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My ill-advised Tweets are withdrawn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.