Miliband minor

With the kind of wave that says, ‘hi’

young Edward turns down the flame to blue

You know, he says, I’m your kind of guy

that’s what I think and so do you.

The too well-pressed suit and strange hair.

The dark staring eyes and awkward pose

form a question – Redwood or Blair?

In the faint blue glow from a silver rose

the faithful punctuate his artful speech

applaud politely each careful glissando.

A curious camera plays on each

as they rise to his awkward crescendo.

A debating club nerd, one would have said –

no blood in his veins. At this rate, Ed is dead.

The Unwelcoming Arms (Unfriendly Street)

Maybe I should give it one more chance
The stupidly-named beers, badly kept
And the meagre, over-priced snacks
Provide an authentic ambience

The crimson drinkers whose stare is blank
Sun-ripened by some Spanish pool
Radiate their hostility
Like lobsters plucked from a tank

I used to pretend it was not rough
The bitter not sour, the lager sweet
Until one of them turned on me
It seems I was not local enough

A wolf's tale

In my dream was a long corridor
Wood panelled, an important meeting
A crimson coat hung outside the door
Could it be yours? My heart was beating
A hunter's role is assigned to me
I waited outside, as I always had
It is unfair, my villanous history
For I am mad, I am not merely bad
This time, you did not turn or take flight
We talked, calmly. We had left the wood
I miss it so much, stalking you, at night
Your eyes widening – Little Red Riding Hood
Our lives are not long. I miss them, creeping through
Your heart moving beneath mine, hunting you

The gaudy pageant of the past

I remember the 1970s

The three-day week, Joe Gormley

The first miners’ strike

Eddie Waring’s ‘oop an’ under’

There was wrestling on TV

Oh yeh, I was there …

Then there were the 1980s –

Dallas and Dynasty

Cocktails and shoulder pads

Terry Wogan’s studied unease

The Style Council were good

Duran Duran were…. please

The ’90s were a bit vague

In some ways, they were a blur

Buttered parsnips … oh yes

New Labour, Brit Pop

It was all so embarrassing

Do I remember them? Er …

The Noughties had no sooner started

Than they were gone. Millenniuuuum

No style, no music, no drugs

(Apart from the usual ones)

There were iPods and MP3s

If you count them. But I’d rather not

The past crowds into our troubled teens

Thatcher is still around – that cow

The present is where we live

With a bunch of memories

Stacked up, like old CDs

To be honest, the best time is now

News from now here

At London’s gate it rose, in SE1
Democratic and utilitarian

Here, the post-war settlement began
The hub of Abercrombie’s London plan

The giant blocks and decks of the Heygate
Expressed the power and hope of the state

In the sky-leaning architecture we see
Faith in the future and modernity



Over the estate, sheathed in black and grey
The vast Strata tower looms today

The pages of slick brochures show us how
These flats cost millions; bankers live here now

Reward for self-interest – the new way
Society crumbles – a slow-motion decay

The rich get richer, the poor riot a bit
The state did not fail; we failed it

In a legend to make Abercrombie cry
Now here say giant  letters in the sky

Each era, a new skin is painted on
The future lost; conservatism won


Pics taken by me from my beloved 63 bus as we arrived at the Elephant and Castle area of south London, which I have been travelling to, and through, for various reasons for the past 25 years. Nowhere of course means utopia.