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!