I Need of Editing

In need of editing

Due to a medically undiagnosed:

As yet, unspecified; neural condition;

This ditty; I’ve only just now composed;

Bears witness to my current obsession

With: colons and semicolons; and as such:

Needs editing; prior to publication;

Which; typically would be very much

The case here; but for my wife’s vacation.

She; being possessed of an equally

Obsessive; if counter fascination;

With grammatical correctness; and frequently

Prone to irritation and frustration:

Will; upon seeing this piece; feel compelled

To ruthlessly purge it of words misspelled;

Sentences deemed nonsensical/confused:

And every punctuation mark misused:

She’ll surgically extract: accordingly:

Performing: as it were: a colectomy:

But: presently she’s somewhere in Spain:

Hence: colons; and semicolons: remain.

Nativity (Boys in Tights)

Nativity (Boys in Tights)

One late December in nineteen sixty-

Something, I was due to appear on stage,

In Chadwell Heath infant’s nativity,

Or pantomime, at the very young age

Of five or six, for two, three, or four nights,

Dressed as a pixie, (or was it an elf?),

In a pair of red, yellow, or green tights,

The thought of which made me feel very self-

Conscious. I seem to remember begging old

Mrs, wots-her-name, not to make me wear

‘em, but kids mostly did as they were told

Back then- especially those inclined to scare

Easily. Hence, I couldn’t avoid it

And, even though (maybe) I quite enjoyed it,

If anyone asked, I probably said,

I wished I’d been one of the wise men instead.

Twelve Days of Christmas

Twelve Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

a jumper that didn't fit.

On the second day of Christmas my true love and me...

had a row over it.

On the third day of Christmas my true love said to me...

"why are you so miserable?"

On the forth day of Christmas my true love went for me...

with a kitchen stool.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love couldn't see...

any reason to stay.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love packed her things...

and went away.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me...

her wedding ring.

On the eight day of Christmas my true love gave to me....

absolutely nothing.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love wrote to me...

asking for a divorce

On the tenth day of Christmas I sent her my reply...

which said, "of course".

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love came back...

but only to get some more things.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love isn't here...

and the telephone never rings.

Why I Write in Rhyme

Why I Write in Rhyme

I started ticking, when I was aged ten;

And sympathy wasn’t much shown back then;

From neither teachers, nor pupils in school;

Who, consequently, were often quite cruel;

Especially the bullies; and as such;

I, who was more naturally a soft-touch,

Had to be someone I wasn’t, each day,

In order to keep the tough kids at bay.

My parents both were naturally, concerned;

Perplexed, as to why I’d suddenly turned

Abnormal. Mum, near the point of despair,

Took me to a hospital in Romford, where

A doctor, upon examining me,

Established I was in physically

“Tick” condition, but should symptoms persist,

He suggested I see a psychiatrist;

The mention of which, filled me with premonitions

Of straight-jackets and asylum admissions:

One must remember: the 1970’s

Was a time when mental-illness remedies,

Were very much in keeping with “One Flew

Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”; the common view

Of psychiatry was positive, nigh never;

And I inwardly vowed to do whatever

It took to avoid it: but what could I do?

At twelve years old, I’d been ticking for two

Years, and for all the torment, it had become

A part of me; like a finger or thumb;

It was as if I not only couldn’t

Stop; I didn’t want to, and hence wouldn’t!

But somehow, I had to rein the tics in,

Or else I’d be sent to the “Loony bin”.

One fateful day, I, having randomly

Embarked on a mindless scrawl, suddenly

Found myself writing everything in rhyme;

And later, it occurred to me: at no time,

Whilst I was writing, or considering what

To write; always with rhyming in mind; not

Once did I feel the urge to tic! Thus, by chance,

I’d found a tic other than Vitus’s dance;

And it wasn’t long before I could talk

Without barking uncontrollably; and walk

Without dancing spasmodically, merely

By thinking in rhyme. Those closest to me

Marvelled upon the change; and best of all:

Mum never gave the psychiatrist a call;

And the bulk of the bully-boys, let me be;

Thanks to the ticking rhymes they couldn’t see.

Now, fifty odd years later, and ticking still;

I’m often these days on a poetry bill;

And, though I’m not really much of a poet;

If my rhyming tics entertain; so be it!

Poet or not, I’m very much content;

And if the tics aren’t exactly God-sent;

In light of my thinking and writing in verse;

I figure them more of a blessing than curse.

A Happy Ending

A Happy Ending

Walking the path of a fortunate man,

Who wouldn’t wish for a happy ending,

By the chequered flag at the end of one’s span?

Who of us wants to feel scared, expending

Their last, prior ascending or descending?

What would be the point of a life well led,

If all that’s in-store is the mind-bending,

Nullifying, despair-inducing, dread

Finality of a sterile death-bed?

From what little I know of the effects

Of heroin; and always assuming

I’ll be in the care of opiate techs;

My imminent exit stage four looming;

I want to give chase, to the all consuming

Dragon, upon the surrender of air;

And if any loved ones are watching; glooming;

I want them to see a mask, free of care,

Exhaling smoke, with a smiley-face stare.

A Real Man?

A Real Man?

I often recall the time a tough

Miner said, I wasn’t man-enough,

Upon intervening between his

Mate and me, one night, on the piss,

In the Labour club in ’84,

Where they were bedding on the floor,

During the war between the NUM,

And the cabinet in number ten;

And I wish I could say I was there

In support, but I didn’t much care

For politics back then-left or right-

And the reason I nearly had a fight,

Was mainly down to me being

Jealous over this girl I was seeing,

Near-snogging the miner she’d got talking too

Last night, who’d bought her drink or two.

But that’s by the by: my present intention,

Is to draw my audience’s attention

To the second line of this poem-stroke-rhyme,

In order to say: forty odd years later; whilst I’m

Still nowhere near man-enough, or at least

Not enough to take on an alpha-male beast;

I’ve now reached the point where for all my mistakes,

I’m fine with having not got what it takes;

I’d even go as far as to say

I’m grateful for not being made that way;

I’d rather labour everyday

To improve on who I was yesterday:

I want to be better, more feministic,

And less toxic and chauvinistic

Than the man who, last night, went to sleep,

Counting his blessings in lieu of sheep.

His blessings: mine; are the women I know;

Every one of whom, whether hid or on show;

Have scars, courtesy of man-enough men,

And if I had my time over again…

But what of it?

For now, I’m aware of the lake,

And the ripples of everyone’s mistake,

And though I’m far from being a good guy,

My fantastic friends give me reason to try.

Lydon

   Lydon

Thespians and popstars, well past their prime,

MPs in want of a second career;

I can’t believe it’s been a year since “I’m

A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here”.

The last time I watched was when Lydon said,

“You fucking cunts”, in front of Ant and Dec;

And ITV's bosses, upon seeing red,

Took steps, to further keep swearing in check;

Or so I believe; but enough of celeb;

I wanna talk about Lydon some more:

Now less a punk more Republican pleb;

Else what’s he wearing a MAGA hat for?

He, who once said of UKIP; and I quote:

“A black hole for the ignorant to fall

Into”, has changed his tune to Farage’s note;

As if he was never against him at all!

Likening Trump to a punk politician,

Supposedly anti-establishment;

He’s now aligned with Reform’s vision

Of ultra-conservative management!

Whatever happened to Johnny Rotten?

Was Anarchy in the UK a mere ruse?

Has he, in all honesty forgotten

How fascists manipulate working class views?

Or was he all the while playing the part?

Swearing and wearing flash clothes for TV,

When really he’s a contrarian tart;

A wannabe knight or an MBE.

Last year Farage himself was in the camp,

On I’m a Celeb, and from what I heard,

He was nearly ‘23’s populist champ;

Making the final and coming close third;

Now he’s Britain’s highest earning MP,

Gathering momentum and gaining ground;

In five years or less, he may very well be

Crossing the finish line, Downing Street bound,

And if John Lydon is performing still,

Will he be playing in front of the King?

The way things are headed he probably will:

His Public Image is very right-wing.

All reactions:

1Jackie Montague

Sold

Sold

Our bond was rarely especially strong;

With little in common, we ambled along;

Still, I recall fondly, Tony and I,

Beneath an autumnal, evening sky,

Each smoking one of Tony’s slim Hamlets,

The scent of which, blending with bonfire smoke,

Gave an aroma one never forgets,

As burning embers, glowing whilst we spoke;

Amiably putting our worlds to rights;

Crackled with warmth on the calmest of nights.

From spring through summer, the lawn being short

As a bowling green or a tennis court;

Round Tony’s we’d gather, for roast and wine,

And after lunch, if the weather was fine;

With shuttlecock, ball, bats, rackets, we’d play;

Or hide and seek, with the children, in or

Outdoors; and on every Easter Sunday,

Adults, and children alike, would search for

Eggs, which were easily found, and duly

Scoffed, (at least on the part of yours truly).

Tomatoes, seedlings, and flowerpots filled

The little greenhouse I helped Tony build:

Spinach, greens, broccoli with a purple sprout;

Runner-beans that never seemed to run out;

Flourished in the area beyond the main:

A well-tended patch, hidden by a hedge,

And sheltered by a pine, that enabled rain

And sunlight to nourish home-grown veg,

Yet trapped all the magic drawing me there,

Where edibles grew with meticulous care.

When Tony found weeding, digging, mowing,

Cutting and planting, too heavy-going,

I fortnightly mowed the lawns, front and back;

Tony would make me a Nescafé black,

And we’d talk like we did in autumns gone by;

Conversing in comfortable companionship;

He graciously, gratefully praising my

Mowing and occasionally, letting slip

The observation: “Oh, you’ve missed a bit”;

Which slightly rankled with me, I admit.

On a late October dry afternoon

In autumn, I mowed the lawns of Tony’s soon

To be sold abode, and when I was done,

I made a black coffee and sat in the sun,

Imagining my wife; a girl in the swing

Of her childhood years, and nearby, there,

Was a plot where fairies used to sing

Secret lullabies to children; and where

Now stands a greenhouse, empty and lonely

As the house-for-sale-where I first met Tony.

Sometimes I want to get into your head

Sometimes I want to get into your head

Sometimes, I see you talk down to your wife,

And feel I want to get into your head,

Swallow all the barbs that wound like a knife,

And utter respectful, kind words, instead.

Would I expect then, a loving reply,

Given by way of appreciation?

Oh what a pompous hypocrite am I!

Wise, only in my imagination;

Truthfully, I see my reflection in you;

A struggler I was, and I’m struggling still;

Despite all the decades I’ve laboured through,

The knowledge I’ve gained is scant more than nil,

And self-awareness, perhaps, even less;

I’m barely, I guess, a work in progress.

I Saw a Man Lying Dead on the Hill

 

I Saw a Man Lying Dead on the Hill

I saw a man lying dead, on the hill,

on the way back to the caravan site;

his blue eyes were glazed and wide open still.

Down in Polperro, upon a pub meal

Washed down with cider and sparkling white,

I saw a man lying dead on the hill.

His half-smoked cigarette lay burning, till

nature stepped in and put out the light;

his blue eyes were glazed and wide open still.

Drunk, on holiday, with two weeks to kill;

caravan-bound; turning in for the night,

I saw a man lying dead on the hill.

His wife inconsolable; how must it feel?

No one could comfort her, try as they might;

his blue eyes were glazed and wide open still;

and thirty years on, I take a heart pill,

reflecting, and drinking strong spirits in spite:

I saw a man lying dead on the hill;

His blue eyes were glazed and wide open still.

Richard the Turd

Richard the Turd

Richard the turd hypocritical Tice

Gathering voters with bigoted views

He’s a faux patriot not very nice

Despises unions decries worker’s rights

Proffers roast lamb to sheep with no clues

Richard the turd hypocritical Tice

Hatred division and fear he invites

From a safe distance igniting a fuse

He’s a faux patriot not very nice

Where we are born is the roll of a dice

Fortune or famine you don’t get to choose

Richard the turd hypocritical Tice

Ambiguous tweets he craftily types

Equating free speech with racist abuse

He’s a faux patriot not very nice

His manifesto is blatant precise

“10,000” new prisons put to good use

Richard the turd hypocritical Tice

He’s a faux patriot not very nice

The Climes They Are a Changing

 The Climes they are a Changing

One summery, autumnal-like day,

Winter, briefly turned into spring,

And from six thousand miles away,

Swallow swoops hastily took wing,

As tulips prematurely flowered,

Daffodils, promptly disappeared,

Chiffchaffs, mating calls sang loud,

Bluebells in the woods appeared,

And I, observing with regret,

Mouthed woefully a quiet: “Not yet”.

The blossom on my apple tree

This year, was rarely visited by

A bumble or a honey bee;

And for what weather reason why:

From summer’s mid to Halloween,

I saw one wasp, or maybe two,

In all the four months in between;

Crane-flies (their prey), are very few,

Whilst spiders, big beyond recall,

Make hands and even plates seem small.

Is this then written for reasons

Pertaining to global warming?

Am I suggesting the seasons

Are giving human-kind a warning?

No: I was merely following

The path of the first lines that came

To mind; and here I am; waffling

About stuff; the which I’ve no claim

To any knowledge, worth mention,

When my original intention

Was a flowery piece, inclining

Toward clouds of silver lining,

In these undeniably strange

Times of turmoil and climate change.

The Last Piece

The Last Piece

The cosmos is a colossal jigsaw

Puzzle of celestial pieces, so vast

In number, that anyone keeping score;

Proceeding from one, to the very last

Zero, would require a library bigger

Than the British Museum, in order

To file the recorded final figure;

Equivalent to a number, broader

Than the broadest we could ever dream;

We being inhabitants of a lone

Micro-speck, residing in a great scheme,

Devised from beyond our awareness zone,

On the other side of the universe,

Which itself will eventually disperse,

As puzzle-solvers, impossibly skilled;

With infinite care, dismantle, rebuild.

The Witches of Reform

The Witches of Reform

Hopkins, Widdecombe, and Brewer,

Bigot, turd and pure manure,

Stuff air-heads with stories fake,

Monsters into heroes make,

Sing the praises of a frog:

(Donald’s fawning, faithful, dog),

Make the cause of woke a thing,

Treacherous and far left-wing;

Stir/alarm, with right-wing babble;

Fire the wrath of Tommy’s rabble.

Hopkins, Widdecombe, and Brewer,

Vile rodents of a sewer:

Boiled baboon brains; charmless crud;

Boys bewitched, bawl, bay for blood.

One Man Air Band

One Man Air Band

I’m a one man air band entertainer

I make walls shake vibrate with bass

I’m an amplified note sustainer

My rhythm and lead guitar is ace

I play ghost synths with fingers thumbs

Bash banging beats pilled boppers dance

I’ve got air sticks mysterious drums

I specialise in techno trance

I’m a freestyle rapper a beatbox king

I sing falsetto baritone too

Windows shatter deaf eardrums ring

Trumpeters play jazz bitches’ brew

I form new sounds original scenes

Component notes industrialists roar

Convert to music in their machines

I’m a composer on the shop floor

The Kids Are Far Right

The Kids Are Far Right

Banned from watching BBC

Dad won’t pay the licence fee

GB News and Talk TV

Of bigots praises sing

Dramatize distort the news

Parrot prejudicial views

Parents finger point accuse

The kids are far right wing

The kids are ultra-right wing

It’s murder in the park

Mummy’s little soldiers

Kill trans-girls for a lark

Elon’s transphobe musketeers

Venerate the king

In accordance with their fears

The kids are far right wing

Back in 1938

Goebbels propagated hate

Nazis in a frenzied state

Did their fascist thing

Joe you aint seen nothing yet

Now we’ve got the internet

Not to Farage’s regret

The kids are far right wing

The kids are ultra-right wing

Extremely highly strung

Some of them are OAPs

Yet still they’re very young

“I know I am I’m sure I am

I’m English” they all sing

Little England’s in a jam

The kids are far right wing

Now free speech is free no more

There’ll soon be a civil war

Orwell’s 1984

Today is happening

So say people QAnon fed

Citing books they’ve never read

Willingly and easily led

The kids are far right wing

The kids are ultra-right wing

White supremacists

Expressing their identity

With bottles bricks and fists

Smashing mosques assaulting cops

Petrol bombs they fling

How long till the penny drops?

The kids are far right wing

The kids are ultra-right wing

They can’t or will not see

Comparatives with nationalists

Of wartime history

The likes of Trump Farage le pen

Should make alarm bells ring

Racists on the march again

The kids are far right wing

The Beautiful People (At Patch)

The Beautiful People (At Patch)

Here’s to the beautiful people with suss;

Poetic, artistic, creative, brave,

Hetro, LBGTQIA+;

They’re the balm of humanity I crave;

A source of comfort, warm-welcome, relief;

Their congregations are an oasis

Of doubt dispellers, encouragement, belief;

A buoyant sea of supportive faces,

Attentive, thoughtful, inviting, sincere,

Calming shy strangers performing on stage;

For newcomers get priority here,

And the audience will always engage;

I felt it myself when I was brand new;

Cheers to the beautiful people; that’s YOU!

Y

Y

Elias Monk; industrialist,

And multi-billionaire,

Became a free-speech activist,

Or so he did declare,

Upon acquiring Twatter Inc,

Where POTUS often stirred a stink,

Till he was banned from there,

Which, in the eyes of Monk at least,

Made Twister then a commie beast;

An echo of opinions,

In dire need of rebirth;

He gobbled it up for billions,

Far more than Twatter’s worth;

And any staff who voiced concern,

Were told to leave and not return,

For he had paid the earth,

To undertake a boardroom purge,

And kill the woke-mind-virus scourge.

Meet the new boss: staff levels shrunk,

New rules were dictated,

And the old boss, dismissed by Monk,

Gained a sum inflated;

And I doubt even God knows why,

Twatter’s brand name was changed to, “Y”;

Though Monk (the new boss) stated,

(Albeit, typically vaguely):

“Y” stood for Versatility,

Regarding communication

Of financial affairs;

And the vast devaluation,

Of former-Twatter’s shares,

Sent-plummeting into freefall,

Appeared to vex him not at all;

The king of billionaires,

Lost forty billion, down the drain,

Yet never showed a hint of pain.

No matter: Y, now unrestrained,

Enemies broke cover;

Antagonists, fired-up, inflamed,

Ripped into each-other;

Thus Y became a battleground

From which the battered fled and found

Platforms far less rougher,

Till in the end, the further right

Outweighed the left, to Monk’s delight.

Free-speech on Y now seems to be,

Whatever Monk decides,

And those who see things differently,

He ruthlessly derides;

And parroting his every word,

(Increasingly the more absurd),

The acolytes he guides,

Remind me of the useful fools,

By Goebbels shaped for Hitler's tools.

F

 F

Farage’s fanatical followers

Flocked

Following fake Facebook

Fallacies flippantly forwarded

For fuckwits

Flag flying football fighters

Fell for Farage’s

Fear fraught fables

Felt fury

Fought floundering forces

Fireworks flew

Flames flared fiercely

Funeral flower folk flinched fearfully

Frog-face frets

Feels framed

Flustered

Fortunately for Farage

Florida’s fan-favourite

Fruit-faced

Future Führer

Forges fond fellowship

Fast-forward five

Finds flourishing Fararge

Fantasies fulfilled

Fronting fully fledged fascist federation

For foreseeable future

All reactions:

2Leon Hellboys and 1 other

All reactions:

2Leon Hellboys and 1 other