ON HEARING SOMETHING ON THE RADIO ABOUT EMILY DICKINSON

I was listening to this thing on the radio
about Emily Dickinson
well, actually not about Emily Dickinson
but about some forger who forged one of her poems
if you know what I mean

parenthetically
the forger was quite a guy
in the worst sense of the word
he had great success at his vocation
until some expert rumbled him
so what did he do?
he murdered the expert
and then another one who was on his trail,
he's behind bars now

anyway
He used exactly the right kind of paper
and had her handwriting down to a tee
that's what fooled the 'experts'
who actually thought the poem
was just an 'average Emily Dickinson' poem

It got me thinking
what kind of poet is it
with such a predictable style
that someone can do
an 'average' imitation of their stuff?

I mean I don't want to get personal
I've never read any of her poems,
maybe they're amazing
but she's not really on my list
Harry Crosby and Hart Crane are on my list
and I don't know if I'll get round to them
poetry's a bit intimidating ain't it?

but back to the point,
could someone
forge me? I ask
not that they would, I know
but could they?
Personally I don't think so,
my voice is too original
for these dull times......
but there again maybe
this poem is a forgery
and the forger
is pulling off some
subtle, crafty, sophisticated
double bluff? Oh yeah!

SUFI SANDWICH WITH BEATNIK BUTTER

sufi sandwich with beatnik butter
i spent seventy years in the gutter

sufi sandwich with beatnik butter
but every saturday i went down the bookies and had a flutter

sufi sandwich with beatnik butter
"did you have any luck?" i hear you utter

sufi sandwich with beatnik butter
"no, i always backed losers" i  flimsily mutter

sufi sandwich with beatnik butter
"why d'ya back losers" you uselessly stutter

sufi sandwich with beatnik butter
"cos winning is for losers" i shamefacedly splutter 

ESSENCE 5

Well, the bird, bird, bird
the bird is the word

the poet rests
from his quill have spilt word bunches
delicate like flower petals
you remember petals

well don't you know about the word? 

all dervishes word wallowers and madmen
seem obsessed with flying creatures
they find it easy to become cormorants
flying low over Solents of sustenance

well everybody thought you knew about the bird

now it's time for a dance
Parliament will play tricks with my feet
without leaving the ground 
I will fly

how do you know that every bird that cuts the airy way
is not..........

bards of old would spend days staring at the sky
insects and larvae would often crawl out of their wounds
their memories would become tarred and feathered wastelands
hunters would fix them in their sights
but sadly or gladly or both
there would be no fun
if there were no danger

COMMERCIAL ROAD

Loneliness in the Cascades shopping centre
too many cafes to choose from
dusk breaking over mounds of yesterday's cereals
where the weetabix minstrels meet the nail painters

Despondent minions rush to buy circus tabloids
there is no reason to believe they are not sincere
for their shopping trolley heads and reluctant accessories
shape the very core of some hypothetical vortex

Parking worries are over for the moment
though post office souls still fret in a counter-culture purgatory
pedestrian bargains are charged with unspecified irregularities
like cling film wrapped sins hanging in a limbo

DEATH OF A POET 1

Duhaney Park
a shot in the dark

King Tubby's dead!
King Tubby's dead!

his body lies still
it's so easy to kill

King Tubby's dead!
King Tubby's dead!

sirens wail
air heavy and stale

King Tubby's dead!
King Tubby's dead!

a bullet in the night
erases the light

King Tubby's dead!
King Tubby's dead!

OUTSIDE THE BRITISH MUSEUM

rain falling
rain falling like
small nasty tears
on the old cold grey autumnal ground

I sat down outside the British Museum
watched the phantoms inside a pulled-up coach
wait for children lost inside the city

I got up and moved in the direction
of my difficult destination
from nowhere a porsche appeared
revving up at ridiculous speed
it came to a screeching halt at some traffic lights
behind the steering wheel an imbecile
a city geek, a young money meddler

By chance
by happenchance
at that very moment
two coppers were proceeding along the street,
they witnessed the maniac motorist's antics
ran up to his car and obliged him to park round the corner

I took great pleasure in slowly passing by the scene:
the smart-arsed dickhead fumbling with his documentation
as he stood on the pavement explaining himself,
the two plods about to have a bit of fun
nailing some cocky swashbuckler who dared
taunt them with his opulent arrogance

aaah, the rain,
aaah the pain,
aaah the sweet taste
of some motherfucker
getting his just desserts

DIVE-BOMBING

Looking up at one of those big posh houses
along a road off Palmeston Road
just down from St Jude's church

A heron atop a roof
what in god's name is a heron doing
atop a roof
in Southsea?
unheard of

pretty creature
curves and slenderness
poise and pertness

What happened next
was not expected

A seagull swooped,
clearly attacking the marooned heron
then another seagull
then another

Squawking threats coming
from their uncultured beaks
lining up like bombers over Dresden
wave after wave
claws showing
they plunged

closer and closer
to within a few feet

the heron raised its leg
retracted its mighty startled beak
let loose a plaintive cry

a lull
and then the dive-bombers were at it again

I couldn't hang around all day
I watched for ten minutes
I could hardly climb on the roof
and rescue the heron
and I didn't have my mobile
so the quandary of ringing the
Royal Society for the Prevention of Misfortune to Birds
did not arise

Still
I wonder how it all ended
and I wonder
why the gulls were having a go at the heron

had it said something out of line?
did  it smell wrong?
or was it simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

I will never know
the answer to any of these questions