Thursday, 31 March 2016

Watching The Sea From One's In Land Living Room.

Oh I do like to be beside the sea side,
as it flickers in the corner of the room,
where the sand cannot insinuate itself in every crack,
and the brilliance of reflected light 
is tempered by interior gloom:
a sulky fire, a sulky husband and the dark night, winter black.

Yes, I do like to be beside the sea side
where it flickers in the corner, and the spume
and azure air,
or the peaceful, turquoise ocean
make a backdrop, as I stare
at a lovely muscled back,
or a six pack, toned, firm, tight,
at smooth and burnished gold-brown skin 
hard, warm and thin,
(never touched by sun tan lotion)
ripped! Rippling hypnotically, erotically, in waves,
in explanation of the notion,
of sympathetic motion
as Poldark rides, half naked, along the cliff top track.

Wednesday, 23 March 2016

Hashtags And Flowers. (To the tune Kelvingrove)

There are hashtags, there are flowers, there is candle light
There is signalling of virtue, but no end in sight.
There is following the crowd
And pretending to be strong,
There is acting like a coward
Shielding what is wrong.

There are words in mealy mouths,
There is hot air and guff
There are many good intentions
But there's not enough
Of the sort of strength we need
To protect us, and indeed
We'd reject it if we saw it
For our brains are fluff.

Out Of Time

I seem to have run out of time,
It has fallen behind the cooker.
It slid off its hook on the wall.  
I have also run out of interesting.
Interesting depends on portions -
Portions depend on time.
You can't just gorge.
You can't read every article 
In the rightwing press
Enjoying being incensed by the state of the country these days
And the feeling of boiling blood.
You can't just feast
On every piece of seventeenth
Century or Georgian furniture
For sale in the auction catalogues,
Or examine every antique on eBay
And make yourself sad
Knowing you can't scheme
About getting hold of the next one,
Because you bought one last week
And you have to ration. 
You can't look at every single
Historic property on Rightmove
Because you just get constipated in the head.
You can't get on at all
When time has fallen off the wall,
And got stuck behind the cooker.
Even when you own two longcase clocks that bong.
And don't bother pointing out 
The digital clock on the computer,
Because digital time comes from digit
Which means poking finger,
Scrolling finger, and it is entirely unrelated to real time
They just don't compare.
Real time is behind the cooker 
Getting covered in brown gunge and dog hair.

Tuesday, 22 March 2016

Kick Ass Woman

When I'm grown up I'm gonna kick ass,
with agility,
and a northern working class accent.
I'm gonna be feisty, I'm gonna be hard as nails
on the outside, with a vulnerable, soft centre,
a certain fragility.
So I will never kick ass unnecessarily. 
And if I start the descent 
into a redundancy of sass,
or feist, I will remember 
that being a northern, female heroine entails
a massive, unsubtle contrast,
an almost schizophrenic mentality.
Bearing that in mind I shall then find
some experience on which to draw,
or think of 'me Nan',
and hard times, and endless grind,
so that I can look wise and sympathise,
before dusting myself down 
and kicking different ass, or kicking ass differently,
because I will be nothing if not creative
in my ass kicking ability.

Monday, 21 March 2016

Gulls On The Reservoir Viewed From The Swing After School, Late Winter.

Screeches and screaming and squealing, circling flight,
Raucous, rowdy, wheeling, fragments of white,
The gulls are crowding this small, 
Clear place to which they are drawn,
And dropping like confetti strewn 
On the water's face: that clear, dimpled impossible skin,
Brush marked with bruises,
Small ellipses, slate and indigo, tiny and thin.
Sudden flashes and glances of orange-peach light
Bounced off the surface of shimmering silk, 
Silver and bright and grey-blue, glinting.
Squinting glimpses through catkins 
And bare twigs of alders and over the wall.
And over the tops of my shoes at the height
Of the arc I make, having turned my back on the beeches, 
Dense and dark and towering tall,
Hiding the sinking, pinking sun,
Deepening the dark shades of dusk at the side of the hall,
Turning the sandstone to dark grey, from fawn,
Encroaching and crowding the shadowy space, at the end of the lawn.

Thursday, 17 March 2016

A Political Speech.

Today we meet, and in this slice of time,
We must explain our thoughts to you, because
Any power that we feel that we may have,
Is granted unto us, by you. We serve
And will continue so to do, if you
Permit us to.
We know the country is beset with debt
And money we have none.
We ask not that you let us rob you more,
In taxes for our own extravagance,
Or wasteful schemes, designed to take away
This great and ancient thing:  democracy.
We ask just this, that you might trust us, though
We know your trust, thus far we have not earned.
But grant us one chance more and we shall try,
To mind the promises we made before,
And let this nation live within its means.
We shall not try and weave a net of laws
Designed to enervate and stifle man,
We shall not think it is our role to preach
To you about the living of your lives,
Nor to beseech and beg you to believe
Those 'truths' which fashion says today are true,
And greedy men exploit for short term gain.


The crackling on the blutoothed audio
Is absolutely accurate,
Above Maggie Teyte and Cortot,
Singing and playing on the Robert's radio,
Beamed from a CD on the internet
Remastered from an ancient gramophone.
The combination is perfect.

The coals shuffle down
Lulled by the sizzling
Knowing they're not alone
In sparkling, fizzling.

The little blue toothed flames dance
Feeling the heat of the south of France
Languid, calm and dying away
In crescendos, diminuendos
Matching themselves to the tapering
Phrases, flickering, capering
Over cinders, slowly collapsing,
Then waking and dancing again in reprise.

And only the clock
Refuses to yield to the mood,
Until, right at the end
He seems to unbend
And makes a perfect metronome,
And admits that his heart is beating
To the music's winding and weaving.
And the dog is asleep and snoring:
C'est l'heure exquise.


Your absence never noticed but in contrast,
To your presence, never forgotten.
Uninvited guest whose rudeness, vast,
Colossal, whose manners foul and rotten,
Odious, ought to be ignored and yet
Will not be.  Egotist! Attention seeking
Bastard! Do you think we owe a debt
Of gratitude, philosophically speaking,
For teaching us appreciation
Of our lives when you're not hanging round?
Did we issue an invitation?
Why should we rejoice and thus compound?
You try our patience with each sudden blast,
But we shall overcome, and throw you out at last.

Saturday, 12 March 2016

I'm A Celebrity, Film Me In 'The Jungle' (After Robert Graves)

Why intrude into this cold, wet, slum
This filthy slum of ours?
Your virtue, dripping down like sweat, leaves scum:
We have no showers.
Why do you turn up here to film again
Self centred skin and bone?
Leave us to violence, scheming, and to pain,
Leave us alone.

Friday, 4 March 2016

Closet Narcissism

"What type of altruistic sod are you?
There are two:
The kind that thinks of reciprocity,
Or the kind with genuine empathy.
Because if I suspect you are only being kind
Because it makes you look good,
Or because you think I might be kind back,
You've got another thing coming!
You narcissistic swine.
You won't get past me,
Saying what's yours is mine,
Because you think I might say what's mine's yours,
Cos it's not, see!
So it's pointless, it will only end in frustration.
You don't fool me,
I don't want your charity
Or your bloody inculcating
In the ways of love and consideration.
I've seen.
They've got this machine
Reads brainwaves.
It will spot your flaws,
It will prove that you're unfit
To be anywhere near me.
They've got this way of telling
Exactly what your thinking,
Looks inside your head
And sees the kindness centres,
Only they're not spelling words of sympathy,
They're just bloody calculating.
You altruistic, narcissistic, reciprocating little shit!"

Thursday, 3 March 2016

Inbox: Junk Mail - Do You Desire An Extra Fire In Your Bedroom Life?

Well, no to be frank.
And I wish you'd stop asking,
You're giving me a complex.
But you see:
By the time I have cleared out the grate,
Shovelled the ash into the bucket,
Taken it out to the bin,
Emptied it,
Come back in
And back upstairs;
By the time I have scented the room
With the sweet perfume
Of paraffin, from Zip firelighters,
(Which don't need unZipping,
So don't really get me in the mood)
Been back down again,
Carried up the bags of kindling from Lidl,
Screwed up the chip paper,
Arranged it into a pyramid
With old clinkers on top,
(Always a bit of a fiddle)
Found the matches,
And refilled the coal hod
And carried it up,
It's too late.
I'm too knackered for sex.