A new direction

A change of career, at my age, but what? 
Perhaps I could be a philologist
Or work overseas as a diplomat
Or entertain, as a stage hypnotist

In my new role perhaps I could be
A logician, or an ontologist
Or a lecturer in theology
Or a Jungian psychoanalyst

But I am not qualified for that
Or to skateboard professionally
Or to be a comedian, or an acrobat
For I lack the skill or dexterity

Perhaps a gift for mere fluency
Could serve me in my new career
I could be a spin doctor, or a disc jockey
Or the new presenter on Top Gear

I guess you should know that I am not
Strong enough to work in security –
If hot air built homes, I could build a lot –
And that early mornings wouldn’t suit me

A change of career, but what?
Proof-reader, cat breeder, exorcist?
I need a job that is frankly bullshit –
Like style consultant or astrologist

I could spin a line as a touchline hack
A self-styled ‘sports psychologist’
Or turn a coin, half-guru, half-quack
With Feng Shui, as a New Age therapist

If I was fired up with passion
I could demonstrate kitchen gadgetry
Or be a faith healer or work in fashion
But, to be honest, I don’t have the energy

To earn a crust from guile or flattery
My motivation levels are low
Why can’t they just pay me to watch TV?
Each rejection would be a body blow

Rye Lane in a time of war

We wrap up in layers of winter jeopardy
As if unaware of the hostilities
a man is selling vegetables in the square. 
The whispering leaves are our enemies.

In their crimson coats, they are warriors.
Their sole purpose, to return to the ground.
‘The earth is great,’ they cry out
as they pull the ripcord and plunge earthbound.

We wear our solemnity like old clothes
with a vague sense that we have been here before
recalling our ancestors in silent remembrances.
Like they were, we are at war.

Hip hop

The studied casualness of your choreography

evokes a faint memory – the slow

transit of boot from pavement to groin

the shock of the new, flick-knife and Cromby

Where showbiz meets thuggery

see how art shines an arc lamp onto

the murky corners of reality

its shadow play echoes our anxiety

Loosely, you wear your urban finery –

we are a little afraid, but that’s the point

your badges of blood are your currency

you are not us; your art has redacted you

It has lifted you into the daylight

erased your danger, for this Friday night