Tank

Tank

 

‘Fill up my tank with Premium,’ she said

with a sigh and she’s on a rollover in bed

all jackpot whatnot, marks Dobson’s card,

while catches pinch his plump flesh hard,

he’s holding a pulpy hand of flashy ones

you brandish, but don’t punch any codes

reach for the pump and back on the road,

all straights, all curves, all never conserve

here’s plenty of juice that’s held in reserve,

all that buried desert oil can’t fill any well,

they overflow by chance and one glimpse

can spring leaks plenty to wash and rinse,

bring it to liquors brink, distend and swell,

while this road trip clocks miles numerous,

filling tanks with Premium and Super Plus.

Sore Thumb

 Sore Thumb

 

True enough, Dobson once had a sore thumb,

making it freely hard to keep time, to strum

more often on the offbeat rather than on the on.

But Andrew, no George, no Patrick, no Taff,

standing out like the room’s plainest pikestaff,

is a guppy speared on bully Dobson’s billhook,

frowns in the doorway with his finger crooked.

Boxed ears of corrugated pink cannot listen,

blind misty eyes blink sorrow’s dismay, glisten

with reproach, might bear a newborn lake,

flares his nostrils from inner hard dried cake,

a foolish morning boy who forgot how to scrape

or bow and how? Touch this one’s temples;

the sparks that will fly can only disassemble

to rearrange his worlds into scrambled eggs,

his down-pulled lips of tickled pout just beg

Dobson to lift cardboard cup; drink of dregs.

Nothing a quick chop slap might not sort out,

but ‘sore thumbs were made to suck,’ Pat shouts

and ducks. Shrugs brows with an ancient guise,

has swallowed more than just digits to appetize,

reorders the world’s menu and wait till it comes

because it’s true Dobson once had a sore thumb.

Service of the Song

 Service of the Song

 

Listen to all your selfish sloppers

trying to get by on fussy fanfare,

foregathering sprays of daffodils,

all an antimony of brittle quills,

looking for a lifetime in the sun,

outside the service of the song.

Now fame is your elusive lover,

who walks under those huge legs

to peep, snorting at all dotish tat,

scoffing to doff his ragbag old hat

at your cord of cliché so well worn

outside the service of the song.

Senseless quizlings of one another

drawing attention to aspirants’

thick set minds - these supplicants

of writers’ lifts and writers’ grants:

but time she always marches on

outside the service of the song.

Away from all your tinsel covers,

bass will keep an eye on drum

and by the thrumming of a thumb

something subtle this way comes,

soul backstage where he belongs,

to serve the service of the song,

The Beaten Sun

 The Beaten Sun

 

The sun sets quickly here in Arabia

guttered shadows pitch into nightfall,

men who kneel on grassy knolls pray

in jalabiya, stayed by muezzin’s call,

whilst my old brown gumshoe stalks.

You’ll glimpse peepers, mirror discs,

black cats like me, perfectly at ease,

creepers elemental under palm trees

because you are, I am the bass man

double bowing across electric strings

to hang back-stage in back-thinking.

And here in Arabia, we plead for rain,

whilst our detective looks for motive

melancholy, where to pinhole blame:

rhythm sections keeping wasted time

knocking at hearts, plucking at lines

that fall heaven sent in robbed strains,

fill oxbow hearts with rivered refrains.

Roads to Arabia wind so hard and far

cosseted here behind her lead guitar,

reflect that I did once to Kingdom come

but too old, and never was too young

to keep time with drum, looking upon

the old setting heart of the beaten sun.

Stand Up, Stand Up for England

 Stand Up, Stand Up for England

 

 

All Rise. Be thankful England stands alone

while my old boss bitch burns your insides,

churns and gnaws and screws and drives

all her empty bellied babbling brooks home.

Don’t think. You can show bare arsed cheek,

ask for more but be warned, here’s my nag

bridled in grey streaked black hearted drag,

chalking up her bum notes by rote to teach.

Be still. Balance bent books tip toed; weep

with each itchy outstretched palm face up

for a month of Sundays, nailed dumbstruck

in queues to supper on hot slippers for sleep.

Grow up. Be your father not son, cast votes.

His old school tie is tight, rubs red necks raw

and loosens up laws while he’s keeping score

as 1000 silent infants sink 1000 stone boats.

Stand up. Stand up for England’s thick skins,

stab dreaming spires to gore hopeful hearts,

spraying dog tagged walls with dog piss art

of your futures retired and their pasts begin.