Routemaster of Fuck-all

Thomas Heatherwick and
Thomas Crapper
Have a row.
In the despicable
Arena of Mexican
Horse boxing,
And how!
This is a two horse
Scrap,
An’ one
An’ only
One Tom’s
Today’s nap.

Grant you this;
If one’s time
Was another’s
On that albatross bus
He’d piss.
Nought close to a
Anything master.
A Boris Johnson
Back-hander receiver,
One who has never
Sat on one,
Versus
A porcelain
Graced, egalitarian believer;
Who’ll
Lay to waste
This public money waster.

The garden bridge
Is burning down,
So flush that dream away.
Toe to toe,
The crapper difference
Is on display,
The Bobby Moore
At 1861 – 1,
Are that,
The odds are stacked,
A pristine record,
Left intact,
The crowd soar,
Let go a roar,
As Heatherwick’s
Backers,
Out they
Backed,
For those
Who forever be
Worshiped,
Be trained
And nurtured,
Be Crappers
And that’s
Ladies and Gentlemen,
‘S a fact.

I've Got Edge

I’ve got edge.
Not my collar
You are feeling,
More the screw head
On which I’m kneeling.
I’ve got edge.
Not by pseudo-
Energy drinks manufacture,
More trimmed
By Major, May and Thatcher.
I’ve got edge.
Not after blinds
Are raised,
Dealer button shifted,
More after
Free bar,
Spirits lifted.
I’ve got edge.
Not thanks to the
Map of the
Manor House maze,
More the map
Out the ground, in a haze.
I’ve got edge,
Not white cliff over,
Not chalked up,
More frightened divers’ soul, I’ve
Got edge.
Not a madding sword,
More the madness
I swear, I saw.
I’ve got edge.
Not racing line,
Performance enhanced disgrace,
More the descent
Of hill, the dissent
To be faced.
I’ve got edge.
Not to second,
More to where
Forth reckoned,
Should’ve been.
For the edge is,
The best place to see,
Not to be seen.
I’ve got edge.
A thick,
Thicker,
Thickest
Edge.

The Seperatist

The Ethiopian looking lad
Plays with the
English Rose
With a basketball
Backdrop
The pale and pasty
Sunbathe and gossip drop
While the dark Irishman
Chats holidays with
The Antipodean lady
And the estate dog
Sniffs the Georgian housed
Near the grassy couple
Hotly aroused
As the young black lads
Sip brandy and tunes
Whilst laughing at
The owd cockney geezers
Wheezy jokes
While one of the kids folks
With the Moen Ali beard
Shouts praise for the
Scooter race
The Mohammad Ali
Wannabe
Raises the bar
And old friends embrace
Next to the
African cup of nations
Five a side final.

The only one
Unrepresented here
Is the separatist.
They have their own park
And believe me,
It's shit.

Les Dawson Face

As you enter
The pristine
Gallery space,
Pull on your best,
Les Dawson Face,
Get all Norman Stanley Fletcher,
At the attendant, I betcha,
That’s all McKay slanted smug,
Get Dick Emery make-up
On yer porcelain boredom mug,
Do yer best Tommy Cooper,
At the painting
Boundary ropes,
But,
Frank
Spencering
The sculpture,
You won’t,
I hopes.

Dock Tarn Duck School

If it’s possible
For them to look
Unfulfilled
Then gander at
This orange billed
Native naive grebo
Of Dock Tarn

Not shy to greet
The solo youngster
Has yet failed to find it’s
Feeding feet

Not yet out of it's bairn colours
It's ducking and diving
And sifting of morsels
Has a wind-swept futility to it

But with persistence
Clocks our gifts
And we become
Decreasingly miffed
With aim of cake
To the game it's brain awakes
And slowly gets that
These morsels
Ain't fake
And diving gets reward

Our offerings
It sifts
From still waters lifts
It's status from dumb oddity
To graceful gobbler
We continue to launch
Some lunch
A foot in front
And slowly
Watch the poor sod
With a head dip
Sustainably
Discover
Until we move on
With the hope it finds
Another mother

After, After Dark

The quarter bottle
Of pre-club gin
Tastes like soap
As we early cue up
With the other soap-dodgers

Vodka and lime
Arrives right on time
As the old Caribbean boys
Slam their bones and
I brush ash
From my tie

The stage is set
For frugging
As gods
And moths
Dance with
Indie darlings
And sweat
And smoke
Down black walls
Drips and rises
What the DJ plays
Holds no surprises
But at the After Dark
We weekly do
Our weekend bit
‘Cos it the only
Club in Reading
That
Isn’t
Completely
Shit

(And now the
Flat Bastards
Want to tear it down…)

A right pair o' tankas and a little 'un: Massive R.I.P. and Afternoon Surprise

Massive R.I.P.

Each week radio
Tells to me: another dead
Celebrity. Their
Celeby friends fling phrases
Such as: Massive R.I.P.

Afternoon Surprise

A day-glo phrase
On some fucking unfunny
Radio 4 in
The afternoon plays was read
“Pill munching Scandi rave head”

Modern Rewrite

Tyger tyger, burning bright,
Filmed with iPhone,
Put on Facebook.