Salvation
December 13th, 2009Lime Street
December 11th, 2009Brightly party coloured frocks and heels with emigrants sequined mingle at Lime Street.
Stepping onto the platform feels as if we are heading towards an ocean liner and a new life.
The Steam Bar is only a partial destination. A woman adjusts her set.
The black ties have upped and gone and the dark haired barmaid with the cleavage has wiped the table. Gold lame and glittering red but no regulars.
A journey in time
December 11th, 2009Lime Street
Liverpool Central
James Street
Hamilton Square
Birkenhead Central
Do not alight here!
Green Lane
Rock Ferry
Bebington
Port Sunlight
Spital
Bromborough Rake
Bromborough
andrew massing is a luxury
December 11th, 2009andrew massing is a luxury
top shelf goods
positioned to shape
and deliver strategy
sharp of mind
and king of utility
he stands out
in a speakeasy world
authority
working to a plan
shrewd objectivity personified
he, luxuriant, rocks.
48 is the new 47
December 9th, 2009it’s an evolution,
progress? maybe!
momentary confusion,
when I was a lad
it was a lifetime away,
now frittered.
the brain dances
on that knife edge
of fulfilment.
THE BETHLEHEM BLUES
December 7th, 2009Crawled up into Bethlehem, feeling ‘bout half past dead
Just really needed somewhere to rest my aching head
“Hey there Mr Innkeeper, can you tell me where I can stay?”
He just grinned, shook my hand and whispered “Allow me to lead the way”
I’d been walking with the Devil, walking side by side
He was filling my mind with lies and stuff pertaining to my bride
Innkeeper shouted over “Lucifer, leave that poor boy be,
She’s been true and she’ll produce your perfect match, presently”
Mary’d been carrying heavy, for the last few miles or so
Her time was coming up fast, she didn’t have long to go
“Joe, I can’t have my baby – not like this on the road –
I’m ready to show the world, the seed the Spirit sowed”
A bunch of shepherds ran into town, sweating hard from fear
“What been going down guys, what did you see up there?”
But they stood still with parchment faces, wouldn’t say a lot
Just stood around in wonderment, with eyes that had witnessed God
Two years later on, with my family on the run
Three kings rocked up on camels, they’d been following the sun
Their baggage seemed real heavy, they were all dressed mighty keen
The gifts they brought were the finest the world had ever seen
coconut shy
December 6th, 2009westgatecrowd
December 6th, 2009dodgems
December 6th, 2009Guest Beers at the Victoria 4th December 2009
December 5th, 2009Golden Newt 4.1% £2.95
Batemans Rosey Nosey 4.9% £2.95
Titanic Iceberg 4.1% £2.95
Phoenix Snowbound 4.3% £2.95
Monkey Town Mild 3.9% £2.85
ancient church 100yds from railway lines
December 2nd, 2009I must have passed it dozens of times but had never noticed it before.
It was a church. The usual sort of ancient edifice, as scattered by the hundred across the ancient land. Surrounding it was the graveyard, fairly full and over the road stood the Vicarage.
The road itself was a small country lane that will have once seen the occasional horse and cart and a flurry of activity on a Sunday though rarely what might be called a good crowd.
The nameless resident cleric will have led a life of rural nonentity, his mechanical existence ordained by tradition and poverty. This was not a rich living. The parish sparsely populated. In return for a small stipend he administered a menu of rites and was not required to contribute with original thinking.
His small flock ruminated acceptance of this with equally unthinking obedience as they had always done.
The church was a few miles outside town and looking round from my vantage point I could count three or four other spires that will have represented the same countryside cameo, a fearful society ruled by the exploitation of ignorance.
I was on a train which passed within a hundred yards of the church across a field. The building of the railway line must have come as a huge shock to the parish, or at least to the clergyman. His peaceful existence shattered by progress, probably concurrent with a dwindling attendance caused by the move into town to the “railhead”.
The big silos of the sugar beet factory gazed down in contempt at the scene whilst dense white smoke emitted from tall chimney stacks.
High-Coo
November 26th, 2009
Gannets and fulmars over
St Kilda. Pigeons on
Nelson’s Column.
Broken words
November 20th, 2009Broken words lie impotent upon the page
Dysfunctional vocabulary – hyphenation won’t fix
Anagram no antidote to illiterate ailment
Inarticulate phraseology a lacklustre lexicon of tricks
A short introduction to the Broken Words poetry night at Decimal Place, Burton Road Lincoln on 28th November, 2009.
A nomad I
November 14th, 2009A nomad I, wandering these flat, people-scorched streets of sunless stone. Infinitely deep puddles crater the roads, obstructing my senses, confusing an endless search which already, unsignposted, makes no sense. Tall buildings obscure the vision and without a map make impossible a plan.
I pass brightly lit front rooms with televisions flickering through uncurtained windows, the occasional canned roar of a compliant audience sometimes audible. Not stopping in case I’m seen looking I move on and leave them to their entertainments.
Further on I come to the pub. It too is brightly lit and I can see faces leaning forwards at the bar. A log fire dances in the grate and some drinkers sit at tables either side of the hearth, warmed inside and out. More occasional laughter.
It is a Sunday and I walk by a church. Dim lighting shines through the multicoloured stained glass above. The door is open and another column of light illuminates the entrance. One of the faithful scurries past, enters and is consumed.
Arriving home at last with cold hands I fumble with my keys at the lock and open the front door. The house is dark but I switch on a light and then prod the heating. I make a cup of tea, sit in my chair and think.
Caledonian Double Dark Oatmeal Stout
November 13th, 2009life suddenly appears in slow motion.
the brain, inspirational but ephemeral,
leaves the body and floats above the table before us.
conversation, with no physical evidence of existence
remains a permanent fading record
slowing as the battery runs down.
the door shuts and the lights go out
freezing us in no time, timelessness that is.
finishing the glass, the reality of responsibility
raises its unwelcome head and leaves for the door
which, open, sucks me into the cold wind outside.
my coat buttoned up and collar raised I, head down,
return to normality and the noisy heart of the family.