Same Shit, Same Planet (Slight Return)

Same Shit, Same Planet (Slight Return)

‘It’s always a bloody new recipe,’

exploded Father

upon noticing the price

had risen to a shilling

and utterly uncharmed

by the cartoon tyger

sporting celebration between its fillings.

He’d flung the packet on the table

toasted and roasted

and we’d tittered nervously at the outburst

before polishing off the most of the packet

of gummy white bread, then:

‘How many new recipes can there possibly be?’

he’d raged that breakfast,

eyes bulging,

sweaty, threatening,

to detonate his dripping head

until they changed it to ‘seeded batch’ instead,

covered it with burnt bits that litter

grit grain on your teeth

with something bitter,

staking claims to make you fitter.

Oh, had we now but seen

in this primal howl,

guttural growl,

torn deep from breast,

we were something blessed

but most of us, content to rest

to this sound of civilization toppling,

rebranding of crumbling country

by lawyers for you,

who won’t be platformed,

malpracticed, adjusted or deformed,

 even whipped. Conned

into presenting tacky telethon charity

gala luncheons of scrag end of lamb

 for old age pensioners

stroking three legged cats,

taking their thrifty savings to food banks

composed of tins

and last year’s Easter eggs.

Those one-legged mutants

who stumble from this show to the next

speaking of disability,

bastards and unrequited sex

in time to trains, low on heat,

coupled to foul, filthy, rolling stock.

Over exposed, over used

and familiar with stair lifts

that rust their way

black dirt downward, falling motion

clunk-clickety-click, for want

of oily celebrities in hospitals,

somewhat sly touching thigh,

so sick they urge you retch,

grinning, watch you grip the bulkheads

of seasick swimming world

where graffiti covers every part,

for what is, is not, and what is not is art

and if it stops being fun, just stop
sucking hempen ropes

of weed that chokes

with sweet and sickly electric smoke

while the radio cries,

the radio beseeches,

the radio reaches out and teaches,

shape lives, inspire,

help me, save me; light the fire

while too many to remember do retire

their closed minds like granite

same shit, same planet.

Dobson Meets the Tumbler

Dobson Meets the Tumbler

Dobson sees, with keen eye, parked at the bar

sporting off the shoulder Spanish number

draped, like serpent across this fellow’s dreck.

Pouting eyes, parting lips, and naked neck.

Accustomed is he to the basking shark;

bald fool, swimming out of his depth, in dark,

with only single dram to drown and down

then summon from within lost inner clown.

Scraping brain’s barrel for ancient bon mots,

she absent frowns and taps her mobile phone.

Stiff raises finger for the second round.

Dobson now yawns, ringing bell without sound.

Her gaze lifts and spies she’s been rumbled,

he, out of words, gulps jagged and tumbles.

Moving On

Moving On

A handful of change cut loose

from his pocket - chucked casual,

 on the shelf, with old, old hands.

Rattles baggy memories in his head

every night, of the living and the dead.

Damp spring night of fully clothed sex

 neon mid eighties, no time then

to unbutton the buckle

just unzip with husky chuckle.

Tracy, 25 years long a virgin,

who’d had it hard and written

all the time he’d been down there

fighting, till his tongue aching

cut through her well meant faking

 love-struck, the farewell smiles

catch reflection of the child

caught in memory’s amber,

morning frosts and breezes mild.

Grinning he sets to with an old brush,

stiff scraping dried up boot polish

cake, from the bottom of rusty tin,

rubbing black leather slip-ons, cracked

reflection shaded and looking back.

Sunny afternoon, matured into evening,

absent husband not quite into leaving

presumed missing, till who cares past four,

dead beneath wet knickers drawer.

Sue saw service and might yet see more,

as he turns up panting at the door.

She couldn’t make it up the stairs

her busy tongue caught him unawares

and let him in then and there.

Held his hand out to kiss goodbye,

to catch swift moments in his eye,

summer sun burnished gentle skies

as solo wheels in flashing magpies.

Raises one eyebrow in ironic salute,

at dusky fogging mirror.

Strip tosses his laundry into drum,

chipped china between finger and thumb

sipping static warm twilight’s tea

contemplates the rolling sleepless city.

Autumn mornings, the dew still rises

somewhere - and what of you?

Hot grabbed his throat by silken tie,

she had even yet still to buy

and rubbed his fingers up her thigh.

Bind her wrists with gauzy scarves,

breast open paths of trembling leaves,

and take her wide beneath canopied trees.

Can all this love possibly be wrong

if he makes it up as they go along?

Yet time comes to sing another song,

well, buckle up and move quickly on.