Sunday Sunday

 

Sunday Sunday

 

Once upon a time, fifty years ago

when I was younger – well, there was Sunday.

The sullen seventies winds blew

doctrines of unappealing church bells

across dockyards, spiritless syllables

of ancient grizzled undertows.

If you searched, you’d have found us

at Aggie Weston’s Royal Sailors Rest,

Albert Road, for a pound a night or so,

the very place after Saturday at Castaways.

No manic Monday about Sundays then,

in the television room, Brian Walden,

interviewing old, tired men,

Jenkins, Callaghan, Wedgewood Benn,

to Nantucket Sleigh Ride by Mountain,

a year out from Bowie’s ‘Fashion’

which would somehow be the difference.

Maybe you’d avoid a bible study group,

always voluntary, of course,

unless, like a sprat, you were caught,

and, if that was the unhappy case,

prepare your knees for hard talk

for her humble tiled floor was brutal,

keep any look neutral, resistance is futile.

And all the shops were always shut,

repeats of ‘Black Beauty’ or ‘Follyfoot’

not nearly enough to keep

hungry like the wolf from the door

on the hunt for five loaves and fishes -

we'd just scream with boredom, wait,

bristling for matinees at The Drake,

or The Friendship Inn to open,

for just one hour, twelve until one

after sermon’s done; final hymn’s sung

serving cockle shells of vinaigrette prawns

pineapple and cheese, impaled onions

and just half a pint of bitter, please.

I’m glad it’s all over,

my friend, just think yourself blessed

those wretched Sundays are behind us now;

that door bolted and shuttered

unless you are by some means found

in primeval lands of religious nutters.

Dimmer Switch

 

Dimmer Switch

 

You’re driving at night, ignorant,

on some single track with pretensions

to be a trunk road – which, I don’t know –

 

maybe that winding one

skirting Loch Lomond; slippery when wet,

your switchback at Inverbeg,

those ancient potholes of Ardlui

or hidden double dips at Luss -

when, without announcement or fuss,

there’s incoming at full beam on.

 

But you’re pondering, mind wandering

about ancient cultures and heritage sites,

thinking, well, you know,

they weren’t actually that bright,

were they? No wonder they didn’t survive,

neither side;

no one gets out of here alive.

 

Maybe it’s excessive pride

that eventually did for them.

 

Like Michelle once cried:

When they go low, we go high

which is complete bollocks, really,

after all, you tried,

but it trips glibly off the tongue,

when you’re young.

 

Here’s another one.

Football, a matter of life and death,

he assures you.

Defend until your last breath,

then, take a celestial escalator, ascend

like David Niven, remember him?

 

Oh, football’s serious, a battlefield

not a park when those fans are screaming

doctrines like we want revolution,

so here's some for free

have a bit of ideology

knocked into you, boy,

and fisting each other if they get

a wrong line or chant out of step -

mate, they should’ve known better

at their ancient age.

 

Game? Forget it:

You couldn’t see nothing,

in amongst the throttling,

left them at half time to get on with it,

maim each other,

cripple themselves, brother on brother

waving flags, sticking their own eyes out,

until the last gasp of the last shout,

and the ref blew up.

 

But still, all this is really nothing,

a diversion before that onrushing

truck I mentioned

still oncoming and foxes you with headlamps,

one hand a wheelclamp,

the other holds the cards; a strategic bluff

or straight flush

your single track, not wide enough

for passing places or off ramps -

will you extend a middle finger, let it come

or dim your lights from full beam on?

Bracken

  

Bracken

 

From the mountain’s treelined slopes,

to an unmetalled road below,

his fence-line hung in bracken robes

and he said to me, take this scythe,

hack it all back, cut a buffer zone

until the choked barbed wire is revealed,

prepare it from the ground up for repair.

I felt it was a baleful punishment

for sexual encounters, drunken roaming

tripping light fantastics late home

from the village pub, four miles or more

and in the morning my head, sore,

a dehydrated throat begging water, water.

I looked at his offered sickle

in disdain – he had other slaughter

at his disposal, chainsaws, poisons, killers

that could bust bunkers, let alone weeds

and could be put to lively use.

I shrugged in spite, let loose

with that little something, spilling juice,

determined to prove the bastard wrong

and even while my head ached

put my back into it, for venom’s sake,

carving his bidden, bloody path.

Soon, in victory, all was revealed,

barbed wire, tempered steel

but I noted, as I beat down hot strokes,

the damage to his undergrowth,

holding in my sweaty palm

those flowers that did little harm.

Later, noting his fence never was fixed,

I saw new bracken reconquer it.

My Credit With You

 

My Credit With You

 

We've had lovers who defended slippery ground,

planted flags; built their motte and bailey there -

constructed from a slightest touch without sound,

lash-lowered looks, all flicks of unkempt hair -

we let down the drawbridge to broach the moat.

while they sang Take me as I am, forget about her,

in hints of Dionne Warwick’s ‘Wives and Lovers’

but later we both came to regret our affairs.

We thought we'd definitely secured the boat,

backchecked clues, talked not quite lies, alibis,

yet it seems once our Rubicon’s crossed,

all we thought was ours was lost,

and looking forwards, how can each of us trust

in slick sidepieces that have already cheated?

Now let’s candidly demand further escorts,

once more unto the breach, summoning force -

but our credit now stands on such slippery ground

that in these wretched ways we're perceived:

either cowards or flatterers that always deceive.

The Plate of Hummus

 

The Plate of Hummus

 

Behold a postured plate of chickpea hummus,

swimming lucent thick in olive oil

no dregs here, not your common pomace,

no skins, seeds, pulp, stems

but this is built from high grade virgin

and ground sesame tahini in light beige,

khaki or charcoal black, in gluts

that threaten to overspill this chinaware.

You could send some through there,

but where the kuboos, where the breadsticks,

what mode of transport - chopsticks?

On dishes at 270 degrees to port,

doughballs congregate, flatbreads caught

sitting in breadcrumb flotillas for crows to peck,

squabble over, guard it jealous or court,

but at obverse angle, you’ve come up short,

bare ramekins, hollow vessels for toothless gums:

a drum, a drum - The Trencherman comes.

Net Zero

 

Net Zero

 

Net Zero, Cancel Culture, Operation Greenfly,

no petrol engined cars in 2035 -

Bernard Manning’s toast and marmalade

is in those little racked triangle displays -

if you’re a Bay City Roller, be very afraid

and surely Reggie Perrin once blacked up,

Rigsby’s magic love wood sticks, interrupted

with lustful cries of Miss Jones, Miss Jones.

Oy, yoi, yoi, you with ologies, scrolling iPhones

while overseas, not too far from here,

the stage is set and we’ll impose our ideals yet,

close your strait and mine your ocean

because I’ve got a notion, suntan lotion

has your actual emulsion base, part oil

so spread it on your hot peeled skin, baby,

and while you’re boiling, we’ll send the navy.

Oh, the wailing and gnashing of teeth

from within the Great Barrier Reef

and beyond – Westward, Calendar, Look East,

they said wind turbines would bring relief,

geothermal and hydroelectric is where it’s at

photovoltaic solar farms and other crap,

see what brave new worlds have brought you,

your tankers hove-to, dead in the water,

they're lying becalmed, but where’s the harm?

The Last Post

 

The Last Post

 

Middle hours of the night, 

let's throttle and thrash

head over heel, pull thin sheets

which combat mosquitos

but escalate heat

until all’s sticky,

wake each morning with headache

and wonder if 

today could be the last post.

 

The odds in favour? Infinitesimal.

The odds against are strong

and yet who knows if 

this warning klaxon

or next thunderclap 

could be the final one -

a last trump, a bugle long.

There’s always that chance;

what you thought you knew is gone

and dreams come deep

as dawn's shadows creep.

 

Last night you dreamt of John,

resurrected within admiring throng,

signing copies, quintessential

while Dylan chewed 

from cold cups of stewed lentils,

a red dal – boiled cheap

into sticky thick red heaps

a plague upon snatched sleep.