Category Archives: Poems

West sent East

Cameron would like to export our fancy goods;

Land Rovers, Jaguars, Aston Martins, Rolls Royce

jet engines, heavy weight freight. Sometimes we do.

 

More often we ship out container after container

of crap. Precious cargo of scrap wood, scrap paper,

scrap metal and millions and millions of rubber tyres

 

It all sails East.

 

We ship our surplus worthless jewelry;

engagement rings once given in genuflecting

affection now prized from dead mothers fingers.

 

Wedding bands once blessed by priest worn out

from the effort of staying together through thick and thin

rather than through excessive handholding.

 

Silver trophies once handed over for sterling

achievements in acknowledgement of sacrifice

scooped from shelves of long gone sons and daughters.

 

It all sells by weight.

 

Container after container of crap. Western detritus

sailing East piling high in toxic dumpsites.

Our noxious effluvium better off polluting

their Eastern Air.

 

Crossways, Minley Manor

Age 10

 

School run, homeward bound.

Nine kids jemmied into a taxi

pre Jimmy Saville;

three up front, four in the back,

one in each foot-well.

Someone always lets rip a real

humdinger;

boys farting proudly,

girls releasing more

surreptitiously.

So deliciously innocent.

 

Last drop- red gabled hood

over scented greenwood.

Rhododendron enclave

gave privacy and showy blooms alike.

At the door, apron clad, floured

of hand and cheek

Mrs May meets and greets us,

‘Scones for tea… Yippee!’

Four inches high

they belie their lumpen looks,

still warm and buttery,

home-made-damson-jammy heaven.

 

We had handmade dad-made

whittled whistles

so we could find each other mid

the pines and rustling birches

where we often hid,

only revealing our position

when called into the kitchen

for shepherds pie,

or stew, or fish on Fridays

always with bread and butter

and a cuppa.

 

House on the round

We ran from kitchen to sitting room to hall to kitchen,

round and round,

chasing ghosts,

the sound of

slamming doors confounding Mother’s patience.

 

Later,

nestled in the sloping eves,

playing kiss chase in our dreams,

onanistic pleasures

our new discovered

midnight treasures.

 

St Annes, Nottingham

 

Age 20

 

six pm, early start

for those who aren’t

faint of heart.

wait for service at the bar,

bloody desperate for a jar,

listening through

the hum and hiss

of conversations

hit and miss,

the girl with eyes lined in kohl,

black as coal

and just as dirty,

looks so old…

must be twenty five at least!

“two pints of cider and two Pernods please…

in the same glass…”

barman glances aside

aghast,

witnesses needed,

he catches our eye,

focus as yet unimpeded

by excess

“this’ll blow her tits off!”

laughter follows

and warnings…

never heeded.

 

we catch the night bus,

circus

on the move,

all the groovers

intent on proving

this night above all others

will be the night

for us,

and we troop,

sheep like in our aim,

following the crowds,

finding our way home

as does half of Nottingham.

 

word’s got round

bloody quickly

through the crowds

that gather thickly

on the stairs,

across the balcony,

pissed to shit

popping and eeeeeezing,

there’s no way of getting through.

“God… I need a… pee.”

“this party’s great… they’re my mates.”

“I should have locked the fucking door

and sent out invites!”

what seemed like a good idea

is by the minute

becoming less appealing,

as every drunk revealing

his true colours,

declares undying friendship.

“God… I need… a tea.”

“where are the police when you want them?

surely we’re causing an obstruction?”

 

twelve hours after we began

our first foray in party plan

and playing host,

we find it most

taxing…

manners laxing,

we step over

life’s malingerers,

find our way to

breakfast,

mop up eggs, bacon, tea and toast,

lick our fingers,

manners forgotten.

 

eager to feast

on life’s every morsel,

certain we’ll all die immortal,

never realising

home

will one day be our castle,

complete with moat

dug and overflowing

with life’s dreary flotsam,

anarchistic student dreams

long forgotten.

 

 

 

Broken

woodblock trees stamp black cross citrus sky,

guard the crest, stand firm against marauders,

seasons march on forwards laying waste the years,

talcum dusted lunar lands, weathered feldspar fields,

hoar-crust roads glint old-foolsgold, xanthene tears.

 

driving to the station, lemon dawnlight breaking,

I’m unaware of just how far your destination’s

taking you. our snowy owl sits knowing, watching

from his sign, it must have been an omen,

should I have turned the music low and spoken?

 

we talked last night, it’s not been long, you said,

twelve weeks four days six hours ten minutes

and still counting, seven million bloody beats

of waiting, longing, missing twinning rhythm,

no wonder I feel weary, beaten, broken.

Victim

you…

yeah you.

which one of us?

does it matter?

now we’re gone

we’re all the same?

uhuh.

thanks.

wish I knew

what it was all about.

you and me too.

wish I knew now

what I thought I knew

then.

when?

forever.

for an intelligent person

you’re not actually

that clever.

wish I’d been proved

wrong.

wish I’d not been proved

right

so much poured into

so little.

huh?

so much pain

for so little gain.

you’ve lost me now.

such a bloody waste

of so much energy.

sorry.

I’m still angry

yeah I see.

it’s all so

arbitrary.

don’t you think

you were chosen?

sorry?

our perfect little victim?

 

 

 

 

New

Returning to air rarefied,

refined, lucid prism arc

turning dark hill-top trees

into lino-cut likenesses,

my adventure just over or

maybe just begun, who knows?

I am an incompetent judge.

 

This smitten mortal,

swift with tender sweetmeats

treasures and morsels stuffed

with lust and tenderness

unnerves me. I mistrust his

cloying riches, more used

to thriftier, simpler fare.

 

Sister One wisely suggests

I need to grow accustomed

slowly, ‘Get used to it girl,

it doesn’t always have to be

Rock n Roll’ she says. I laugh

for that is what I seem to require,

although I don’t know why.

 

Sister Two listens and says

‘you deserve to be cherished.’

I laugh again, wanting to agree,

modesty curbing my hubris.

To believe it would demand

such faith in one mere mortal.

Impossible.

 

 

 

 

Adversary

 

Every morning, freshly burst explosions

litter my once green and pleasant grass.

This warzone, reeling from each fresh incursion

needs help, we summon Moleman to kick arse.

He sets his traps which leave me feeling guilty,

as morning dawns I creep outside to look.

My foolish wish for death doled out humanely

is scuppered as I witness his rebuke.

 

He should be wearing tiny elf-made jerkin,

horn-rimmed specs and tweedy green plus-fours;

his fingers, better suited playing Chopin

than subterranean muddy midnight chores,

I stroke his nose, discover caviar eyes…

Oh how I wish we’d made some compromise.

 

 

 

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