Zimmerman

World's coolest man
Synagogue gunslinger
High priest of the profane
Or merely a singer?


You took our worn-out words
Jangling beatnik long-hair
Gave the old songs a new run
Filled them with air


Playful, grandiloquent
Parading goodness and sin
Strutting, indifferent
Folk Judas – you plugged in


Holy cowpoke jester
Yeh, it was good what you done
But you ain't no Messiah
They're just songs. You just strum

Making a canoe

You were the master of wood and glue
I would watch you, as a kid
And try to follow; I could not
I think of you, now, building my canoe

Now I know that your delight in wood
Was in the trueness of a straight line
In perfect joints, smooth as glass
In your plane – making things good

I would watch you, dad, as you
Poured your quiet strength into a task –
Strong shelves, fit for an elephant
I can’t do what you could do

I’m seeding the boat's imperfection
With each ill-judged line and cut
I am hoping it will float, but still
It would fail your inspection

Show me dad, please, let me see
At least you tried. Making was your thing
Not people – their imperfection
I was subdued by your mastery

Your square-tipped fingers made to till
Were the templates for mine. I look down
And see my clumsy fingers on the wood
I have your hands. I do not have your skill

Who am I?

I surf a wave of despair

I’m damaged, fucked up, sad

If you’re afraid, I don’t care

I’m not just angry, I’m mad!

Can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t paint, can’t draw

That’s so passe. Done that, been there!

Being good at stuff is a bore

I am, like, hurt inside, yeh

If you interrogate my art

You’ll see it works conceptually

My genius? Where do I start?

Me me me me me me me me!

I wear my scars with pride

The artist’s pain, like Vincent

Come on my bare-knuckle ride!

In this tortured world I’m an innocent

Or am I? You will see ’em

As I turn a pound from this racket

Sex, decay, carpe diem –

The old tricks. I make a packet

I am out there; I’m feisty

My kind of thing is hot

Cos it’s, like, zeitgeisty

I’m a famous artist. You’re not!

 

The Railway Telegraph

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My father would have liked this hotel

Its shabbiness and faded aspiration

Years ago, the last train left the station

But no-one has told the clientele

It speaks to the edge of town – their dress

The blaring television and pool

The day-glo flyers, the poker school

The bar-huggers, one step from loneliness

Like moths drawn to a guttering flame

Gwen Dickey, the voice of Rose Royce

And Bob Marley – their music of choice

It was the kind of place to which he came

The Parkas and Rasta hats here say

Not failure but a colourful entropy

The eternal battle

In a lonely garrison
I fought for Emperor Hadrian
I was a Roman, on the wall
In my toga, standing tall
You – a Pict with attitude
Scrabbling in the dirt for food
Painted blue and flinging spears
You tied us up for several years

Another time we've met before
Was in the English Civil War
Me – Prince Rupert's mob on horses
You – the Lord Protector's forces
A serious genocidal crew
Abolished Christmas, dancing too
Your were very fond of bans
A bunch of zealous Puritans

Mid ’60s Brighton, 1st of May
Rockers and Mods – Bank Holiday
You – Ben Sherman and Sta-Prest
Me – greasy leathers, grubby vest
Doing the business with flick knives
Watched by a group of Teds, plus wives
Back to the smoke on your Lambretta
I burned you up, my bike was better

Another clash, another year
Puritan versus Cavalier
Short-haired punk or long-haired freak
Swinging chains down on the beach
Trad or bebop, fact or fiction
It's just a personal predilection
It always end up in a fight
And neither side is wrong, or right

Osama – an invitation

Live in a nice cottage, a cave perhaps
Your staring eyes will arouse no fear
You can be a bigot without mishaps
It's regarded as quite normal up here

The wild moors will be your panorama
You can mumble death threats into your beard
Watch on your video a hate-filled drama
Stew in your bile; no-one will think it weird

Isolation will feed your extremism
Trips into town for a library book
Christianity and Islam – the schism
In the pub, a seat in the inglenook

In time, you will appreciate our ways –
Our stone churches, plain and austere
The dreary repetition of our praise
Our religion is bitter, like our beer

The world has gone mad

Note: this a villanelle, hence the repetition. The form seemed to fit the content. We can only regret that the world has slid into a spasm of  hatred, almost as Bloody as the Cold War. Essentially, the new polarity, draws upon a centuries-old conflict between Christianity and Islam. But aren't religions supposed to be about love?

Ecstatic crowds shout ‘USA!’

Exalted by an execution

The world has gone mad today

Is there no still voice to say

That revenge is no solution?

Ecstatic crowds shout ‘USA!’

For them, war is mere play

A bloody game of retribution

The world has gone mad today

Mad for the screaming lie

Of a final restitution

Ecstatic crowds shout ‘USA!’

The pale horse of death rides by

In its jaws, the constitution

The world has gone mad today

Interred at Gauntanamo Bay

The ideals of a revolution

Ecstatic crowds shout ‘USA!’

The world has gone mad today