Thursday 18 April 2019

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.






Wednesday 10 April 2019

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.




Tuesday 9 April 2019

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.