This is Wrong, Right?

 

This is Wrong, Right?

 

He’s claiming he can’t strum it -

I’m just a campfire guitarist, see?

we nod, it’s a standard setting,

his done thing, not letting

practice get under his skin

and from out of somewhere within,

Alex hits the drums – punctuates him.

But you put up, shut up,

and maybe rhythm sections

indulge in a bit of back to basic

eye-rolling. That’s him, that’s me

waiting for a cue –

meantime he’s given a G Minor,

patient in her rough good humour,

so we can all swing it together.

And there’s something here

isn’t it? Like, decades back

looking, seeing nothing of this, that,

hit the road, Jack,

just static, grey snow,

then white out - there you go, that’s me.

Who could’ve caught it,

or said to your fuzzy futures go,

don’t pack ice, toss it behind,

close doors after you

and who knows what’ll you’ll find?

There are some faces, still

getting grainy, camera roll back and mix

pointing fingers, scrolling credits,

guilty as charged pay the debit

and you do try not to forget

director’s chairs and producer’s hats

as she rosins up to play

something about life's best days

not slipping through her fingers

all the time - try to catch it every minute,

how your future’s bright -

but this is wrong, right?

This Could Be Rotterdam or Anywhere

This Could Be Rotterdam or Anywhere

 

When Dobson’s holding two pair

this could be Rotterdam or anywhere -

say Manchester in the High Peak,

so to speak.

And all that he is

and all that he teach,

and all that he loved,

and all that he seek,

put him somewhat out of her reach –

because she's gotta hold allusions

or it’s all confusion

and the lunatic is in your head.

So, after all that tolling

on the iron bell,

he might prefer to kick back -

rather than scrambling to pack,

make the bus, rush the train,

mocking up those kaleidoscopic strains

of On The Run -

rest a little, see his little one

who is little no more – but like a son –

and just breathe, breathe in the air.

And Dobson, after all,

is only ordinary men –

and they shipped some 50 million.

You’d like to give a bit of it away

in clues, but what's the use, he say:

if you didn’t hear it by now,

if it didn’t permeate, infiltrate –

well, this could be Rotterdam or anywhere,

and there’s more time to stand and stare

than maybe you’d care

to think.

Implacable

 

Implacable

 

Here’s your flotilla – a floating thing

of carousing crews, champagne corks

and popping off a quick selfie from the bridge.

Stand fronting the mirror, all a-quiver

and service the art of self-service -

post pictures, memes,

high jinx on the high seas.

You crawl above the Mediterranean basin

with all the speed of sea-snails set racing

against nudibranch,

urchins and worms,

tossing off plastic

as you drift idle amongst the bottles.

In your wake, come admiring crowds

cherishing anemone fronds in reflected ponds

with nothing much to say at all.

Perhaps they recall disrupted seminars, lecture halls,

turning up hungover, arriving late,

or just turning over in bed

to rest a self-weary head.

Now, here come the gunboats, soldiers swarm

implacable and hole, and sink

those above their paygrade and rank,

completely out-thought, out-flanked

and you claim the whole thing stank.

Most of you disgorged in Greece

to fill up on moussaka, gobble baklava,

chug down ouzo, toast yourselves at the very least -

and those they dragged off

might flit across a butterfly mind

before alighting on the nearest cabbage,

Now, your people can’t be sure

who the shouting’s really for,

why those most in need still go without -

and they may well envy the gibbering throng

with a green gaunt eye

while licking ravenous lips and dripping tongues.

Integrity (2)

 

Integrity (2)

 

When I retire, I’ll look for somewhere

with fresh running water, clean air

put my feet up, play guitar

in some LoFi jobbing pub band

where the sound of two hands

clapping won’t cover up mistakes

amateurs like us are bound to make.

Write grungy poetry such as this,

expect to be kissed by the mistress,

seek out all my ex-lovers,

offer them flowers and forgiveness.

Like a Skyline Pigeon, be set free,

tossed up, seeking irresponsibility,

the taste of pillow slips, flossed sheets,

and balling my head into my feet.

But, as for the here, as for the now,

you sought me out, trapped me somehow,

tottered in here demanding answers,

scrolling through your phone -

a foreknowledge of knowing glances,

what happens when you take your chances,

swop out truth for something rancid.

Integrity (1)

 

Integrity (1)

 

A most remarkable march, that,

where your Master would have had a fit

on the grinder, if he’d pinged it –

you can hear his screams now

painting a pretty picture in spit

like why did we enlist yer, yer git?

or what's the village doing for an idiot

while you're away?

Something along those lines at any rate -

his swinging arms are a state,

nowhere near the requisite ninety

and he’s cue-balled his fists

until his knuckles are lily white -

but where’s the fight

he’s expecting? He’s drawn the crowds,

they’re chanting something loud

and he’s going for the full fifteen rounds

in his head, better off dead,

better off far away from here.

Father? Yes dear?

Now, there’s something queer,

he’s trailing boy behind him, his son

who, to keep pace, has to run,

looking aloft at his blustery white beard.

A timely reminder, if one were required

that every match sparks fire,

and every pitbull sports an inner golden labrador.

I wondered about the score,

not that there’s any love lost

and I chuckled when he was torn apart by the boss –

looking for a dignified exit,

there’s an entire parade ground out of step

and the system lacks integrity,

yet I thought they both made for a pretty

picture and felt ashamed.

Somebody loves him - makes a difference,

and the sun should continue to climb

long after we forget who he is and time

erases a collective memory -

and though he was my enemy

I went there and slapped in for clemency.

Silent Noise

 

Silent Noise

 

You often wonder if others hear it –

the sound of the world,

the sound of the crowd.

Do they? No - you suffer alone

amongst that constant drone

of aircons set viciously high.

Background percolation of machines

brewing a mumbled hubbub,

and children unleashed, each a thief

of peace, raising cain

in premeditated, murderous grief.

Aimless, tuneless preprogrammed keys,

synthesizing unmusical fills

slip into any remaining space and drill

through teeth to seek out abscess

and as you struggle to draw breath -

here’s your unsilent-set cell phones.

Put on headphones, more noise,

it must be admitted

if only for yourself -

but even here you’re penetrated;

it seeps in and bleeds noisy fingers through.

More din from across seas -

both incessant in vain-glorious trumpetry

while self-satisfied influencers are pleased

with whatever illiterate 140 character conceits

you must block out or delete.

But, you’re ever the one defeated,

calls for ceasefire or a hiatus

ignored – which is inevitable,

when you’ve no weapons to lay down

and screams cannot cut sound.

Arrival

Arrival

 

I saw you standing tall,

the day after the day after you left,

wasting good breath.

Only tall because of those stiletto heels -

more plastic tentpole,

than academic colossus.

You were talking to the new boss

and beating off about their loss

all horsey and garrulous –

like anyone would give a toss -

packing your habitual whinny,

all nasal and tinny.

Go. Off into history hobble,

strutting like a tenth rate model,

in the left your phone

and the right, a paper cup, dripping foam

of some sickly Starbucks

delivered by motorbike.

Go. Take an overseas hike

and choke your future by the throat.

Here’s a whip-round - your best sicknotes

with no forwarding address –

I’d wish you success

but what I loved the best

was the arrival of the day you left.