roll ‘em
fill ‘em full of whisky and roll ‘em
line ‘em up like gas-bloated porkers
brim with potential and gasping for kicks
release to an audience of nosey savants
significant savour,
bar brawl, shameful mix
full, of anticipation
empty, filling with expectation
or deepest reflection, innermost feeling
a cycle, start again
roll ‘em
fill ‘em full of whisky and roll ‘em
photo – Barrels by Blues
I know all the staff there.
Des has been in the chippy business all his life
I went there last Friday
they were queueing outside the door
it was raining and
I had to shelter under the awning outside
the queue was still the same length
even when I got to the front
he is moving to new premises
hopefully in July
the old Waggon and Horses
it was a gentle spring evening
tshirt weather
we were just coming out of winter
they were dancing in the Strugglers
the music rocked that night
the lone guitarist
with harmonica and voice
he knew all the requests
a potent combination
good beer and good music
not a lager in sight
just one more for the road
my cab arrived
and I left knowing it was too soon
I hear a flute
I know where it is coming from
but I prefer to think it is ethereal
it doesn’t matter anyway because
ethereal or not
I listen to it with
extreme pleasure
it stops then starts up again
sometimes haltingly
sometimes with a wonderful fluidity
scales, up and down,
pauses here and there to digest the task in hand
in my imagination I see her
sat there studying the music
perfect poise
swept back blonde hair
she is beautiful
Ears are ugly, they’re unseemly, unhygienic and unsightly,
God was definitely drunk when He designed ’em.
Though it’s a shocking allegation
there’s no other explanation
for the biggest single cock-up in Creation.
A design fault falling short on technical support,
they’re repulsive little afterthoughts brought out late.
We’re supposed to have been wrought
in God’s image, so I thought,
I’d like to bet that He ain’t got none, mate!
it came out in plain English.
nothing fancy, just simple words
that we all understood and
could interpret our own way.
we had read others’,
some good and some not worth the effort.
everybody had a favourite, or two
and often quoted from memory.
time passed.
I, guitar, lie prone, in need of gently caress,
vibrations long gone, motionless, silent.
please adjust, tune me strings,
I, guitar, seek attention, lifeblood
of wooden body,
rhythm pulsates, me dance, shout,
I, guitar, burning, oxygen fanned
programmed passionata
laugh, cry, I guitar.
a loneliness of worn carpet
home from no home
blanket inadequate
alarm clock neon
by flashing bed
right daily twice
shower adjacent suite
plastic toothmug disposable
towel thin, tablet soap
noises
“We can’t allow you heroes,” say the Fleet Street men of straw,
“our duty’s to expose them, their frailties and flaws.
We cannot sanction heroes, there’s no such thing as heroes,
we don’t have national heroes any more.
Okay, we may destroy him, his marriage, his career
with half-truths, innuendo, with fabricated smears,
but we don’t yield to sentiment, to candour or finesse,
Press Freedom can’t be fettered by fairness or largesse.
The dignity of just one man concerns us even less.
Reproach and accusations must fall on deafened ears
when we weigh emancipation against a family’s tears.
the line of the hedge
so sharp it cuts
your view in two
dirty white above
pale green below
the dark stripe
yellow flags flutter
indicating wind
speed and direction
the line of cars
haphazard, holds back
parents delaying
the inevitable
when duty comes
before comfort for
Sunday soccer
the cold wind,
loyal discomfort
my mam and me
down at the Palais
we dance to a timeless refrain,
she grooves,
makes all the moves,
life for her is a wonderful game.
keep movin’ mam
I say to myself,
climb through life’s window wide,
go out and have fun
because I, your son,
am coming along for the ride.
crisp white linen,
deadly silence,
occasional chink of careful crockery,
muzak – 1812 overture!
toast comes too early, always,
I try and eat without noise,
the food is good.
The Bird in Hand, Twyford.
Past it.
Grey paint, streaked
Massey Fergusson (maybe)
with rust and parked behind,
the station near to the pretty,
irregular rows of black septic tanks.
the loose looming gravel pit
out of nowhere
reaching machinery up towards
the watchtower.
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