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.
Classic FM on the radio provides a relaxing background to streaky bacon with one egg, over easy, and steaming black cawfee.
Sunlight streams through the slats in the blind in the kitchen window.
There is no pressure and I sit quietly on the pew, in the corner, uninterrupted. No jobslist, no hassle. I feel my shoulders loosen up and relax.
Times were when I loved nothing more
than the ‘1812’. Its cannons’ roar,
its church-bells’ ringing
used to make my pulse-rate soar.
But now what sets my heart a-winging
is Carol singing.
There are trees in Northumberland Avenue
They were not cut down during the war
To provide spars for spitfire wings
To prevent them being a fire hazard during the blitz
Or to stop spies from hiding in their branches
And listening in on conversations
“Being Prepared”
Selfridges Sell Fridges
Hitchin a lift
Fir StClass
NE Wark
Y Ork
E Scalator
Simple harmonic foot
The unfinished roof
Five elephants before the fall
I’ve just checked and the car keys are still in my pocket
I can see clearly now the book is closed
Vince’s flowers
Hawaii
Australia
New Zealand
Central America
Pacific Islands
Isle of Man
The sun set
an hour ago,
yet
through the kitchen window
I see clear to the bottom of the garden.
There, in the sumach,
singing still
and undeterred
mindthegap
m indthegap
mi ndthegap
min dthegap
mind thegap
mindt hegap
mindth egap
mindthe gap
mindtheg ap
mindthega p
mindthegap
With a million single mothers all sponging off the state
The need for right wing government simply cannot wait.
Our streets are crammed with buggies, it really is a bore
the way it spoils our school-run in our Audi four-by-four.
The little bastards’ parents if daddy can be caught,
Should be forced to marry or encouraged to abort.
If not, then stop their benefits, it simply could not fail.
Well, that’s what Richard Kay said in last week’s Daily Mail.
Powered by WordPress