Monday, 29 July 2019

The Sham New Tuppenny Waltz

The mafia waiters
The shoehorn marked foreign

Boxing Matilda with
Not much to go on

As Vladimir Eatwell is
Toasting the sink

I'm in t' cleavage of rain
With the boys on the brink

While def’rence presides over
The classes will clink

How plastic and trite
Sycophantic we think

As the wig n’ the gown set
Tug off their peers

We pick up our teeth from
The blood and the beer

And the man in the fox suit
Is pissing his sides

Claims corporate constructs
Do pretty our skies

Vacant in all sense that
Nobody’s home and they’re

Pointing their best points
With fingers of foam

At the bears and the bulls game
Getting pregnant with paws

But our talons lack sharpness
With no release clause

As gaffes trill’ion penny
Fly by unchecked

We’ve damp on the walls
There out of respect

As the bricks that we throw
Only ripple the pond

We still roll out the carpets for
These budget James Bonds

In make-up that’s fulsome
And grinning like plums

So declare y’self pointless
If sat on yer bums

All waving at pictures ‘cos
There isn’t no sound

For these scarves are for tying
But not that way round

As the queuers they queue
Cos that’s all they have got

And drink down the rainbow
Piss missing the pot

As the strawberries flower
In the fields of uncouth

They sew in the labels
In the clobber of youth

And toasters post toasting
Are thrown in the bath

And we all fall on someone
Under austere attack

'Cos the blisters of kickers
Are red raw like knives

And the jack boxes clever
In these times of our lives

But the circles decrease
As you get near the front

As peace passed us last week
And chinned us the brunt

‘Cos bands are tuned auto
Any fight left absconds

We despise all their success
But still sing their songs

As the bass it gets louder
And trebles come thicker

We’re freezing to death but
Still dance in our knickers

'Cos deference paid to
Is sanity lost

Your 20p sunshine
Will headline the cost

When it suits them to sell more
We’ll lap it up quick as

Incumbents get thicker
The sicker get sick as

They bruise the accused an'
Establish who’s fault

If we paint ourselves wallflower
We comply this assault

As the 45s spinning now
Fire off like Colts

We all dance the Sham
New Tuppenny Waltz

Thursday, 25 July 2019

In Critical Response

In critical
Response and how
Stanisław Szukalski
The sculptor
Went full sepulchral and
Laid them all to waste.
“I’m not going to kowtow
To these phoney arbiters
Of corrupt taste.
Fartists!”    F
                          i
                               n.

Wednesday, 24 July 2019

The Rule in the Art World is – A Tanka


The failed artist stole
Ben Hecht’s words, proclaimed his oath:
‘You cater to the
masses or you kowtow to
the elite; you can't have both.’

Monday, 22 July 2019

Purple and Green and White - A Tanka

As he ordered the
Purple and green and white scarves
In site of the crown
Those colours the nemesis
Of the white and red somehow

Day Dot

The swinging dicks
began the gender cleansing.
Day dot,
cottoned on.
The optimistic thought,
s’alright for a bit,
‘till
they were drip, drip, dripped
upon.

Thursday, 18 July 2019

Unbridled Nonsense - A Tanka

It hangs unbridled
Nonsense rusting there on the
Washing line of hope
Waiting for the bait on the
Misquoted coast to elope

Tuesday, 16 July 2019

Electrocution Lessons


She used to be confused
‘bout the bucket of used fuses
she was forced
by her form-master,
to carry on her head.

When she saw
the electric core
of his gymnasium floor;
Man! She did her homework.
Oh boy! And she read.

She was live to this earth, so
She amped up the ante;
three phased the in flagrante,
and watt smiled, as he fried,
at her plimsolls made of lead.

Monday, 15 July 2019

The Miner’s Rest

From the Miner’s Rest
Where the rays flay your
City limbs best
The swallowing view
Of grass carpets ‘neath
Rolled gold
In a sky blue suit
Our eyes march as
Penguins look on
In convivial persuit
Draw yourself a red balloon
Fill your pencil full of lead
Where troubles beware
In the vista
The glare
Replenish your luck
Duck
Where valleys
Ramble on
Churches rest
Like swans’
Songs

Day Out

The lady on
The radio
Is right pleased
With her plug

She courts this
Mass participation sport
Retail runs
A common thread to bear
In this
Fifty first
State of affairs
Effusing the illusion
That this
Is some day out

She runs coach trips
To the world’s
Largest Primark
From Doncaster
To Brum

You can bag it
For a score
Keep the receipt
In case you
Change your mind you
Can’t  bear
What we’ve
Become

Sunday, 14 July 2019

Magpie Cider

Magpie Cider*

There’s the fat fruit farmer
There are fruit flies
There is fruit

Kick an apple in black and white
And unite to quarry
Branch and root

(*Serve with a variety of reformed meats)

Friday, 12 July 2019

Heated Rollers

Someone
Rumour has it
Has half-inched the ice bucket
There’ll be no oyster party
No biscotti
No coffee
Motty
Not very soothing
Is it?

Added heat

As the sheepskin preachers
Bless their balls
The treads of strippers’ slippers
Bite like summer hornets
And cornets fanfare
A bit too sharp
A bit too picky

As the farmer’s hands
Make hay with
Unseemly dreams
Of Rene stir sweet
And creamy
In cups the size of
That take the
Mickey

As the dockers ask
Stick of rock cock?
Their carved visages
Blisters on the vista
Guarding the coal shed
Double locked and
Tricky

As the haze
Glazes these chickens
Down the road
The load of the situation
Becomes like buns
Soft and
Very
Sticky