High camp and splendidly nasty good fun!
Grandfather disappeared, a model of the doomed.
Said goodnight twice-there were distances in that iron-man!
Inching between chair and makeshift bed.
He was stagestruck in Watlington, a nerdy insecure writer.
Disturbing to watch, your ill-fated setting
a starry cast, a fire by which you could sit.
Playing surrogate mother you never returned.
Out of the white dress, to the Channel Islands.
He defied industry gossip, gone is the grim realism
of endless winter evenings. He was a sex-crazed -
washed-up-medallion-man
who fancied the commander,
and was shot in crisp secret.
A soldier all and proud of it.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Saturday, 26 January 2008
SMILE
All day his doctors crafted
the Prime Minister's stoical smile.
His teeth, honed with white Superglutex©
and polished with supreme Denturetrox©
glamoured brighter than any
other on the planet.
The cameras were positioned
carefully on their Xs. No detail
was left unscrutinised. A propagandist's
dream of excellence.
Then at the moment when the
Prime Minister beamed, the
sun blazed gloriously from behind
the clouds. Rays freed from ozone
cages blinded eyes and smashed
camera lenses.
And with the intesnsity of the flare
his teeth shuddered back into grey.
In shame they dropped out one
by one until lips set with super-grade
Glossixicide© clasped a black
crescent void. A ghastly grimace
on the PM's face.
after Sappho
the Prime Minister's stoical smile.
His teeth, honed with white Superglutex©
and polished with supreme Denturetrox©
glamoured brighter than any
other on the planet.
The cameras were positioned
carefully on their Xs. No detail
was left unscrutinised. A propagandist's
dream of excellence.
Then at the moment when the
Prime Minister beamed, the
sun blazed gloriously from behind
the clouds. Rays freed from ozone
cages blinded eyes and smashed
camera lenses.
And with the intesnsity of the flare
his teeth shuddered back into grey.
In shame they dropped out one
by one until lips set with super-grade
Glossixicide© clasped a black
crescent void. A ghastly grimace
on the PM's face.
after Sappho
Friday, 25 January 2008
AESOP'S FOIBLE
The ants they worked all hours God sent,
under the sun and under the stars.
They hoarded their wealth in High Street Banks
and raced around in their luminous cars.
Whilst grasshoppers who dwelt nearby
frolicked and gambolled and jumped about,
taking life easy and life with ease,
fun within and fun without.
When winter bit hard and hard it bit
the grasshoppers sheltered away.
Under the roots and under the leaves
away from the chill of day.
But as for the ants they all died out
having cut down all the trees.
A wind has blown their homes away
their bodies stiffened in the freeze.
under the sun and under the stars.
They hoarded their wealth in High Street Banks
and raced around in their luminous cars.
Whilst grasshoppers who dwelt nearby
frolicked and gambolled and jumped about,
taking life easy and life with ease,
fun within and fun without.
When winter bit hard and hard it bit
the grasshoppers sheltered away.
Under the roots and under the leaves
away from the chill of day.
But as for the ants they all died out
having cut down all the trees.
A wind has blown their homes away
their bodies stiffened in the freeze.
SNOW WHITE
In her sparkling, tinkling, golden world
Snow White was Queen
with a host of adoring coutiers.
But was laughed at
by family and friends
until she felt like a peasant.
So she left and travelled south,
where she encountered
a company of Dwarves
whom she emphatically enslaved.
And sent to the mines
to dig for diamonds and gold
in terrible working conditions.
As for the sweet animals of the forest,
they were promptly (but politely) informed,
if the house was not cleaned to perfection
the dinner menu would be changed.
Snow White grew fat and ruled her kingdom
with rage, weight and a great big stick.
Goldilocks and LR Riding Hood enrolled
and they became a trinity of tyrants.
The three bears signed up to be bodyguards.
Machiavellian meetings and furtive whisperings
led the dwarves to hire
the Wicked Witch of the West.
They watched in gruesome glee
as Snow White munched on the
poisoned apple.
Snow White was Queen
with a host of adoring coutiers.
But was laughed at
by family and friends
until she felt like a peasant.
So she left and travelled south,
where she encountered
a company of Dwarves
whom she emphatically enslaved.
And sent to the mines
to dig for diamonds and gold
in terrible working conditions.
As for the sweet animals of the forest,
they were promptly (but politely) informed,
if the house was not cleaned to perfection
the dinner menu would be changed.
Snow White grew fat and ruled her kingdom
with rage, weight and a great big stick.
Goldilocks and LR Riding Hood enrolled
and they became a trinity of tyrants.
The three bears signed up to be bodyguards.
Machiavellian meetings and furtive whisperings
led the dwarves to hire
the Wicked Witch of the West.
They watched in gruesome glee
as Snow White munched on the
poisoned apple.
Thursday, 24 January 2008
DR WHO TAKES A HOLIDAY
Dr Who is fed up.
Dr Who is tired.
Dr Who is tired of kicking Dalek ass
or clearing off cybermen.
In fact he doesn't want errant Aliens
of any kind.
He is sick of any more jokes.
You know the one.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Dr.
Dr Who?
Ha ha! Very unfunny very unkind.
"I save the Human Race and they
laught at my expense!"
He figures it will always be like this.
Always be good and evil, "well all well and good"
he says.
But Dr Who is exhausted.
So he thinks to himself
"I need a holiday, get away from it all."
So he sells his tardis
(and all the other bibs and bobs)
to a second-hand car salesman
"only 5 trillion miles on the clock"
a small white lie, so what
he thinks.
He was viewed strangely at customs
and when they asked
where he came from
there was pandemonium at the airport.
But he got there,
able to put his feet up
no more meddling assistants
no one to fall out with
no one to fall in love with.
Just himself and sea, sun, sand
and ice creams.
"What a life" he thought "what luxury,
what bliss."
And when he eventually returned
the world hadn't changed
that much.
The Daleks and Cybermen had fought a war,
and wiped each other out.
The Human Race was still there
in all its manifestations.
Life had just got on fine
without Dr Who getting involved.
"No more timelording and meddling
for me" he thought.
Dr Who was free of all that.
Dr Who was free.
Dr Who is tired.
Dr Who is tired of kicking Dalek ass
or clearing off cybermen.
In fact he doesn't want errant Aliens
of any kind.
He is sick of any more jokes.
You know the one.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Dr.
Dr Who?
Ha ha! Very unfunny very unkind.
"I save the Human Race and they
laught at my expense!"
He figures it will always be like this.
Always be good and evil, "well all well and good"
he says.
But Dr Who is exhausted.
So he thinks to himself
"I need a holiday, get away from it all."
So he sells his tardis
(and all the other bibs and bobs)
to a second-hand car salesman
"only 5 trillion miles on the clock"
a small white lie, so what
he thinks.
He was viewed strangely at customs
and when they asked
where he came from
there was pandemonium at the airport.
But he got there,
able to put his feet up
no more meddling assistants
no one to fall out with
no one to fall in love with.
Just himself and sea, sun, sand
and ice creams.
"What a life" he thought "what luxury,
what bliss."
And when he eventually returned
the world hadn't changed
that much.
The Daleks and Cybermen had fought a war,
and wiped each other out.
The Human Race was still there
in all its manifestations.
Life had just got on fine
without Dr Who getting involved.
"No more timelording and meddling
for me" he thought.
Dr Who was free of all that.
Dr Who was free.
Friday, 18 January 2008
SHEEP'S HEAD
On top of a gatepost was a sheep's head.
The remnant of some religious festival
from the day before.
It smiled with rows
of small white teeth
like a grotesque finial.
It greeted us as we sidled past
on our way to school.
And over the course of a week,
the eyes glazed with milk,
the smile became a grimace.
I remember looking elsewhere
at the time of slaughter.
The securing of legs and
the cutting of a delicate throat.
Then I must confess,
I ogled with morbid fascination
at the subsequent carving.
The careful emptying of intestines.
The sacred bucket of blood and offal.
At night I lay awake, a witness
to the rabid screeching of cats
serenading the honoured sacrifice
while moonlight glimmered on its rotting face.
The remnant of some religious festival
from the day before.
It smiled with rows
of small white teeth
like a grotesque finial.
It greeted us as we sidled past
on our way to school.
And over the course of a week,
the eyes glazed with milk,
the smile became a grimace.
I remember looking elsewhere
at the time of slaughter.
The securing of legs and
the cutting of a delicate throat.
Then I must confess,
I ogled with morbid fascination
at the subsequent carving.
The careful emptying of intestines.
The sacred bucket of blood and offal.
At night I lay awake, a witness
to the rabid screeching of cats
serenading the honoured sacrifice
while moonlight glimmered on its rotting face.
Thursday, 17 January 2008
my creativity
my creativity is the smell of musty paint
dying on the palette
cobwebs and stale muslin
shroud the outside sunlight
my art is a silent crowded room
a tiger asleep in a cage
a coma induced by violent meat
years of suppressed rage
my mind is a lighthouse obscured by fog
too many paths thru the wood
my consciousness a traffic-jam
a heart that wishes good
my creativity is stuck in treacle
obsessions are a drug
i am an anxiety junkie
drowning in the mud
dying on the palette
cobwebs and stale muslin
shroud the outside sunlight
my art is a silent crowded room
a tiger asleep in a cage
a coma induced by violent meat
years of suppressed rage
my mind is a lighthouse obscured by fog
too many paths thru the wood
my consciousness a traffic-jam
a heart that wishes good
my creativity is stuck in treacle
obsessions are a drug
i am an anxiety junkie
drowning in the mud
SNAIL CROSSING
In search of better feeding grounds
a snail ventures the concrete path.
Going from safe green to safer green,
and throughout its leisurely meandering,
time seems to relax.
Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours,
during which a sudden footstep
may crush its fragile shell.
Like someone who endlessly waits
for the phone to ring,
for the call that will change
their life for good or ill.
a snail ventures the concrete path.
Going from safe green to safer green,
and throughout its leisurely meandering,
time seems to relax.
Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours,
during which a sudden footstep
may crush its fragile shell.
Like someone who endlessly waits
for the phone to ring,
for the call that will change
their life for good or ill.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
4 O'CLOCK
Flowers in a state of slow decay
survey a once lively room.
A clock measures
the dying light of day.
A street lamp casts
patterns of yellow-white
across the carpet.
The atmosphere deepens
in contemplation.
Embers glow upon the fire.
Shadows stretch their hands
across the walls.
The hot coals settle.
Gran is snoring, head in hand
a sleeper in the gloom.
On her feet a gift of slippers,
in her head a dream of childhood,
sunshine and daisies.
survey a once lively room.
A clock measures
the dying light of day.
A street lamp casts
patterns of yellow-white
across the carpet.
The atmosphere deepens
in contemplation.
Embers glow upon the fire.
Shadows stretch their hands
across the walls.
The hot coals settle.
Gran is snoring, head in hand
a sleeper in the gloom.
On her feet a gift of slippers,
in her head a dream of childhood,
sunshine and daisies.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
GARDEN IN MAY
In this May garden:
Where the greenfinch shines in the sun and whose wings
flash yellow when she flies.
Where fledglings clamour for food where the once flowered
bluebell is amply podded.
Where moles burrow their labyrinthian tunnels and where
they dot the lawn with volcanoes of soil.
Where flies meander over the grass and where they rest
and scuttle on verdant leaves.
Where the seed pods of honesty are spattered with
raindrops.
Where pond frogs drift languidly, half submerged, and where
freshly washed towels swell gently in the breeze.
In this garden:
Where lilies are burnt and blackened by winter frosts.
Where roses spill their petals and whose leaves are marred
by caterpillars.
Where swallows are swallowed up by the vast blue sky.
Where the wind chimes tinkle and where the high-flying
aircraft shudders the air with its low sonorous sound.
Where cats pretend to stalk and kill and where they recline
in shadowy hideouts with their paws outstretched.
Where robins splash and frolic in the birdbath and where
the skittish blue tit flits and whirrs its dainty wings.
In the evening in this garden:
Where bats flutter erratically and where a house mouse
fusses at the edge of the undergrowth.
Where trees are washed orange by the setting sun.
Where the blackbird utters its warning cry, and whose liquid
melody gushes forth from apple boughs.
Where tiny dragon mouths of honeysuckle permeate
the air with their perfume.
Where pots huddle by the garden shed.
Where at dusk the lights of the house warm and brighten
against the oncoming gloom.
Where the crescent moon peeks from ephemeral clouds.
All these I have loved in this glorious garden in May.
after Walt Whitman
Where the greenfinch shines in the sun and whose wings
flash yellow when she flies.
Where fledglings clamour for food where the once flowered
bluebell is amply podded.
Where moles burrow their labyrinthian tunnels and where
they dot the lawn with volcanoes of soil.
Where flies meander over the grass and where they rest
and scuttle on verdant leaves.
Where the seed pods of honesty are spattered with
raindrops.
Where pond frogs drift languidly, half submerged, and where
freshly washed towels swell gently in the breeze.
In this garden:
Where lilies are burnt and blackened by winter frosts.
Where roses spill their petals and whose leaves are marred
by caterpillars.
Where swallows are swallowed up by the vast blue sky.
Where the wind chimes tinkle and where the high-flying
aircraft shudders the air with its low sonorous sound.
Where cats pretend to stalk and kill and where they recline
in shadowy hideouts with their paws outstretched.
Where robins splash and frolic in the birdbath and where
the skittish blue tit flits and whirrs its dainty wings.
In the evening in this garden:
Where bats flutter erratically and where a house mouse
fusses at the edge of the undergrowth.
Where trees are washed orange by the setting sun.
Where the blackbird utters its warning cry, and whose liquid
melody gushes forth from apple boughs.
Where tiny dragon mouths of honeysuckle permeate
the air with their perfume.
Where pots huddle by the garden shed.
Where at dusk the lights of the house warm and brighten
against the oncoming gloom.
Where the crescent moon peeks from ephemeral clouds.
All these I have loved in this glorious garden in May.
after Walt Whitman
DESERTED BOAT
You lay ravaged.
By that army of pioneering
plants that have blocked your
lifeblood of arteries, capillaries and veins.
Soaking up your salty saviour
with thirsty stems and hungry leaves.
Your guts and intestines
are home for lurking animals.
With your blistering, cracking, peeling paint
You pine.
You are pine.
While floating souls take time to stare
and study your imprisoned hulk.
One day the sea may discover you
like some lost friend.
And take you to some other shore
where cliffs welcome you
with arms of jagged rocks.
Your flotsam
of wet and warped and weathered planks
lay strewn like sculptures on the shore.
Hardly noticed by passing faces.
By that army of pioneering
plants that have blocked your
lifeblood of arteries, capillaries and veins.
Soaking up your salty saviour
with thirsty stems and hungry leaves.
Your guts and intestines
are home for lurking animals.
With your blistering, cracking, peeling paint
You pine.
You are pine.
While floating souls take time to stare
and study your imprisoned hulk.
One day the sea may discover you
like some lost friend.
And take you to some other shore
where cliffs welcome you
with arms of jagged rocks.
Your flotsam
of wet and warped and weathered planks
lay strewn like sculptures on the shore.
Hardly noticed by passing faces.
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
PSYCHOSIS
Bad thoughts trap you
in a fantasy world of
warmth, safety and delusion,
not knowing you are
open to the elements.
The rain of abuse.
The hail of criticism.
The storm of anger.
You stumble over wasteland
covering your eyes
with your fists.
Bewildered, confused and
battle-scarred.
You are utterly alone.
in a fantasy world of
warmth, safety and delusion,
not knowing you are
open to the elements.
The rain of abuse.
The hail of criticism.
The storm of anger.
You stumble over wasteland
covering your eyes
with your fists.
Bewildered, confused and
battle-scarred.
You are utterly alone.
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