Wednesday 27 July 2011

Rapture












A whiff of weed, a spidery tattoo.
You veered all over, with your band.
A startled goddess of incense and kohl.
No, you were never safe, or bland.
Most of us stay in the middle – not you.

Some who with the devil sup

retain no sense of ill, or wrong.
We observed your imperiled innocence
through each false step and slurred song.
Fascinated and appalled we pulled you up.

Immortal beauty does not age or cough.

Fire is dangerous – you touched a lot.
It burned you through. We did not see
that your nerves were gone, your lungs were shot.
You teetered to the edge and fell off.

Tuesday 19 July 2011

Penge High Street















Believed to be in talks with himself
mad Tom is shouting at the trees.
He hurls abuse at the passing cars.
He was washed up here years ago
no-one acknowledges the bearded Defoe
and his crazed pavement philosophies.

The bunting thrown across the road
the dappled leaves that softly dance
the neat almshouses' quiet calm
and the traffic island, almost a square
why, but for the food – crisps and peanuts
one could almost be in France.

Day after day simply passes by
in a routine of meat and bread.
One road runs through, by the spire of St John's
the recreation ground and the War Memorial.
Here, the men of Penge are detained
eternally. The dead are still dead.

From the Crooked Billet I observe
the shadowed play of cloud and sun
in the guitar shop window. I absorb
the amber units of passing time
and the insane rantings of mad Tom.
Slowly, nothing is going on.

Those who have been there – a select few – will know the magic of the place. Twangs is my favourite guitar shop and I am very partial to the Crooked Billet with its wonderful selection of crisps and nuts.

Wednesday 13 July 2011

Out first ball















Hair cut close, like a squaddie's bristle
they're well turned-out today, these guys
With their smart blazers and striped ties
they'll go over the top on the whistle.
Torpor, snobbery – an English afternoon.
The cloying smell of newly-mown grass
hangs thick over the field, like trench gas.
Fear clenched in the knotted gut. Go on son!
For the school! It's your chance to stand tall.
Mortified. The rancid sweat and hollow laughter
of the changing room, a prelude to slaughter.
A black grenade drops from the sun. Out first ball.
It's only your legs gone. You girl! Hide your pain.
I hated cricket. I never played again.

Note. Others like cricket. It never worked for me, probably because I was no good at it. At any rate, this poem is true. The one time I had a go at batting, I was out within seconds. Humiliating


Friday 8 July 2011

Rebekah Brooks – a Greek tragedy














Sharks feed on blood; fear is your food
Pale your skin, deadly your Siren's song
Fearsome spawn of a monstrous brood
Epitome of all that is wrong
Mistress of a chrome and glass lair
You are Cassandra, flame-haired one
Snakes writhe in your copper hair
You're a slave of the balance sheet
Your heart? There is ice there
You kissed Rupert's clay feet
For the pleasure of Moloch, his god
To keep the wrinkled old bastard sweet
You threw slimy Coulson to the plod
With false words and fake tears
You shafted your staff and kept your job
A faded ghost, you cannot hide your fear
You are not Medussa, you are Medea

NB: Terza Rima

Monday 4 July 2011

Diary of unrepentant sinner












Serialise book
Blair was not crook
David Kelly lied
It was suicide!
Need bling
Guest speaker
Free dinner
Kerching
Swear bully. Bully swear
Fake smile
Pretend to care


New Labour. Red rose
Big ego. Brown nose
Trash Gordon
Rubbish Peter
Publish excreta
On my blog
Wash hands of blood
Go for jog
Don't do shame
Walk dog
Don't do God

Sunday 3 July 2011

Single combat 3 July 2011


















It’s almost medieval, this thrust and thwack
It’s a denatured form of war
This trial of strength – defence, attack
No one dies. Instead, there’s a score
For honour, they disguise their pain
Their favours and colours on show
The bloodless knights of Serbia and Spain
Novak and Rafael – in stereo
The Serb’s the hero of the tournament
Behind his smile, is what all knight’s must know
That, soon, the prize money will be spent
The cup will fade, his lady’s look will go
Human memory is all too short
Wars are soon forgotten, so is sport