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