands right behind
the person being procedured

I was restless,
hour-glasses
were spitting sand.
I said to the woman in front of me,
I'm almost certain my words were not
accompanied
by a slight push,
"Come on, come on!
Get on with it!
Move up!"
or
something along those lines.
The woman took umbrage
replied brusquely;
offended

All this was witnessed
by the cop/customs officer
in his little glass booth.
He got out,
despite I am almost certain
no grasp of the English tongue
whatsoever
he decided I was guilty
and the woman in front of me
innocent.

He spoke to me in
Spanish,
told me to get out of the queue
and wait at the side.
If this had been any other country
I would have been fairly nervous
by now,
having invoked the wrath
of
a local official.
A local official
with quite a lot of power,
certainly the power to send me back where
I came from,
but
this was 'Spain',
I reckoned I knew what was required,
and I was right.

After about fifteen minutes
when the whole airplane load
had been processed,
the policia nacional
got out of his booth
and approached me.
I immediately rained
a shower of apologies
down on him,
explained the reason for my haste,
and used 'Usted' a lot.

He nobly accepted my
remonstrations,
but before letting me wend my way,
could not resist
offering a piece of
well reasoned advice:

"Cuando se entra
en un pais,
se tiene que comportar
con cortesia"
he said,
fixing me in the eyes.
Roughly translated
it means
"On entering another country
you should
behave with courtesy/you
should be polite"

It's good advice
good solid advice
hewed from some sturdy Iberian stone.
It has the ring of truth
and is not over-elaborated.
I sincerely thanked him for his reflection
as I pissed off
bollock-late
into the
unsympathetic Mediterranean
twilight