Thursday, 30 November 2017

The Steven Patrick Morrissey Equation

Flower waving and Marr’s guitar,
Neither a positive or negative effect
On me at all.
The number of Smiths records I’ve owned,
Is the equal to the sum of my respect:
Zero. Cock all.

For some, a torn bedroom wall hero,
This arrogant oar sticker,
Daily Mail Elvis, La La La La La Le Pen,
Whilst his blue shirts wait,
At cemetery gates,
Big mouth strikes again.

Tuesday, 28 November 2017

Once Again, Don’t Speak For Me.

Buzzcocks paraphrase,
They says, that ‘Everybody’s
Happy, everyone
Loves that Harry nowadays’.
Don’t! Speak for me, anyways.

A Girl Made of Shapes Rattles on the Bridge

She wears a dress all thin,From the house of knife-thrower.
Any beneficial daggers
Keep miss, miss, missing,
In pissing rain, just
The whip-crack sound is left.
As if a coin-shaped button or two
Could shield the river's breath.

Frailty doubled, by waxy
Moustached must-dash
Supposed strong men.
Passing shots in a game of
Set and match-match-macho.
But, it's a thumbs down from
Public balcony above cold
Concrete coloured colluseum.

No longer lashed by
Steel rope to the crow's nest,
A steely glare fixes on
Her young face's crow's feet.
Bitter wind, bitter wind, better end.
The audience gathers in suspension.
She gathers herself off kilter.

This pale black ring-mistress
Stands tall with empty hat.
The fat seals clap in judgement
Our straight ten acrobat.
Seahorse cantering waters
'neath cantilevered crew.
She backs away, away she
back flips.

Anonymous splash in wavy capitals
As tourists snap to remember
She stops breathing to forget
The deathly clowns tear
From ear
To ear
To down there

Just a cardboard nameplate left
On her circus office door
Headstone to the bereft
In marker pen
Reads out loud, folks once more:
"Out, out, out to lunch"

Let's drink to the salt of the earth
Let's drink to the salt of the earth
Let's drink with salty tears
And vow.
To at least … try,
To end homelessness,
Now.

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Pretzel Heady Logic

Pretzels
Can be political.
They have
Weight.
Disagreements
Will ensue.
I’m Spicing up me pint,
At The Lamb,
For which
I’m weak.
So sue
Me a packet of Jalapeño
Pretzel bits, man,
For they
Don’t half
Make yer
‘Ead leak.

Shamping ‘69

As I lace me boots,
Think of my German roots.
Nothing like the hike for a
Spike in my efforts to
Face egging myself on,
For a damp canvas ejection,
With sleep kaput.

Campsite, I
Imagine them exercise,
A DDR Fitness Programme,
Old women, men
On damp grass,
Getting stretchy
With Bletchley Park precision.
What a carry on!
Maybe it’s my roots?

Four days pass.
The half-arsed light,
Brings breath like schnapps.
Not razor sharp,
Fresh-faced and fiddling fit,
I’m a clammy,
Razor broken pit flea.

I look like
Sea Sick Steve.

So much so,
At the last pub for miles,
A local (the Don Arden of
Schadenfreude)
Turns:

“Are you
That,
Sick Ste?”

“Nein.”

Monday, 13 November 2017

Quilted


Is your jacket quilted?
Your bog roll,
The same pattern?
Whilst your
Bright house derrière,
Does prepare,
On the golden throne
You’re sat on?

Pants by ankles, hoping
The golden retriever,
Doesn’t leave you,
Jilted on the John.
After you wipe your arse,
With paradise paper,
Just remember who
You’ve shat on.

Sunday, 12 November 2017

The Descision Maker

This poem is going
To cost you fifty five
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