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