White Lines, Red Lines

 

White Lines, Red Lines

 

The white lines are not daubed,

Sedgemoor Services, M5, you’re bored,

a windowed face staring blank.

That must be you – hard shouldered banks

of uncut thistles, gorse, seeding grasses

conducting the wind through the glass –

dead traffic unmoved these plus two hours

and you could confidently count flowers

that will never grow. You wonder whether

speeding cars would tumble in heather

from mere lack of luminous paint. No matter -

put from your mind any clatter

of metal on metal, screaming brakes

and trust to luck for luck’s sake.

Tomorrow you’ll find yourself browsing

bleary eyed, charity shop-shelves housing

someone’s second hand CD collection –

maybe had been given with affection

you’d assume – someone must have desired

this music, set someone’s heart afire,

maudlin collections of greatest hits

must have stirred some ancient soul a bit –

but there’ll be nothing you’ll want to pocket.

From behind – a voice - ‘Excuse me,’

she shoves past with ill repressed enmity,

you crossed some red line, that I guarantee,

a random face you’ll never again see,

dragging pushchair, dog, she’s anxious to flee

to navigate forests and consider the trees.

Placeholders

 

Placeholders

 

 

When I called him, he approached with caution –

a burnt ochre offering with a rug on,

stuck on back-stick twitching like a metronome.

Keeping bad time, I must state,

no musician could make much of his six eight

less a rolling meter, more a shaggy dog’s tale.

I wouldn’t say he had a cocky eye,

pushed a grizzled muzzle between my thighs

but if he could talk, he might sigh -

been instructed to worry a given pronoun

like a long dead buried bone

that calls every hole in the ground a home -

and told not to take it lying down

while upon his brow – that ancient frown

which, as you might think, determines nothing

at this time. You ask yourself – do they do that?

Dig them out of the mud, drop them clagged

in dirt on the ground - with hearts singing glad

as around about UK towns they’re dragged

in lieu of a proper walk or the thrill of the hunt

by sour faced or ancient one-sticked grunts.

He’s had his fill, leashed outside vape shops,

Waterstone’s, Boots the Chemist, the Co-Op -

scruffy, scrawny, big, small, box-blunt chopped

or hop-bellies so big they’ve dropped

beneath legs that struggle to hold them up –

and, listening impatiently to their gossip

while something that passes for an owner

looked at life and took him for a placeholder.

Footnote

 

Footnote

 

You removed yourself from the WhatsApp group,

that much you did – it is certain,

you drew down the curtain – it says ‘left’ –

and not a moment too soon.

Some people leave footprints upon the moon,

they made their mark there

and it is possible – but difficult to prove,

that those same marks still stand –

what with the lack of wind up there, no air,

those prints could be indelible for all we know.

You were absent all this last week,

a naughty little bit of hide and seek

after you’d trousered the leaving rate

so, where will you go?

Oh, you arrived as so many do, the big ‘I am’, this is ‘me’,

have a care what you say – this a ‘step down’,

‘my husband, you see him? A big wheel.’

Turning, turning – you come, you go,

always the same story blow for blow –

first the quiet sulks, then the complaints

they’re turning cartwheels about you,

then closing your doors, hugger-muggering

in corners, blowing hot breath on tinder and kindle,

pumping the treadles, turning the spindles –

until the presses roll, to strike the 1000 sick notes.

Well, they noted your absence at the leaving do

with all the interest of an automated customer service line -

couldn’t make it? That’s fine,

in the end, another waste of time,

a sour grape in a sour bunch,

convinced of its own vintage, self-authenticated

burning bitter in the gullet, but uncomplicated,

ordinary vin plonk – author of its own joke

and nothing but a footnote.

Have a Kit Kat

 

Have a Kit Kat

 

June 2026 and Beckham’s face plastered everywhere -

because those old walls need a bit of pointing,

cracks in the tiles, needs a flat finish – you’re aware

it’s just wound down, but could flare

up again at any time – and not forgetting baggage squatting

implacably, eyes glued to Not the Nine O Clock Cup

whilst around and about its head the rotting

carcass of shagpile brings flies in need of swotting.

Denmark? A canker of the ear, part of you needs to stay here,

whilst another needs rest, aches for an achy breaky break -

have a kit kat - and all that for goodness sake

stuff – but they don’t package it for nails now,

no innards to push or tin foil to slit before you chow

down – just ubiquitous cheap plastic wrap.

It boils in your dreams when you take a nap,

Gary Lineker’s sweating forehead and cheeky grin,

boss – have a word with him -

Beckham slotting that last-minuter in

between the sticks - before pulling out of a tackle -

metatarsal - Ronaldinho Gaucho - the woodwork rattles

and we’re down .and out once again.

They said next year will be easier, good things coming

like the sun rising behind the disused tin gasometers

take a thermometer, check room temperature

and you’ll see that what was once has gone

but something tells you there could be better songs

to sing than this one – and how will she fare?

Left behind with time zones - a two hour delay

until after five days, her turn will come, she ups, flies away.

But when the hands on the clock strike ding, ding, ding –

and everyone stops for tea – you’re left munching

on Kit Kats over what next year might bring.

We Love The Enterprise We Really Do

 

We Love The Enterprise We Really Do

 

We love The Enterprise, we really do - 

garbage scow -

I suppose you could pass to Mexico,

but as for the other two?

Still, no matter,

we get tossed off leavings

on a trencherman’s platter -

a highlights package, your televisual feast -

so is it possible to reserve the BBC2 channel

for the duration? No. 

Why don’t you talk properly:

those B’s look like P’s

and who’s ever heard of a Boast Office?

No one’s drawing Mr Hutchinson’s map,

it’s halfway across the world

where these bastards don’t even like football,

let them chuck hoops, slam dunks, touchdown

and cheer for the hempen homespun homerun –

but call this an own goal by no means –

oh, there’s plenty of fast bucks

to be made – you love football, you’re out of luck,

mate – where’s Captain Kirk?

He’s the one with McDonalds sponsoring his shirt.

I Stand Relieved

 

I Stand Relieved

 

What? Oh yes, you might suppose

that standing beneath the compass rose

having spent a Middle Watch putting

ten of starboard on, sir,

come to midships, midships it is,

that I have no spur

to prick. But, I care not to care

and therefore might be somewhat put out -

not that they’re moving tankers

but that they had to be anchored

there at all. I mean, what’s the point?

Personally - after they’d cased the joint,

wielded secateurs for a bit of dead-heading –

I dodged a few projectiles

lobbed in my general direction,

reported the pretty ribbons bow the sky,

watched my workload spike

and the workshy fly –

it seems flowers bloomed again and spreading

sprawling across the rockeries.

And anyone with a brain to scratch

might wonder why those boffins lifted latches

on cry havoc – instead of inventing the tool

with which a man might try.

What? Oh yes, you might suppose

you relieve me, sir, and might believe

I stand relieved.

Truffles

 

Truffles

 

A swaggering, overbearing,

tin-plated dictator

with delusions of godhood,

see you later

Truffles - viewing figures

scraping the barnacles

off Bill’s bottom,

with banal lo-fi hi-jinks -

don’t kid yourself, pal, the Devil’s bored

gets to thinking up yours,

Pantheon of Discord -

I’m locking the piano’s lid, you fraud:

back, back – the time of the Osirans

is long past

because this time round

the scripts were trash,

here’s a horrid thing

hear the song I sing

of Mr Ring a Ding Ding

no one’s watching –

there’s a tavern in the town (in the town),

where horrid hacks hung around

shipping slash fiction,

Spock/Kirk, 60 years too late,

seven writing fake Blakes –

ideas that were well past

their sell-by date like –

here's one, Ron, Oo I could crush a grape,

servicing black gay mates

rocking kilts down the disco –

because, Doctor, they let you go

butchered butchers’ hooks

and took delight

in setting alight

some other hard-working chap’s farts

because the past has been bottled

and labelled with art.