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.

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.

Evening

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.

https://youtu.be/UBT27ipaNwQ?is=YKe_UJteJmJWlNN-

Pain

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.

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.

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!"

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-3476344/Are-closet-NARCISSIST-Connections-brain-reveal-decisions-hidden-selfish-motive.html

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,

Then:

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.