Spectrum
In the land of the
grey, your Spectrum is king.
And when
impenetrable clouds are parting,
crowds grumbling
about feathers of lead,
muttering misshapen
chaos of well meaning forms
stuffing caps onto
flat heads to keep warm,
take the plunge and
don’t be afraid to dart
like an arrow right
through them, boy.
Look up, look up, and
look up again,
you’re bound to see
a base hanging there
in the same way
that bricks don’t
and avenging
angels, kick-ass angels
deploying to bring
down your Mysterons
with nothing more
than a plucked harp, a hymn
chanted – boy -
Melody, Harmony, Martha,
lamenting the loss
of Lancelot, Arthur
and his Merry Men
in Sherwood greens.
Well, that’ll do
the trick, or so it seems,
yet onwards they grind
in flood tides
of hydraulic
action, all abrasion and attrition,
tectonic plates
shifting conservative friction,
your earth’s
quaking so give the word:
call Jeff Tracey
and launch Thunderbirds.
F.A.B.
In the land of the
grey, only you and I
are the complete
palette, the diapason if you will,
the full Adam and
the Ants with Marco on bass
gaudy buccaneers in
real McCoy white stripe face,
a seven nation army
with a way that’s a will,
sashaying past any
looks that kill
and going to
past pushchairs,
crutches, fistfuls of traveller’s dogs,
muddied up
thoroughfares, vaped up fogs -
wielding Steed’s
swordstick to sally forth,
see a red carnation
and draw-cut it off
for Mrs Peel to
buttonhole our bespoke cloth;
machete swathes
through these brothel creepers,
repel all boarders,
disengage all filters,
Scotty, maximum
warp and where’s Captain Kirk?
Now, you should see
Polythene Pam or Pat Mustard
staring at us both
sardonic and unflustered,
looking through at
us like they just heard
a cry of where’s
the warrior without his pride -
and something’s
gnawing us deep inside, boy.
Of course, even
though it’s plain to see,
the only ones here
are you and me,
I’m certain you’ll
join me when I nod and say,
in the land of the
grey, every sod has his day.
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