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!
Saturday 30 May 2015
Friday 29 May 2015
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
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
Thursday 28 May 2015
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I've been replaced by eternity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
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
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
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
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
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
Wednesday 27 May 2015
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
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
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
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
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
Tuesday 26 May 2015
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
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
Monday 25 May 2015
PERMANENTLY INTROVERTED INTERLUDE
We will
dance
on
pinpricks
drawing pins
and
blu tak
We will sell
TS Eliot imitation mugs
to the
uninitiated
We will embrace
space babies
with their
hazy recollections
of
sun sparkled revels
on unfathomable balconies
We will delight
in the mundane and
accompany irritable ions
out into the space
between
what we never were
and what we never could be
We will
swallow
whole continents,
go forward into the
past,
take NO
for an answer,
we will rarely
take notes
Dancing
dancing
dancing
we will sellotape
our wills
to the walls
and make
useless demands
underneath
bubble-wrap skies
We will
never be part
of the scenery
or consider
a walk-on
part,
our metropolitan
sign language
will be the height of
ambiguity
We will only ever
involve ourselves
in unnecessary details
and in that way
we will
blunder
towards
something greater
than defeat
something vaster
than failure
We will only ever be
instant revelation
and lessons learned,
our coughs
will be like laughs,
our in-your-facedness
will seem natural and
unpretentious
We will take
everything
literally,
preserve impossible
thoughts,
wash the sea
out of the sand
We will stalk
the grey horizons,
make merry
in a nest of needles,
do everything
but
what is expected
of us
we will sneak between
the
interminable
and the
unenchanted
we will
we will
we will
dance
on!
We will
dance
on
pinpricks
drawing pins
and
blu tak
We will sell
TS Eliot imitation mugs
to the
uninitiated
We will embrace
space babies
with their
hazy recollections
of
sun sparkled revels
on unfathomable balconies
We will delight
in the mundane and
accompany irritable ions
out into the space
between
what we never were
and what we never could be
We will
swallow
whole continents,
go forward into the
past,
take NO
for an answer,
we will rarely
take notes
Dancing
dancing
dancing
we will sellotape
our wills
to the walls
and make
useless demands
underneath
bubble-wrap skies
We will
never be part
of the scenery
or consider
a walk-on
part,
our metropolitan
sign language
will be the height of
ambiguity
We will only ever
involve ourselves
in unnecessary details
and in that way
we will
blunder
towards
something greater
than defeat
something vaster
than failure
We will only ever be
instant revelation
and lessons learned,
our coughs
will be like laughs,
our in-your-facedness
will seem natural and
unpretentious
We will take
everything
literally,
preserve impossible
thoughts,
wash the sea
out of the sand
We will stalk
the grey horizons,
make merry
in a nest of needles,
do everything
but
what is expected
of us
we will sneak between
the
interminable
and the
unenchanted
we will
we will
we will
dance
on!
DEATH OF A POET 3
Silver scorpions with crowns of gold
linked arms with silent grasshoppers,
an army of ants knelt and prayed
by the ground round the body
of precious Federico
Garcia Lorca,
the cheeky angel
the taunting imp
the agonised lover
lies still
very still
purple clouds embrace the butterflies
the melancholy grass sways
the electric demons hiss
the sand the mud
the emptiness
the dance of the wind
everything ends
Silver scorpions with crowns of gold
linked arms with silent grasshoppers,
an army of ants knelt and prayed
by the ground round the body
of precious Federico
Garcia Lorca,
the cheeky angel
the taunting imp
the agonised lover
lies still
very still
purple clouds embrace the butterflies
the melancholy grass sways
the electric demons hiss
the sand the mud
the emptiness
the dance of the wind
everything ends
THE SCATTERED REMNANTS OF MY FOES WILL BE MOPPED UP AND I WILL REIGN SUPREME
The scattered remnants of my foes
will be mopped up and I will reign supreme
It's utterly inevitable
I'm not living in a dream
The small groups of renegade bandits
hiding out in the woods
will not gain the support of the native population
they ain't no Robin Hoods
Yeah, the battlefield was mine
I showed them who was boss
I triumphed, indisputably triumphed
I whipped them to candy floss
Just a few of them got away
running like startled hens
they sneaked off like the cowards they are
back to their pathetic dens
With their dastardly tales of my alleged cruelty
and my bitterness and my bile
oh where do these wicked people come from?
Why don't they dig my style?
Well don't you worry about it
they ain't gonna be around for long
these isolated peddlers
of everything that's wrong
My opponent's morale is shattered
I hit them where it hurt
that will really teach them
to treat my name like dirt
So when the last of them is imprisoned
when all opposition is erased
the bells will ring for the love of Bing
and my works will be endlessly praised
The scattered remnants of my foes
will be mopped up and I will reign supreme
It's utterly inevitable
I'm not living in a dream
The small groups of renegade bandits
hiding out in the woods
will not gain the support of the native population
they ain't no Robin Hoods
Yeah, the battlefield was mine
I showed them who was boss
I triumphed, indisputably triumphed
I whipped them to candy floss
Just a few of them got away
running like startled hens
they sneaked off like the cowards they are
back to their pathetic dens
With their dastardly tales of my alleged cruelty
and my bitterness and my bile
oh where do these wicked people come from?
Why don't they dig my style?
Well don't you worry about it
they ain't gonna be around for long
these isolated peddlers
of everything that's wrong
My opponent's morale is shattered
I hit them where it hurt
that will really teach them
to treat my name like dirt
So when the last of them is imprisoned
when all opposition is erased
the bells will ring for the love of Bing
and my works will be endlessly praised
Sunday 24 May 2015
HEAVENSLIGHT
On a swampy wasteland by the Eastern Road
strange furry large-eared gremlin type things
make a sacrifice to the gods of speed and metal,
a human sacrifice!
The victim none other than
the new tory MP for Pompey South
Flick Drummond.
By the time she is dragged
to the flames of the big fire
she has turned into a weasel,
a horrible feral screeching cacophony
accompanies her
on her last journey
Portsmouth sighs
the island sighs
a long heartfelt sigh
that whips up the tattered ghosts
of bombs falling
beers spilling.
Born again taxi-cabs
salute a pride of yellow and purple lions
who have hoisted the flag of fear
over Fratton's darkened streets .
The demons who danced around North End
burning the charity shops
and wrecking the ice-cream parlours,
now sit in the Mcdonalds
eating chips.
Strange emotions have taken hold of them
they sing wistful songs
of loneliness
and separation,
their black souls
expired somewhere around
where the old Odeon used to be
Mohammed, Jesus and Jehovah
wander around Gunwharf Quays
searching for bargains.
They are soon weighed down by heavy packages
containing
light and time and
space and discounted perfumes.
They stop off for a pint
at the old Customs House
only Jesus isn't satisfied with one pint
he overdoes it
causes a bit of a ruckus.
Underneath the framed Dicken's related prints
his two companions
manage to calm him down
Poetry inspired Pterodactyls
and philosophic birds of prey
hover over the Historic Dockyard
buzz about HMS Nelson,
soon they swoop,
releasing terrifying missiles packed with
misunderstanding and bewilderment
in the direction of the Mary Rose museum,
The Victory and HMS Warrior.
The blast is encouraging,
historic incongruencies
are paradoxically
part of the explosion.
The entire naval personnel
leave their personalities behind
and dissolve into eternity.
Nucleur submarines
become blops of rainbow lard.
Chinooks rise into the heavens
and copulate with the swirling pterodactyls
eagles, falcons and vultures.
Rotor blades in revolt
they resolve to give birth
to new ways of seeing
and believing
Portsmouth groans
the island of Portsmouth groans
why weep for a million
hearts broken
when yesterday is already upon us?
Phantom tourists pop up all over
Southsea
in search of soulless holidays
by the sea
In Buckland
beauty finally escapes
the chains of austerity.
She shatters everyone's preconceptions
with a moving speech about
her indifference to fate
and how fishing boats
are really clouds of tears.
Her well-chosen words
swim through the air
echoing across Copnor
like the foggy thoughts
of a drunken ferry.
Hilsea stares at Cosham
her eyes are huge pools
of molten lava.
She has already melted away
the lido and the local newspaper offices.
Where the bus station once stood
a host of apocalyptic
apprentices
devise new means of communication.
They occasionally stop to have a cup of tea
and wave at the future.
Portsmouth breathes
deep and heavy
blotting out the sleep of genies
with its withering
respiration.
The Ben Ainslie Camber development
has disappeared
in a puff of smoke.
First year Accountancy and Financial
Management students
pour out the University library.
In a state of fevered anxiety
they dance and sing to the divinities
hidden among the trees that line
Cambridge Road
On a swampy wasteland by the Eastern Road
strange furry large-eared gremlin type things
make a sacrifice to the gods of speed and metal,
a human sacrifice!
The victim none other than
the new tory MP for Pompey South
Flick Drummond.
By the time she is dragged
to the flames of the big fire
she has turned into a weasel,
a horrible feral screeching cacophony
accompanies her
on her last journey
Portsmouth sighs
the island sighs
a long heartfelt sigh
that whips up the tattered ghosts
of bombs falling
beers spilling.
Born again taxi-cabs
salute a pride of yellow and purple lions
who have hoisted the flag of fear
over Fratton's darkened streets .
The demons who danced around North End
burning the charity shops
and wrecking the ice-cream parlours,
now sit in the Mcdonalds
eating chips.
Strange emotions have taken hold of them
they sing wistful songs
of loneliness
and separation,
their black souls
expired somewhere around
where the old Odeon used to be
Mohammed, Jesus and Jehovah
wander around Gunwharf Quays
searching for bargains.
They are soon weighed down by heavy packages
containing
light and time and
space and discounted perfumes.
They stop off for a pint
at the old Customs House
only Jesus isn't satisfied with one pint
he overdoes it
causes a bit of a ruckus.
Underneath the framed Dicken's related prints
his two companions
manage to calm him down
Poetry inspired Pterodactyls
and philosophic birds of prey
hover over the Historic Dockyard
buzz about HMS Nelson,
soon they swoop,
releasing terrifying missiles packed with
misunderstanding and bewilderment
in the direction of the Mary Rose museum,
The Victory and HMS Warrior.
The blast is encouraging,
historic incongruencies
are paradoxically
part of the explosion.
The entire naval personnel
leave their personalities behind
and dissolve into eternity.
Nucleur submarines
become blops of rainbow lard.
Chinooks rise into the heavens
and copulate with the swirling pterodactyls
eagles, falcons and vultures.
Rotor blades in revolt
they resolve to give birth
to new ways of seeing
and believing
Portsmouth groans
the island of Portsmouth groans
why weep for a million
hearts broken
when yesterday is already upon us?
Phantom tourists pop up all over
Southsea
in search of soulless holidays
by the sea
In Buckland
beauty finally escapes
the chains of austerity.
She shatters everyone's preconceptions
with a moving speech about
her indifference to fate
and how fishing boats
are really clouds of tears.
Her well-chosen words
swim through the air
echoing across Copnor
like the foggy thoughts
of a drunken ferry.
Hilsea stares at Cosham
her eyes are huge pools
of molten lava.
She has already melted away
the lido and the local newspaper offices.
Where the bus station once stood
a host of apocalyptic
apprentices
devise new means of communication.
They occasionally stop to have a cup of tea
and wave at the future.
Portsmouth breathes
deep and heavy
blotting out the sleep of genies
with its withering
respiration.
The Ben Ainslie Camber development
has disappeared
in a puff of smoke.
First year Accountancy and Financial
Management students
pour out the University library.
In a state of fevered anxiety
they dance and sing to the divinities
hidden among the trees that line
Cambridge Road
Saturday 23 May 2015
GOBSMACKED FLABBERGASTED
We'd just finished a muddy scrappy
battle against the then top of the league side
and beaten them 3-2
quite an achievement
taking into consideration
the unpleasant nature of the contest:
our opponents were not averse
to using excessive physical force
or letting their emotions get the better of them
They were a nasty lot of
white lads from
some dodgy South London
district
if truth be told.
On the pitch I never let
those people get to me but
away from the emerald turf
I would steer a million miles
We were in our dressing room
after the game
feeling
well, pleased with ourselves
when
our attention was drawn to four or five shapes
at the door
Yes,
four or five
extremely angry figures
dealing with god knows what issues
stood quivering at the door.
Four or five stark naked figures!
Their manhoods swaying
limply and reluctantly
before us,
their porky-pink flesh
horribly real
under the strip lighting.
It was a bizarre sight to say the least,
but nothing to the torrent of words
that spurted from their
inarticulate tongues,
"All right, come on,
let's sort this out right now,
who wants some?",
was the spirit of their incantation.
They were looking for a fight!
I imagine
the nature of their defeat
had been such
that they had retreated to their
dressing room in a state of
frustration and despondence,
a mood which
before they had got their clothes on
had exploded into a
blind senseless violent fury
We gazed aghast
gobsmacked flabbergasted.
We were a mixed bunch,
mostly from round Peckham,
although relatively hardened to the ways of the world
I believe this was a new experience for all of us.
There was a kind of hush
a daft silence
after their pronouncement.
The silence became embarrassing.
I mean the idea of getting into
a scrap with some ugly bollock naked
bloke because of the result of a football match
was way beyond our reach
I think the same thought
slowly seeped through our visitors'
neolithic craniums.
The absurdity
of the situation,
the whiplash
of the deafening silence
caused their brainless heads to spin,
slowly they withdrew, doubtlessly
still uttering
unfriendly threats and taunts
in order to maintain their
dubious masculine dignity
They were chucked out of the league
later on,
for some violent incident or other,
not surprising.....
We'd just finished a muddy scrappy
battle against the then top of the league side
and beaten them 3-2
quite an achievement
taking into consideration
the unpleasant nature of the contest:
our opponents were not averse
to using excessive physical force
or letting their emotions get the better of them
They were a nasty lot of
white lads from
some dodgy South London
district
if truth be told.
On the pitch I never let
those people get to me but
away from the emerald turf
I would steer a million miles
We were in our dressing room
after the game
feeling
well, pleased with ourselves
when
our attention was drawn to four or five shapes
at the door
Yes,
four or five
extremely angry figures
dealing with god knows what issues
stood quivering at the door.
Four or five stark naked figures!
Their manhoods swaying
limply and reluctantly
before us,
their porky-pink flesh
horribly real
under the strip lighting.
It was a bizarre sight to say the least,
but nothing to the torrent of words
that spurted from their
inarticulate tongues,
"All right, come on,
let's sort this out right now,
who wants some?",
was the spirit of their incantation.
They were looking for a fight!
I imagine
the nature of their defeat
had been such
that they had retreated to their
dressing room in a state of
frustration and despondence,
a mood which
before they had got their clothes on
had exploded into a
blind senseless violent fury
We gazed aghast
gobsmacked flabbergasted.
We were a mixed bunch,
mostly from round Peckham,
although relatively hardened to the ways of the world
I believe this was a new experience for all of us.
There was a kind of hush
a daft silence
after their pronouncement.
The silence became embarrassing.
I mean the idea of getting into
a scrap with some ugly bollock naked
bloke because of the result of a football match
was way beyond our reach
I think the same thought
slowly seeped through our visitors'
neolithic craniums.
The absurdity
of the situation,
the whiplash
of the deafening silence
caused their brainless heads to spin,
slowly they withdrew, doubtlessly
still uttering
unfriendly threats and taunts
in order to maintain their
dubious masculine dignity
They were chucked out of the league
later on,
for some violent incident or other,
not surprising.....
THE PERPIGNAN INCIDENT
Way back in my misspent youth,
I found myself in Perpignan
Things had not been going
particularly well.
I'd been working on the vendage
(grape-picking),
a ghastly occupation
at which I did not shine,
and I'd been sacked
for making a dog yapping sign
with my hand
behind the back
of the loathsome boss-brute of a woman
who screamed orders at us
all day long,
(unfortunately I was
unaware her son was among those
who witnessed my amusing diversion,
he did not see the funny side, at all)
still I had a few francs in my pocket,
and here I was
in a sunny South France town.
Hunger called
I repaired to a small grocery type store where
I asked the grocer to cut me a miniscule slice
of cheese,
he seemed displeased
but did it,
I then asked for an equally miniscule
cut of ham
at this
he seemed really pissed off
started muttering and snorting,
I was quite put about,
was I not a customer equal
to any other?
I was determined to respond.
I thought it best however
to make my comment
in a subtle disguised way,
I would use a Spanish word
'Cabron' I hissed.
Now this is a really heavy insult
in the Castilian tongue,
literally 'big goat' but
in meaning more like
you 'f****** b******'.
I was just confident
he wouldn't understand my insult
I could not have been more wrong.
French is not my strongest suit
but he made it very clear
he did know what 'cabron' meant
not only that
he combined his comprehension
with an energetic physical response
He leapt on me
the bastard,
there we were
in the shop
rolling around
wrestling between
the narrow aisles.
I was caught unprepared
but fortunately
he was a weak old runt
and I sort of held my own
until
his wife and daughter
pulled him off.
With much hullabaloo
I was shoved out the store
and my haversack
thrown after me.
I have a memory
that later
in the afternoon
shop shut down period
as I waited for a coach
to Barcelona
I slipped an
envelope of dried dog's turd
through the offending grocery's
letterbox,
perhaps I did
perhaps I didn't
All I know is
I've never been back to Perpignan
Way back in my misspent youth,
I found myself in Perpignan
Things had not been going
particularly well.
I'd been working on the vendage
(grape-picking),
a ghastly occupation
at which I did not shine,
and I'd been sacked
for making a dog yapping sign
with my hand
behind the back
of the loathsome boss-brute of a woman
who screamed orders at us
all day long,
(unfortunately I was
unaware her son was among those
who witnessed my amusing diversion,
he did not see the funny side, at all)
still I had a few francs in my pocket,
and here I was
in a sunny South France town.
Hunger called
I repaired to a small grocery type store where
I asked the grocer to cut me a miniscule slice
of cheese,
he seemed displeased
but did it,
I then asked for an equally miniscule
cut of ham
at this
he seemed really pissed off
started muttering and snorting,
I was quite put about,
was I not a customer equal
to any other?
I was determined to respond.
I thought it best however
to make my comment
in a subtle disguised way,
I would use a Spanish word
'Cabron' I hissed.
Now this is a really heavy insult
in the Castilian tongue,
literally 'big goat' but
in meaning more like
you 'f****** b******'.
I was just confident
he wouldn't understand my insult
I could not have been more wrong.
French is not my strongest suit
but he made it very clear
he did know what 'cabron' meant
not only that
he combined his comprehension
with an energetic physical response
He leapt on me
the bastard,
there we were
in the shop
rolling around
wrestling between
the narrow aisles.
I was caught unprepared
but fortunately
he was a weak old runt
and I sort of held my own
until
his wife and daughter
pulled him off.
With much hullabaloo
I was shoved out the store
and my haversack
thrown after me.
I have a memory
that later
in the afternoon
shop shut down period
as I waited for a coach
to Barcelona
I slipped an
envelope of dried dog's turd
through the offending grocery's
letterbox,
perhaps I did
perhaps I didn't
All I know is
I've never been back to Perpignan
INVISIBLE AUDIENCE
There's a woman
or should I say lady,
in her fifties
circle face
roundish body
normalish clothes
eastern europeany
respectable
She's got like
an official identification
label
on a chain round her neck
sheaf of notes in her hand
I first came across her
in Guildhall Square,
there she was
standing between
the mobile cafe
and the statue of Charles Dickens
talking away
to nobody
To nobody!
strange
I approached
and realised she was in fact
speaking like a tour guide.
I mean she was clearly
informing an invisible audience
of a number of pertinent facts
about something or other
I stumbled past her again yesterday,
she was outside the endlessly
in-a-state of restoration
Theatre Royal,
engrossed and absorbed
in the job of earnestly
imparting her knowledge
to
a non-existent tour-group
I did the same as before,
stopped
near enough to hear what she's saying
but not near enough to be noticed by her,
as there is something undeniably
creepy about her performance,
she stumbles at times,
hurriedly consults her notes,
her english is not perfect,
damn
I can never quite make out what
she's saying
Of course
she sort of realises I'm there,
but doesn't quite react,
I'm half tempted to go right up to her
look her in the eyes and listen,
make her fantasy a reality
become an audience,
but
I don't.
Like I say
it's all just y'know
a little bit too odd
There's a woman
or should I say lady,
in her fifties
circle face
roundish body
normalish clothes
eastern europeany
respectable
She's got like
an official identification
label
on a chain round her neck
sheaf of notes in her hand
I first came across her
in Guildhall Square,
there she was
standing between
the mobile cafe
and the statue of Charles Dickens
talking away
to nobody
To nobody!
strange
I approached
and realised she was in fact
speaking like a tour guide.
I mean she was clearly
informing an invisible audience
of a number of pertinent facts
about something or other
I stumbled past her again yesterday,
she was outside the endlessly
in-a-state of restoration
Theatre Royal,
engrossed and absorbed
in the job of earnestly
imparting her knowledge
to
a non-existent tour-group
I did the same as before,
stopped
near enough to hear what she's saying
but not near enough to be noticed by her,
as there is something undeniably
creepy about her performance,
she stumbles at times,
hurriedly consults her notes,
her english is not perfect,
damn
I can never quite make out what
she's saying
Of course
she sort of realises I'm there,
but doesn't quite react,
I'm half tempted to go right up to her
look her in the eyes and listen,
make her fantasy a reality
become an audience,
but
I don't.
Like I say
it's all just y'know
a little bit too odd
ON YET ANOTHER REJECTION
Finally, getting round
to cleaning out my spam
I found yet another
rejection of my novel
from
a literary agent who
actually bothered to give some feedback
"Whilst your narrative voice feels original,
the idea of a new-age world run by computer programs
is a well trodden one,
and I worry that your novel
won't stand out in an already over-crowed market."
I agree
there are far too many crows
in the book world
too many buzzards
too many starlings
too many wingy flappy creatures
in general
however
one thing puzzled me.
My novel isn't about
"a new-age world run by computer programs"
not remotely
She also wrote 'programmes'
as 'programs'
call me old-fashioned
but
that too gets on my wick
Finally, getting round
to cleaning out my spam
I found yet another
rejection of my novel
from
a literary agent who
actually bothered to give some feedback
"Whilst your narrative voice feels original,
the idea of a new-age world run by computer programs
is a well trodden one,
and I worry that your novel
won't stand out in an already over-crowed market."
I agree
there are far too many crows
in the book world
too many buzzards
too many starlings
too many wingy flappy creatures
in general
however
one thing puzzled me.
My novel isn't about
"a new-age world run by computer programs"
not remotely
She also wrote 'programmes'
as 'programs'
call me old-fashioned
but
that too gets on my wick
Friday 22 May 2015
PORTSMOUTH GRAMMAR SCHOOL PART 2
There they are,
again,
filing along the street
Portsmouth Grammar School's
herd of haughty cattle
back from the cathedral,
yet another
fucking mass
christ
they're always at it
except today
there is a slight
sartorial flourish,
every single male pupil is wearing
a kind of dark and light blue tie
and each female
a sort of scarf kerchief type thing
in the same colours
These aren't the school colours!
They're red and gold and black.
The fuckers
have gone and
for some godforsaken reason
got a whole pile of special neckwear
Why would any educational establishment
for a day
stroll around in another set of colours?
What weary sad pathetic
moron tore that idea from out the bag?
What cruddy ropy half-baked
harking back to tradition
summoned up such a blazingly
ostentatious display
of vile sliminess
There they are,
again,
filing along the street
Portsmouth Grammar School's
flock of slithery sycophantic sheep
There they are,
again,
filing along the street
Portsmouth Grammar School's
herd of haughty cattle
back from the cathedral,
yet another
fucking mass
christ
they're always at it
except today
there is a slight
sartorial flourish,
every single male pupil is wearing
a kind of dark and light blue tie
and each female
a sort of scarf kerchief type thing
in the same colours
These aren't the school colours!
They're red and gold and black.
The fuckers
have gone and
for some godforsaken reason
got a whole pile of special neckwear
Why would any educational establishment
for a day
stroll around in another set of colours?
What weary sad pathetic
moron tore that idea from out the bag?
What cruddy ropy half-baked
harking back to tradition
summoned up such a blazingly
ostentatious display
of vile sliminess
There they are,
again,
filing along the street
Portsmouth Grammar School's
flock of slithery sycophantic sheep
Thursday 21 May 2015
I WAIT
I wait,
invisible worms
glide across fluorescent dawns
I wait
and
wait,
grim obelisks
pop up every now and then
like
unwelcome lizards
grasping
rasping
I wait
and
wait
and wait,
the rest of the world
revolves,
oh, yes
it revolves
I wait
wait
and wait
and wait
restlessness fills my zones
intolerant gulls
peck at my insides
hungry for progress
I wait
wait
and wait
wait and wait
impatience fills my soul,
the helicopters overhead
the electric drill sounds
your confusion
your not knowing
that everything is now
it swirls it swirls
a shifty side-footed waltz
that escapes analysis
Yes
I wait
like
the painted
vestige
of some crappy neo-poet's
pathetic verse
I wait,
invisible worms
glide across fluorescent dawns
I wait
and
wait,
grim obelisks
pop up every now and then
like
unwelcome lizards
grasping
rasping
I wait
and
wait
and wait,
the rest of the world
revolves,
oh, yes
it revolves
I wait
wait
and wait
and wait
restlessness fills my zones
intolerant gulls
peck at my insides
hungry for progress
I wait
wait
and wait
wait and wait
impatience fills my soul,
the helicopters overhead
the electric drill sounds
your confusion
your not knowing
that everything is now
it swirls it swirls
a shifty side-footed waltz
that escapes analysis
Yes
I wait
like
the painted
vestige
of some crappy neo-poet's
pathetic verse
I WILL EAT OF LIGHT 2
I will eat of light,
tenacious suburbs
will surrender
to my illuminated army
I will eat of light
we will be surrounded by
Versailles type furniture
the conversation
will be frugal
I will eat of light
promising concepts
will be sizzled by my penetrating
rays
I will eat of light
you
you are a soulless nobody
entirely at my disposition
I will eat of light
I will try and get a hold of myself
and withstrain
my somewhat alarming propensity
for
self-aggrandisement
I will eat of light
dark caves
primitive symbols
a grasp on technology?
Give me a break!
I will eat of light
sullen hypocrisies
riddled with inconsistencies
will ride
some
distant darkened horizon
you won't be there to see it
but
I will
I will eat of light,
tenacious suburbs
will surrender
to my illuminated army
I will eat of light
we will be surrounded by
Versailles type furniture
the conversation
will be frugal
I will eat of light
promising concepts
will be sizzled by my penetrating
rays
I will eat of light
you
you are a soulless nobody
entirely at my disposition
I will eat of light
I will try and get a hold of myself
and withstrain
my somewhat alarming propensity
for
self-aggrandisement
I will eat of light
dark caves
primitive symbols
a grasp on technology?
Give me a break!
I will eat of light
sullen hypocrisies
riddled with inconsistencies
will ride
some
distant darkened horizon
you won't be there to see it
but
I will
I WILL EAT OF LIGHT
There are particles,
nasty stuck-up in your face particles,
they loiter in all parts
whirling round at goodness knows
what speed
there are protons
particularly persuasive protons
who sit you down
offer you a drink
anything you like
"ice"
"chilled glass?"
"salt or sugar round the rim?"
you get the picture
particles
maybe not be your idea
of a great night out
but at least
you know where you are with them
they move fast
but
not that fast
protons on the other hand
they're wily
crafty
sneaky
creatures,
whilst your sipping your
manhattan
they're probably going through
your pockets
reading your fucking mind
who needs that?
anything that quick is not to be trusted
plus they're complicated
confrontational
beasts
prone to self-sorrow
and melancholy
circumspection
steer clear of them I say
despite
their undoubted abilities
in the realm of
interpreting
existence
stick to the other particles
listen to bing
There are particles,
nasty stuck-up in your face particles,
they loiter in all parts
whirling round at goodness knows
what speed
there are protons
particularly persuasive protons
who sit you down
offer you a drink
anything you like
"ice"
"chilled glass?"
"salt or sugar round the rim?"
you get the picture
particles
maybe not be your idea
of a great night out
but at least
you know where you are with them
they move fast
but
not that fast
protons on the other hand
they're wily
crafty
sneaky
creatures,
whilst your sipping your
manhattan
they're probably going through
your pockets
reading your fucking mind
who needs that?
anything that quick is not to be trusted
plus they're complicated
confrontational
beasts
prone to self-sorrow
and melancholy
circumspection
steer clear of them I say
despite
their undoubted abilities
in the realm of
interpreting
existence
stick to the other particles
listen to bing
FATHER FIELD
Once upon a time
I was an altar boy
y'know Sunday service,
reading the epistle,
tinkling the bell
when the priest raised the host
or the chalice
or the cross
or whatever it was
he hoisted aloft
I 'worked' for
Father Field who was getting on
and wasn't really a very happy bunny.
I remember he thought priests
should be able to get married
which seems to go against some
of the basic tenets of catholicism
if you ask me
not that I'm one to be asked
Anyway
one evening
after mass
Mrs Moynahan entered
the sacristi
where we were winding down,
Father Field, me and another
slightly older, blonde-haired altar boy:
Mrs Moynahan who had a fair amount of money
who lived in a big house on the London Road
whose husband committed suicide by
gassing himself in a car which got in the local paper
whose son was around my age and I knew a bit
She went up to the doddering
old curate and said
"Did you get the ten pound note
I put in the collection?"
Well, this, this is utterly against
episcopalian dogma.
The collection is an anonymous donation:
during mass
a bag is handed round the congregation,
they place their financial offerings within it,
sometimes in a prepaid envelope type thing,
the contribution is obviously nameless
otherwise
well you know, people might think
the church favoured the rich or something
I don't know if Father Field had already
peered within the collection
but as I recall he was pretty quick in
replying that a ten pound note was
not amongst its contents.
Consternation!
Father Field and Mrs Moynahan
were close,
no, no, not like that,
at least I don't think so,
just in a sort of mediaeval,
powerful aristocratic noble
patronising
an ecclesiastic sort of way.
The tired old priest
must have apologetically asked Mrs Moynahan
to leave
and then confronted us.
Now I think about it
there must have been another altar boy
'cos it wasn't like a fifty-fifty type scenario.
"So, which one of you stole the money?"
he barked or something along those lines.
Why he immediately jumped to
the conclusion that one of us nicked the tenner
(which was worth quite a bit in those days)
I do not know,
to be honest, I was just into reading the epistle,
I enjoyed getting up on the lectern,
performing,
the adrenaline.
Now I was in a crime drama.
It had never occurred to me to pilfer
that church money,
I was puzzled,
there was a moment of heavy
interrogative threatening silence
I was perplexed and put-upon
Then,
the blonde-haired altar boy
got up
threw the tenner
on the table
muttered "I'm sorry, father,"
and rushed out.
I sort of blew a sigh of relief
no-one likes to be unjustly accused
Looking back
I reckon
Mrs Moynahan was just as much
to blame
as the altar boy,
who simply fell prey to temptation.
Aren't we meant to forgive him
or something?
Shouldn't he have been embraced
by the overwhelming
compassion of Christ?
Shouldn't he have been once
again welcomed back into the bosom of the church,
encouraged and pardoned (after some contrition),
possibly allowed to read
the epistle instead of me?
Well he wasn't
I never saw him again
Mrs Moynahan
on the other hand
sinned big time
loads of sins,
and she got off scot-free,
her reputation intact,
her magnanimity
demonstrated.
If that doesn't say something
about something
I don't know what does
Once upon a time
I was an altar boy
y'know Sunday service,
reading the epistle,
tinkling the bell
when the priest raised the host
or the chalice
or the cross
or whatever it was
he hoisted aloft
I 'worked' for
Father Field who was getting on
and wasn't really a very happy bunny.
I remember he thought priests
should be able to get married
which seems to go against some
of the basic tenets of catholicism
if you ask me
not that I'm one to be asked
Anyway
one evening
after mass
Mrs Moynahan entered
the sacristi
where we were winding down,
Father Field, me and another
slightly older, blonde-haired altar boy:
Mrs Moynahan who had a fair amount of money
who lived in a big house on the London Road
whose husband committed suicide by
gassing himself in a car which got in the local paper
whose son was around my age and I knew a bit
She went up to the doddering
old curate and said
"Did you get the ten pound note
I put in the collection?"
Well, this, this is utterly against
episcopalian dogma.
The collection is an anonymous donation:
during mass
a bag is handed round the congregation,
they place their financial offerings within it,
sometimes in a prepaid envelope type thing,
the contribution is obviously nameless
otherwise
well you know, people might think
the church favoured the rich or something
I don't know if Father Field had already
peered within the collection
but as I recall he was pretty quick in
replying that a ten pound note was
not amongst its contents.
Consternation!
Father Field and Mrs Moynahan
were close,
no, no, not like that,
at least I don't think so,
just in a sort of mediaeval,
powerful aristocratic noble
patronising
an ecclesiastic sort of way.
The tired old priest
must have apologetically asked Mrs Moynahan
to leave
and then confronted us.
Now I think about it
there must have been another altar boy
'cos it wasn't like a fifty-fifty type scenario.
"So, which one of you stole the money?"
he barked or something along those lines.
Why he immediately jumped to
the conclusion that one of us nicked the tenner
(which was worth quite a bit in those days)
I do not know,
to be honest, I was just into reading the epistle,
I enjoyed getting up on the lectern,
performing,
the adrenaline.
Now I was in a crime drama.
It had never occurred to me to pilfer
that church money,
I was puzzled,
there was a moment of heavy
interrogative threatening silence
I was perplexed and put-upon
Then,
the blonde-haired altar boy
got up
threw the tenner
on the table
muttered "I'm sorry, father,"
and rushed out.
I sort of blew a sigh of relief
no-one likes to be unjustly accused
Looking back
I reckon
Mrs Moynahan was just as much
to blame
as the altar boy,
who simply fell prey to temptation.
Aren't we meant to forgive him
or something?
Shouldn't he have been embraced
by the overwhelming
compassion of Christ?
Shouldn't he have been once
again welcomed back into the bosom of the church,
encouraged and pardoned (after some contrition),
possibly allowed to read
the epistle instead of me?
Well he wasn't
I never saw him again
Mrs Moynahan
on the other hand
sinned big time
loads of sins,
and she got off scot-free,
her reputation intact,
her magnanimity
demonstrated.
If that doesn't say something
about something
I don't know what does
ESSENCE 6
Six twigs I pour
into your jaw
The first twig
is surrounded by halos
and crackling vacuums
and is at the point
of a virgin birth
the second twig
has surrendered to
the temptations
of autumn skies
and lazy riverbanks
the third twig
is akin to an olive branch
but it only talks of destruction
and the obliteration of history
the fourth twig
once went out with someone from
a soap
but they split up when she
became a little bit famous
the fifth twig
is ego and
self-centredness
a dry untouchable longing.
When I stuff it down
your throat
I treat it with reverence
even though I do not morally
approve of it
The Sixth and final twig
grew up in a beautiful place
fell in love
danced with the dawn
then met me
and everything went wrong.
When I bless you with its
stubbly promise
you will react
accordingly
Six twigs I pour
into your jaw
Six twigs I pour
into your jaw
The first twig
is surrounded by halos
and crackling vacuums
and is at the point
of a virgin birth
the second twig
has surrendered to
the temptations
of autumn skies
and lazy riverbanks
the third twig
is akin to an olive branch
but it only talks of destruction
and the obliteration of history
the fourth twig
once went out with someone from
a soap
but they split up when she
became a little bit famous
the fifth twig
is ego and
self-centredness
a dry untouchable longing.
When I stuff it down
your throat
I treat it with reverence
even though I do not morally
approve of it
The Sixth and final twig
grew up in a beautiful place
fell in love
danced with the dawn
then met me
and everything went wrong.
When I bless you with its
stubbly promise
you will react
accordingly
Six twigs I pour
into your jaw
Wednesday 20 May 2015
PORTSMOUTH GRAMMAR SCHOOL
Portsmouth Grammar School
is not despite its labelling a 'grammar school'
far from it
it is, clean and simple
an institute for the learning
of the rich and privileged
Down my street they stroll
the arrogant well-fed well-educated
pricks pricklets and pricklettes
spewed forth from its, in my view,
barracks-like confines.
Down the street they barge
in their pristine black blazers
with a rather belligerent dragon
emblazoned on their smarmy chests
They seem to think they own the street,
of the lord of the manor.
Stuck up shitheads
It's particularly galling
to watch them when they file along
on their way to celebrate mass
at the Church-of-England cathedral.
The entire school crowds the pavements
marching past like an army of occupation,
sweeping away any poor passer-by who happens
to come up against their irresistible onslaught
The teachers are revolting,
prig-faced arseholes in gowns,
gowns! as if they were professors
at some ancient university.
Pretentious snotty gits.
I can just imagine them in the cathedral
all down on their knees
to god,
simulating pathetic humbleness
oozing self-righteousness
One day I was passing by the entrance
and a bunch of their brats were getting off a coach
naturally occupying the entire pavement,
blocking my path.
"Get out the way scumbags!"
I bellowed, they parted, I walked on,
then the teacher alerted to my proclamation called out
"Could I have a word?" or something along those lines
"No" I replied, "You can't,
you can't have a word"
and continued on my way.
I hope he got my point
I'm not sure if he did,
he probably thought I was some sort of roadside bully,
having a go at his nest of charming well-behaved
infant rugger players,
My point was:
the world has no need for institutions like this
nasty self-congratulatory nurseries
for fat-headed steaming smug superiority.
Portsmouth Grammar School
is not despite its labelling a 'grammar school'
far from it
it is, clean and simple
an institute for the learning
of the rich and privileged
Down my street they stroll
the arrogant well-fed well-educated
pricks pricklets and pricklettes
spewed forth from its, in my view,
barracks-like confines.
Down the street they barge
in their pristine black blazers
with a rather belligerent dragon
emblazoned on their smarmy chests
They seem to think they own the street,
we are duty bound to get out the way,
humble peasants in the wakeof the lord of the manor.
Stuck up shitheads
It's particularly galling
to watch them when they file along
on their way to celebrate mass
at the Church-of-England cathedral.
The entire school crowds the pavements
marching past like an army of occupation,
sweeping away any poor passer-by who happens
to come up against their irresistible onslaught
The teachers are revolting,
prig-faced arseholes in gowns,
gowns! as if they were professors
at some ancient university.
Pretentious snotty gits.
I can just imagine them in the cathedral
all down on their knees
to god,
simulating pathetic humbleness
oozing self-righteousness
One day I was passing by the entrance
and a bunch of their brats were getting off a coach
naturally occupying the entire pavement,
blocking my path.
"Get out the way scumbags!"
I bellowed, they parted, I walked on,
then the teacher alerted to my proclamation called out
"Could I have a word?" or something along those lines
"No" I replied, "You can't,
you can't have a word"
and continued on my way.
I hope he got my point
I'm not sure if he did,
he probably thought I was some sort of roadside bully,
having a go at his nest of charming well-behaved
infant rugger players,
My point was:
the world has no need for institutions like this
nasty self-congratulatory nurseries
for fat-headed steaming smug superiority.
Wednesday 13 May 2015
WHEN
when my scores are settled
when my grudges done
when your impudent face is a mere shadow
then the battle will be won
when love is all encompassing
and your nasty negative vision is erased
then I'll be vaguely satisfied
and you'll be completely dazed
when the light of my deadly bejeweled dagger
has thrust you through the chest
you'll see at last with clarity
you didn't pass the test
when my scores are settled
when my grudges done
when your impudent face is a mere shadow
then the battle will be won
when love is all encompassing
and your nasty negative vision is erased
then I'll be vaguely satisfied
and you'll be completely dazed
when the light of my deadly bejeweled dagger
has thrust you through the chest
you'll see at last with clarity
you didn't pass the test
Tuesday 12 May 2015
CONTRARY
a frugal centrifugal
bugle
a noodle poodle in a
doodle
a plate of hate in a
fine state
you are all these
things and more
a blasting everlasting
iron casting
a crow some dough
nothing I know
a dice fresh lice
freedom at any price
you are all these
things and more
a sensible pencil
stencil
at least half a calf giraffe
a hook a look you
remember when the earth shook
you are all these
things and more
DEATH OF A POET 2
Stalin didn't give a
damn
about the death of
Mandelstam
He enjoyed the hunt the
cunning sham
teasing the soul of
Mandelstam
To the slaughter went
the lamb
no-one cried for
Mandelstam
from near Kolyma came a
telegram
death was slow for
Mandelstam
The brakes still
screech the doors still slam
the silence speaks of
Mandelstam
THE ENEMIES OF SELFISH THOUGH A MIGHTY HIDEOUS HORDE WILL BE CRUSHED BY HIS MERCILESS OMNIPOTENCE
I stroll out from my palace
towards the fearsome walls
that protect my earthly kingdom.
Minions and servants prostrate themselves
before me
or if they do not,
and there has been a slight hint of insubordination
in recent times,
my faithful retainers beat the offender to a meaningless pulp
Up I climb the heavy slabby steps onto the ramparts
themselves.
The reports that have been coming in
they cannot be true
some lying lackey has invented a story
of rebellion and insurgence,
some faithless subject claims dark forces
are at work in my golden land,
but how could that possibly be?
My people have only respect and admiration
for me
they realise that the wielding of the bullwhip
the cracking of the cat o' nine tails
the snap of the guillotine
are all things considered, a totally justifiable means of control and
manipulation.
In their firm hearts and kind souls
they humble themselves before the
valiant sacrifice I made in
turning my back on a comfortable future
and dedicating my life
to public service and the execution
of inexorable duty.
The lying lackey
who invented this calumnious tale
has been fittingly punished,
no more will his vile tongue spit
falsities and vicious fibs
I gaze out through the parapet
expecting a scene of pastoral
peace and tranquility to greet my twinkling eyes,
the land of Selfish at peace with itself
in gentle subjugation.
Imagine my horror,
imagine the consternation
when I see
on every side
on every horizon
behind every tree
across every field
betwixt every hedgerow
a vast pitiless army of
remorseless enemies
creeping insidiously malevolently
ever closer
"This cannot be!" I cry
"There is no way that this can be!"
and yet it is so,
my enemies have somehow got together
and amassed an immense army
featuring
millions of well armed well trained foot soldiers,
several thousand divisions of robust cavalry,
hosts and hosts of archers with rippling trunks instead of arms,
powerful catapults, tall rolling towers.
A dark unimaginative horde
furious unremitting.
They are the fruits of indifference,
ignorance and jealousy,
they saw the light of Selfish
and did not kneel,
did not worship.
They approach
as I stare gobsmacked
into their worm like insistence,
I recognise some of the faces,
ugly narrow-minded whippets
who laughed at my wisdom
who scorned my genius,
who talked behind my back,
who made insidious unspecific remarks
to the detriment of my character
but still
but still there is time,
my mercy and compassion know no bounds.
I will give this heathen scum one last chance
I summon my trumpeters and drum men
they will play a medley of my greatest hits
I will accompany them in voice song
on the choruses and middle-eights.
My enemies upon hearing my heavenly melodies
will see the error of their ways
my enemies on hearing my catchy lyrics
and tasty arrangements
will throw down their weapons
and heap praise upon my name,
will repent of their treacherous actions
and accept me as the all-knowing
perfect being that I am.
They will beg for forgiveness and mercy.
Will I bestow upon them the bounty
of my compassion?
I don't know
it depends on how things pan out
The unbelievable
becomes the believable
the inconceivable
is conceived,
the imponderable
is pondered.
They do not cease!
They march on!
Now the thuds of their cannons,
the clomping of their stallion's hooves
the clanking of their lugubrious war machines
become ever louder,
lick the electric air
with their frightening and malicious intention.
I have not chosen to fight
I have offered them the way of the olive branch and
the white love dove
and what have they done?
They have chucked it back in my face!
We must to war!
I summon my bowmen,
I call out loud and strong!
but no bowmen appear
a retainer is sent to seek them
they must be preparing their arms
or having some sort of mass before the clash of battle
and the striking of steel against steel.
My retainer returns
"They've scarpered"
"What?"
"They've scarpered, said we didn't stand a cat's chance in hell,
what a bunch of yellow bellies"
I strike my retainer
he recoils
that will teach him to bring me bad news.
Suddenly he gets uppity
"No-one's gonna fight
can't you see?
They're gonna knock seven shits out of us
and it's all your fault for being such
a stubborn stupid insensitive human being."
Strong words
words that would normally lead to
an immediate beheading
but under the circumstances
bearing in mind the alarmed countenances
of all around
I feel beholden to respond in a fairly reasonable manner
"The moat, you've forgotten the moat
that's bound to keep them out, there's crocodiles
and piranhas in its murky waters.
They will eat them to death!"
"Technologically they look fairly sophisticated"
observes the retainer I struck
who now seems to bear some sort of obscure grudge,
"It won't take them five minutes to
bridge the moat and mount the walls if they don't just
bombard us to death instead.
You're finished Selfish.
You're yesterday's stale dumplings"
I leap on the retainer
uppity little nobody
I'll show him
I am torn from his embrace
I am hurled to the ground
and kicked about.
The white flag is hoisted.
I am utterly betrayed
somehow I get to my feet
rush to the parapet
open my mouth
scream at the grey masses
"The enemies of Selfish though a mighty
hideous horde will be crushed by his
merciless omnipotence!"
everyone laughs
I stroll out from my palace
towards the fearsome walls
that protect my earthly kingdom.
Minions and servants prostrate themselves
before me
or if they do not,
and there has been a slight hint of insubordination
in recent times,
my faithful retainers beat the offender to a meaningless pulp
Up I climb the heavy slabby steps onto the ramparts
themselves.
The reports that have been coming in
they cannot be true
some lying lackey has invented a story
of rebellion and insurgence,
some faithless subject claims dark forces
are at work in my golden land,
but how could that possibly be?
My people have only respect and admiration
for me
they realise that the wielding of the bullwhip
the cracking of the cat o' nine tails
the snap of the guillotine
are all things considered, a totally justifiable means of control and
manipulation.
In their firm hearts and kind souls
they humble themselves before the
valiant sacrifice I made in
turning my back on a comfortable future
and dedicating my life
to public service and the execution
of inexorable duty.
The lying lackey
who invented this calumnious tale
has been fittingly punished,
no more will his vile tongue spit
falsities and vicious fibs
I gaze out through the parapet
expecting a scene of pastoral
peace and tranquility to greet my twinkling eyes,
the land of Selfish at peace with itself
in gentle subjugation.
Imagine my horror,
imagine the consternation
when I see
on every side
on every horizon
behind every tree
across every field
betwixt every hedgerow
a vast pitiless army of
remorseless enemies
creeping insidiously malevolently
ever closer
"This cannot be!" I cry
"There is no way that this can be!"
and yet it is so,
my enemies have somehow got together
and amassed an immense army
featuring
millions of well armed well trained foot soldiers,
several thousand divisions of robust cavalry,
hosts and hosts of archers with rippling trunks instead of arms,
powerful catapults, tall rolling towers.
A dark unimaginative horde
furious unremitting.
They are the fruits of indifference,
ignorance and jealousy,
they saw the light of Selfish
and did not kneel,
did not worship.
They approach
as I stare gobsmacked
into their worm like insistence,
I recognise some of the faces,
ugly narrow-minded whippets
who laughed at my wisdom
who scorned my genius,
who talked behind my back,
who made insidious unspecific remarks
to the detriment of my character
but still
but still there is time,
my mercy and compassion know no bounds.
I will give this heathen scum one last chance
I summon my trumpeters and drum men
they will play a medley of my greatest hits
I will accompany them in voice song
on the choruses and middle-eights.
My enemies upon hearing my heavenly melodies
will see the error of their ways
my enemies on hearing my catchy lyrics
and tasty arrangements
will throw down their weapons
and heap praise upon my name,
will repent of their treacherous actions
and accept me as the all-knowing
perfect being that I am.
They will beg for forgiveness and mercy.
Will I bestow upon them the bounty
of my compassion?
I don't know
it depends on how things pan out
The unbelievable
becomes the believable
the inconceivable
is conceived,
the imponderable
is pondered.
They do not cease!
They march on!
Now the thuds of their cannons,
the clomping of their stallion's hooves
the clanking of their lugubrious war machines
become ever louder,
lick the electric air
with their frightening and malicious intention.
I have not chosen to fight
I have offered them the way of the olive branch and
the white love dove
and what have they done?
They have chucked it back in my face!
We must to war!
I summon my bowmen,
I call out loud and strong!
but no bowmen appear
a retainer is sent to seek them
they must be preparing their arms
or having some sort of mass before the clash of battle
and the striking of steel against steel.
My retainer returns
"They've scarpered"
"What?"
"They've scarpered, said we didn't stand a cat's chance in hell,
what a bunch of yellow bellies"
I strike my retainer
he recoils
that will teach him to bring me bad news.
Suddenly he gets uppity
"No-one's gonna fight
can't you see?
They're gonna knock seven shits out of us
and it's all your fault for being such
a stubborn stupid insensitive human being."
Strong words
words that would normally lead to
an immediate beheading
but under the circumstances
bearing in mind the alarmed countenances
of all around
I feel beholden to respond in a fairly reasonable manner
"The moat, you've forgotten the moat
that's bound to keep them out, there's crocodiles
and piranhas in its murky waters.
They will eat them to death!"
"Technologically they look fairly sophisticated"
observes the retainer I struck
who now seems to bear some sort of obscure grudge,
"It won't take them five minutes to
bridge the moat and mount the walls if they don't just
bombard us to death instead.
You're finished Selfish.
You're yesterday's stale dumplings"
I leap on the retainer
uppity little nobody
I'll show him
I am torn from his embrace
I am hurled to the ground
and kicked about.
The white flag is hoisted.
I am utterly betrayed
somehow I get to my feet
rush to the parapet
open my mouth
scream at the grey masses
"The enemies of Selfish though a mighty
hideous horde will be crushed by his
merciless omnipotence!"
everyone laughs
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