We chose darkness

Was the sea not turquoise, said Aphrodite
as if on Mandraki beach, close to scented pines
was it, perhaps, the wrong shade of blue?

Please understand that it was liars, I replied

who restricted our horizons

hedge fund managers and philistines.

Her eyes narrowed. An oyster catcher flew by.

What about sunlight, sparkling on water
our pantheon, the Dionysian mysteries?

Certainly, we liked a drink, I said

but it was rarely ambrosia or nectar.

Mainly, we liked to drink lager.

Was it our philosophers, our chefs, our engineers

the constellations, that glowed at night?

No, we liked them, I answered, for many years.

It was barbarians who annulled our union.

Those who had turned their back on Beethoven.

Extremists. The rest followed them blindly.

We chose darknesss. We turned off our own light.

I don’t get it, she insisted. What about Orpheus?

Didn’t that guy have some good tunes?

To be honest, I had no answer to that

How could I explain? We preferred Wetherspoons.
I looked across at the penny arcade

the sullen, stuccoed pub, the sugar stalls

the strip of churned up mud, the brown sea
then at my blurred tattoo. England’s glory.

Christmas shopping

Kindness is spreading like a virus.
It passes quickly through the winter town.
In this season, me has become us.
For who is not tempted by a bargain?
There is chaos in the sales hall
in the perfume shop, a near riot.
Drawn like insects to the gaudy mall
as if the world’s riches were running out
in a strange dance, we jostle and thrum.
Clutching our packages, our love
we collide busily, slide and hum.
Are we asleep or more keenly alive?
It is a play in which we know our part.
A ritual of the altruistic heart.

The circle

It brushes us, like a stranger
with the shock of icy water.

We absorb its molecules.
It coils the leaves in circles.
It always surprises us
as it touches our unwrapped skin.
Listen, the air is whispering.
It is telling us something.
We are still in the circle
of nature. We never left.
Even trapped in our warm shells.
We breathe the winter in.

The cheese mines

In shafts and tunnels damp and dark

deep underground beneath the park

they toil until their hair is grey
shoveling cheddar every day.

Only the brave would ever go

to seek their bounty down below

far beneath the clay and shale –
the golden seams of Wensleydale.

Daily they descend to hell

to bring us up our Babybel

Double Gloucester, Port Salut

Mozzarella, Danish Blue.

They are facing doom down there
from slides of liquid camembert

razor shards can slice a man
from dynamited parmesan.

Breathing just for you and me

the deadly fumes of ripening brie

our jaded palettes just to please
courageous men are mining cheese.

Back to the ’70s

Hi, Bojo here. It’s no impression! Now’s the time for a confession.

Listen here, pull up your chairs. Brexit is great for billionaires.

Because I am a decent sort
I made them rich from selling short.

A falling pound is fab you see.
So Brexit is a victory!

The people versus Parliament
is a gift. It’s heaven sent.

In the name of sovereignty
I trashed UK democracy.

My loyal shock troops were a rabble.
I roused the mob to stir up trouble!

Dismiss the speaker. Order, order!
Let’s bring back the Irish border.

I’m Bojo. Let the fun begin
I’m waiting for the rioting!

What is the NHS to me?
A photo opportunity.

I’m not like you. I’m not a fool.
I sent my kids to private school.

British people love to queue.
Well, now’s your chance, it’s what you do.

Make sure you have enough to eat
cos soon the mob will reach your street

stirred up by Jacob, Dom and me.
Did you enjoy austerity?

Well now we have better wheeze –
we're bringing back the seventies

when our great state was proud and free
un-troubled by the EEC.

Remember 1972?
Before we joined? I bet you do!

Truly it was a golden age
when sexism was all the rage

the Irish problem, like today –
then it was the IRA.

An age of groping and of banter
the bigot and the racist ranter

an after dinner speech by Rolf
or how about a spot of golf?

immy Savile, OBE
kiddy fiddling on TV.

Just like our Jim, I’ve fixed you too
poor suckers, what you gonna do?

Upside down

Remember to wrap up warmly
there’s a real winter chill setting in

said the weatherman, cheerfully.

Seriously? He was smiling.

He must have been thinking of pumpkins

some Christmas scene with a robin

or roast chestnuts and snowmen

not burning trees and seas rising.

Watch out for the winter chill? Excuse me.

Today, people were sunbathing.

Why don’t you look out of the window?

The road is actually melting.

He pushes on like a snow plough

Wrap up warm, sure sign of winter, mind how you go …

A warning from the future

I made dinner in my 3D printer.

Molecules with no meaning

a concoction of spun nothing.

Who said it was food? They were lying.

Wanting a companion

I had a brainwave then.

I touched a screen and grandad’s ghost

came shimmering into the room.

He remembered picking blackberries
in a lane near his house.

His eyes were shining. Was he crying?

I put my hand right through him.

I could go out but why would I?

They had turned the café into an office.

Work and leisure had been abolished.

Humans were endlessly searching, sifting

vampires on treadmills

their cold eyes flickering.

Soon it would be hard to tell

who was real and who was AI.

Was I actually living?

I opened my mouth.

Ghost at the barbecue

Why do I partake of this ritual

of summer in the suburban garden?

They only see me dimly, if at all.

I hear their laughter like a faint echo.

Our two worlds exist in parallel
their indifference to me is not meant.
I am a ghost at the barbecue
we do not occupy the same element.

Later, someone may even dance
in a curious shuffle, across the patio.
It’s not supposed to be a séance.
They are in light; I am in shadow.

The succulent smell of meat roasting
may incite them to bolder deeds
these heroes of the conservatory –
to sing lustily like a rugby team

at a raucous wedding. I am Banquo.
As their spirits rise, mine is fading.
The scents and colours pass straight through me.

I raise my arm. I am disappearing.

Nowhere

Don’t get out. Just look through the window.

We have no lake here and no mountain.

We are nowhere, a place to pass through.

We have no famous statue, or fountain

No place of religious pilgrimage

No weeping virgin, or well for wishing.

We have no iconic sports team

We have no stream for salmon fishing.

We have no celebrated battle or city.

We have no rising star of comedy.

No actor or president has ever come here

To investigate their long-lost family.

Don’t get out of the car. There is no reason to.

We are nowhere. Just watch the green blur –

the emerald that enfolds our centuries.

It clothes us and wraps our memories.

Scumbag

Reality has been good to me

I’m the king of daytime

The Staffy on the sofa

You don’t like me do you?

But you can’t look away

Fiddled the dole?

Cheated on your wife?

Have a spare bedroom going free?

Your pitiful life is good telly

But you knew that already

Colourful and lardy

You blow up reliably

In a low-rent way

Like a rat sniffing a drain

I can detect your frailty

I’ll put you through ringer

I’ll hang out your washing

While it’s still dirty

I’ll betray you for money

I feed on the rage and pathos

Of your everyday tragedy

I’m a chip shop bully

The creepy guy you met on a holiday

A gobshite with a degree

I’m a peeping Tom, a scumbag

A pimp, a connoisseur of misery

Reality has been good to me

Welcome to Doggerland

Before the Ice Age, some early hominids
crossed the land bridge and entered the UK.
Soon, they were nostalgic for Africa.
It was too dull, so they went away.

The Romans tried next
but they didn’t like it here:
‘Can’t grow olives. It won’t work
We’ll have another go next year.’

It was the same with the Angles
the Saxons, the Picts and the Jutes
They came and did stuff
but they never put down roots.

The Vikings cruised down the River Lee
looking for something to sack.
There was nothing much happening
so they turned round and sailed back.

At Hastings, it was William one, Harold nil.
William could easily have been king
‘Have my coronation in London?’
he said. ‘You must be flipping joking!’

Here is a brief vox pop survey:
Their food is awful. The colours are boring
You can’t get proper coffee
It’s too flat. The weather’s appalling

Let’s face it, we came last in the lottery
of climate and geography.
Iron ore and coal is what we have.
The rest is misery.  Always was, always will be

Notting Hill

Fluttering Hugh stands in the doorway.
We both see Julia, in close up.
I er … I er … actually… I mean … would you?
His hair is floppy. He’s wearing corduroy.

Doe-eyed Julia is smiling shyly.
Why is she listening to this fool
with his display of false diffidence?
She doesn’t go, she just stands there

as if she is hypnotised and yet she
is the one with mesmerising eyes.
He is obviously a chancer
an alpha male with Audi and loafers

Notting Hill is full of his kind
his modesty a ploy artfully applied
like fake tan; a moth on steroids.
I er … I er … can I? … I mean …. could I?

A series of miracles

On Friday, a bullet goes back into a gun

The stone rolls away easily

A politician admits: I was wrong

My ill-advised Tweets are withdrawn

There’s no need to vote, since we agree

Another – thank you, I accept your apology

On Saturday, the sky is as blue as hope

We might just as well be in Greece

Washing flaps in the breeze, like a semaphore.

What is it saying? Forgive your enemies.

At Wembley, it's England versus Germany

There is no reason for victory

By mutual agreement, the game is drawn

Honour is satisfied by the beauty of play

Sunday. No planet was harmed in the making of this barbecue

In the garden, vegan sits down with carnivore

Monday. The touch of fresh cotton on my skin

Feels like a new beginning 

The best thing? To achieve this miracle

You can just change the cover, not the whole duvet

Black hole

Bending light with its gravity

And drawing all of life

And time back into itself

Like the deepest, darkest
And densest black hole

You would need 
the largest telescope on earth
and even then 
you probably would not find

Theresa’s May’s soul.

Obviously she is human

She is governed by biology

And she lives in this galaxy

But that apart

The whereabouts are a mystery

Of Theresa May’s heart

Perhaps in Greece

In leopard print

She would be inspired like us

To some great ecstasy

On a beach, by Orpheus

But I don’t think so

She moves mechanically

And she is never rowdy

She’s a tin automaton

Part robot and part mouse

Drink sangria while there’s time

Count your blessings

And try to move south

But it’s probably too late

Do not be sucked

Into the death star

Of Theresa May’s mouth

Hard cheese

The Brussels bureaucrats are dead

The pages of the atlas red

The Queen is on the British pound

The ensign flies on Plymouth sound

British dreadnoughts rule the seas

We got back all our colonies

Merchant bankers, Eton boys

Come on fellows. Make some noise!

Nigel, Tommy and the rest

Are patriots and Britain’s best

The heroes of the DUP
Gave us back our dignity

Jezzer is a dirty liar

Tug your forelock to the squire

Obey your betters, bend the knee

Three cheers for British liberty

The rich can only help the poor

With all their assets held off shore

The best is yet to come, it’s nigh

So hang the traitors, string em high!

Johnny foreigner’s a thief

What is wrong with British beef?

Let the glory days begin

Free of those with darker skin

The same but different

The sun, the sky, the houses and clouds.
It’s the same as yesterday, he notes
the same eucalyptus, the same plump bird.
He rules: ‘unless something is changed
this matter cannot be put the vote
and so, the new day must be deferred.’

Normally, it’s a formality.
There’s a quick show of eyebrows
and it goes through, on the nod
ensuring diurnal continuity.
But now this blustering bureaucrat
has spannered daylight for good.

This is absurd, you protest.
The days shape shift in increments.
They are made of the same elements.
Their colours and forms are re-arranged
by the palette of our moods.
They are the same, but different.

‘No, no, no!’ The speaker thunders.
‘I have ruled on this issue.
It’s not new. It has happened before.’
His face is puce. He jabs his finger.
‘May I refer the honourable member
To the year of our lord, 1604!’

Normally it’s a volcano
that with a dense cloud of swirling ash
turns all the clocks back to midnight.
That’s nature, but this time
a pedantic Whitehall official
has gridlocked all of our daylight.

The backstop

We have said it repeatedly
my associates and I.
We had hoped to settle this peacefully.
It really doesn’t have to be this way.

Her small hand fists the wooden shaft

of the cruel implement

a claw hammer, bought yesterday.

Now, let’s start again, shall we?

She goes through the rigmarole

of her banal proposition.

Its sadistic brutality

is worn smooth by repetition.

I am a reasonable person

and I don’t want hurt you

but this deal on the table

is final and unconditional.

She’s said that before, you note.

Each cruel prevarication

means another night spent weeping

in the cells, on a concrete bed.

You can choose to do nothing but

as I say, regretfully

then, we can longer guarantee

the safety of your family.

Or – a faint smile appears – instead

here is the backstop, the plan B.

You can pay us, in full, today.

Now that’s a good deal, hombre!

No answer, nothing to say?

She pulls on black leather gloves.

She is wearing white overalls.

She reaches under the table

and draws out, theatrically

a chainsaw. She tugs the cord.

The small room fills with acrid smoke.

She sets about her butchery

with a cool head. This savagery

is more in sorrow than anger.

Obviously, it’s for your own good –

the shattered nerves, the flying blood.

Without poetry

Without poetry where would we be?
The birds would not sing
the buses would not run
and the world would stop turning.
We know that there has been
a 19 per cent reduction
in the production of metaphors
on a like-for-like basis, this year.

If a lot more similes
and poetry don’t arrive soon
the birds will fall from the sky
in a collapse of empathy
our colours will fade
and perfume will be indiscernible
description will lose its potency
against a basket of major currencies.