Missing

One was expressive, one was passive

One loved me, one pushed me away

One had words, the other had silence

One was colourful, one was grey

One I miss, the other was missing

One was happy, the other sad

Two lights, green and red, both blinking

Frozen on amber I was nearly mad

Oh no, I was never depressed

Never depressed in my life. Not for one day

Shut up, Tony. No-one wants to hear what you have to say

One was poetic, one prosaic

One was wood, the other was air

Two people, one was missing

Two parents, one not there

The poetry of poverty

You're standing on a giant mound of waste

You're here for a television programme

On recycling in Mumbai – wow, how great!

Do that again, please, let the viewers see

A little boy scavenges on the tip

It's such a vibrant form of poverty

The recycling rate here's second to none

The boy's standing in sewage, in bare feet

You think that's good? You must be a moron

Once London had the same kind of squalor

Mudlarks and toshers probed filth for treasure

In the stinking river was cholera

The poor's innocence is a fallacy

They are not better because they have less

To envy their life is hypocrisy

You peer winsomely at the camera

I'll miss it here, but I won't miss that though

A crusted brown sewer rat slithers by

Developers want to push this away

How beastly. Your white face now appears strained

Course they do. Ever been to Bermondsey?

The poor get moved out all the time, don't squeal

They also get street lamps, clinics and schools

Some of them lose out, some don't, that's the deal

Some get the things that people like you blame –

Like motor cars. You rich town-bred Greenies

Poverty is so charming. What a shame

Tommy Sheridan – a sonnet

Tommy Sheridan, you're the new Oscar

Your indiscretions are a national sport

You are half-Socialist, half-rock star

Your dirty linen was wrung-out in court

You had your silk ties and your perma-tan

You played the court room, an alpha male

Wilde had his collars of astrakhan

You both had followers – you your wife, Gail

That you could take on the establishment

Was a delusion of your stubborn pride

A cell door closes on your predicament

Sealing your fate, a few weeks spent inside

Wandsworth and Reading broke poor Wilde, it's said

Let's hope that you fare better, and stay red

Gentle Giant – love 'em

Your music was just too delicate

For those head-bangers with their long hair

Sabbath fans, they booed you off the stage

Every night. I wish I'd been there

Sabbath were good, but differently

They did not do your polyphony

Or your Medieval counterpoint

Or your melancholic subtlety

Men dressed as elves playing instruments

You were asking for trouble, not beers

Did you feel like Stravinsky, those nights

With bottles flying around your ears?

The two brothers and Green with his blues

Pugwash, always muscular, on sticks

Kerry Minear's riffing keyboards

You were Medieval lunatics!

Fanatics

There is nothing that men don't do

Competitively – snorkelling

Growing dahlias, the shot put

And of course, stand-up comedy –

Desperation and testosterone

All over the planet are bores

Dogmatists, didacts, fanatics.

They are tuning their Fiestas

Fiddling with things in their sheds

Re-booting their precious hard drives

The religious ones are the worst

Bearded Jehovans, banning kites

Or stopping girls going to school

Spreading, from their pulpit or cave

The tedious dogma of God's word

Even the chefs are at it now

The sweaty know-alls are doing

Molecular gastromomy

Foraging in the forest, or

On the seashore, like some extreme sport

Thank god poetry is immune

From men waving their dicks around

In the air, like pathetic flags

Some do, actually; it's shame

But no-one has killed yet for beauty.

Ballad of Tommy Sheridan

Oor Tommy is a sexy man

He likes to go with women

They sent him down for perjury

A different kind of sinning

Murdoch told the Sunday Times

I want that man in prison

He's guilty of a major crime

A love of Socialism

And so reporters stitched him up

Pretending to be be blokey

They tapped his phone illegally

And now he's going to chokey

So chin up Tommy Sheridan

And face your time inside

You are a martyr to your cause

Like poor old Oscar Wilde

Ode to Vince Cable

Parental advisory

We all make mistakes, I know that

He seems sincere, but all the same

We've been totally frigged over

By that arse-licker. What's his frigging game?

He's bent us over the desk and

Done us every which way, like gimps

Yeh, we've been rogered, royally

Shafted. Just like a load of stupid chimps

Thanks to that coalition deal

We're bollocked; it's all gone to hell

He stitched up the students
That dick. Now it's personal

We are doing this for Britain

Don't give me that shit. It's all wrong

We're sliding down the pole, my friend

Into the abyss. It's all gone Pete Tong

He has no gravitas at all

Cameron's pal, what a twat

And he's frigged up his own party

The Liberal frigging Democrats

Perfect love

A conversation with my mother

When I remember you, I think of your plants

The improbable displays on your window sills

The flowering cacti bursting into bloom

Cyclamens, your favourites, and the amaryllis

That I would would buy, as a present, each Christmas

A spike of optimism, waiting to explode

If you were green-fingered it was merely because

You loved things and looked after them, patiently,

Without judgment or reservation. That was your way

You had not been loved enough yourself

Yours was a perfect love. That's why people loved you

You were a collector. You nurtured all that grew

In many ways, I think, your heart was too big

Your colours too vivid, for an English town

You were an odd pair, you and my dad

You with your musicals, he with his melancholy

But each day brought you happiness, in small things

Like a new letter. Together, you were complete

He was kind and patient, that's why you loved him

Especially on holidays, when there was all of us

Kids in the jumpers you knitted, standing by the fence

The tang of the sea, fresh comics, Jerry's itching feet

They were idyllic those times. We remember them.

We are your brood. Your love flows through our veins

Memories are sensations – the smell of beef roasting

The sound of Beethoven or “bloody Leonard Cohen”

Sunday lunch. Records. Often, it was a battle ground

Sometimes, flower beds were trampled; you cried

But, see, the polyanthus you planted are still there

A bright patch of hope. The path leads back, to the front door

We don't do snow

The winter invader returns to the gates

And lies sullenly outside, mocking us.

We stand by our radios, waiting for news.

We are besieged – another day of hope

More jack knifes, more blankets given out.

That was the M 25, and now, your views

This new war is all over the media

Like a white wave, it's pushed everything else out.

As usual, it is all about fault

We British like to belittle ourselves

Waggle our fingers, listen to “experts”.

We don't do snow. We don't have enough salt

Mike Leigh films

Out of an argument with others, we create prose; out of an argument with ourselves, poetry

Because you are so middle-class

You are surprised that the poor are kind
Solicitous; sometimes they shout!
You like to read Polly Toynbee

Even your violence is false
It leaves a taste of saccharine
Because it's an aberration –
It's not from the world that you see

Little pockets of love, maybe
An oboe, or a frigging harp
Winter on the allotment
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

People being so frigging nice
I would rather drive six-inch nails
Slowly into my hands than watch
Your trite, insipid cinema

The poor are bad, greedy, stupid
Like the rich – some of them – and some
Of the wealthy are quite guiltless –
Your approach is one-size-fits-all

It's shapeless, like a woolly hat
There's no caffeine, no guts to it
Like coco, or camomile tea
Old bollocks, bought from a church hall

I haven't made any friends with this poem. It's like being nasty about the Queen Mother. But his last film was spectacularly awful; the one before that was an abomination. Abigail's Party I liked very much. I think that Leigh should direct an action movie  –  maybe the next batman

Ode to Danny Dyer

You was out of town Danny, yeh
We'd been casing your gaff, if you wanna know
So, when you was at that new ballet
We've broke in – through your flipping patio

Me ’an Tom was well-impressed
By the stuff what was on your shelves
Your lovely cushions, ’an them coverlets
Sorry blood, we've only ’elped ourselves!

That giant-screen telly ain't no toy
It's pukah. We’ve ’ad to ’ave a go
Now, it's in Cash Converters, bruv
Wiv your guitar, ’an your stereo

We put some music on
’An we danced around like fools
Tom got tearful then
It does that to ’im, that Glenn Gould

I fink we liked your bedroom best
To be honest, we was in there for hours
Tom was enchanted by your prints
He must've tried all of your massage oils

E's only gone into the walk-in dressing room
Next fing, e's in the Coco Chanel
So what if you wear women's clothes
A lot of us do. It's only natural!

Nice motor you got there, the Clio
The pink one, what's under a sheet
It's a lady's car, yeh, but it ain't no shame
It's good for blokes wiv small feet!

It got us back to the smoke
Then we've torched it, on the estate!
When you're down this way, give us a call
Me ’an Tom love your work, Danny mate

Frank Field – the song

Tried to screw up pensions

Sacked by Tony Blair

Like a Jesuit, you wear a shirt of hair

Your a Victorian workhouse man, Frank Field

Your thing is taking money from the poor

Thatcher had the same idea before

Too many people on the dole

Take their dosh, you're on a role, Frank Field

The greedy bankers pissed the money away

And now we the poor suckers have to pay

You are the prince of poverty

You're David Cameron's favourite toy, Frank Field

Frank Field's mother did not hold her boy

That's why he is no friend of love or joy

One day the Tories will be kicked out

But for now it's still your shout, Frank Field

Frank Field – Prince of Paupers

Square cut for a more heroic age

There's a maniacal set to you jaw

You are the new Conservative sage

Part human and part skeletor

Strange, thin Jesuitical bloke

Tried to screw up pensions, sacked by Tony Blair

Now back in the fold – a masterstroke

You want to take money from the poor

The largess of the Welfare State

Always offended your moral rules

You were designed for the Poor Laws, mate

Dishing out gristle, or watery gruel

You like to spout the latest jargon

A right-wing discourse we've heard before

They'll only blow the money at Argos

They are so undeserving, these poor

Middle-class prejudice, current still

The mum's on drugs, the boy can barely talk

Your master's voice comes from Notting Hill

Cameron speaks it, you walk the walk

The money's gone, blown on bonuses

Shame. Now you spout your sterile creed

Like a weird, cracked conduit –

Meanness is the other side to greed

Lace doilies in the Field house

A clock ticks. Shut up. Don't make a sound

Don't talk. Be as quiet as a mouse

You – at the edge of the playground

We can only speculate, Frank

That your mother did not hold her boy

You were destined for insurance, or a bank

You envy what the poor possess – joy