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