Today is Thursday

So, you go out less – of course you do.
You want to. Bench press, power walks by the cemetery
but mainly you don’t. It’s not that you are lazy.

It’s just that, the horizon is approaching.
If you got there, you would spend less time here.
Also, there is the small matter of gravity.

And so the soft shoe shuffle to the shop.
Holmes and Schofield are battling –
pygmies warring over Perspex

baboons flinging their own excrement.
Brexit, the ever-shrinking economy
the assault of crass, vulgar stupidity.

It all matters, but what can you do
now that you are living outside the tent?
Most importantly, today is Thursday.

The peanut fight of squirrel and parakeet
is more interesting than most TV.
The bird table is my Serengeti.

Zealots attack the political centre.
Through the megaphone of social media
comes the rancid anger of the true believer.

Is it just me? This winter seems darker
Walk to the shop. Same face greets me
Most importantly, today is Thursday.

Ayatollah

The loft light, why was it left on?

And the fridge door, why is it open?

In the lounge, who has betrayed me

with this spreading empire of dust?

There is a reason for my cleanliness

for the world outside is leaderless

Let it be known. My power is absolute!

I am the supreme ruler of this house

This light that breaks in wantonly

did I not say the curtains should be drawn!

No no no no. Do not approach the door

The goal that you seek is illusory

There is freedom in security

If you leave, others will surely follow

There is no need to venture out

Did I not build you a new patio?

Beyond the garden wall is mere anarchy

You would shrivel, like a dried fruit

By my beard, my words are holy

I speak with the tongue of Solomon

No-one can oppose my authority

I am the lord of the conservatory!

Smoke rings

Born at 40, he lived his life backwards.

The man inside the solemn child

was always occupied by mortality.

He typed out his index cards neatly

blew out poems like smoke rings.

He wore no welder’s mask but a cardigan.

Was this the way for a man to live?

Certainly, his life’s work was weightless

the inside out life of a librarian.

What other way was there?

That was always his question.

He interrogated with each metaphor

life glimpsed through windows

the preoccupations of humans

specks of bright dust, suspended in air.

The wrong kind of weirdo

Bright kids like to shock it’s true
But few do so by turning blue

Dom liked to read up in his room –
Adam Smith and David Hume

Imbibing at their dismal art
Marked this peculiar kid apart
As curious as a flightless bird
Throwback, misfit, spod and nerd

In his musty Tory tent
There was no enlightenment
Reactionaries turned him on
Instead of re-vol-ut-ion

He liked to wear their apparel
Absorbed their crap ideas as well
Racism and bigotry
Selfishness, misanthropy

Thatcher was an utter joy
To this twisted Tory boy
And as the Tories screwed the poor
He hung around at their back door

Howard ‘something of the night’
Noticed that the lad was bright
Gove gave him another spin
Then Bojo said, I’ll let you in

On you I'd like to take a punt
Why don't you come round to the front
I see you are a disruptor
A student of the art of war

There will always be a path
For the ambitious psychopath
Thin-lipped thugs in Burberry
Superior in bastardry

Gollums wearing quilted jackets
Skilled in hate and mathematics
Soon Britain will be great again –
Genocide and porcelain