Enclosure

Enclosure

I’m as selfish

as the next man

hedging off all that’s mine

or as much as I can.

I’m a man possessed

with what I’m worth

making up ground

dispossessed of from birth.

Keeping stock

is my stock-in-trade

not so much a black sheep

as a dark horse often’s said.

I’m not one for sharing.

No trespassing here.

You’d be better off

(and you’d better be off)

not coming near.

Beauty Farm

The flock in their fold
Are getting old;
Beer guts undo belly buttons
And tender meat turns to tough mutton.
Firm, milky breasts, drop by drop,
Drop, as into the dip,
Two-legged sheep, on their last legs, hop.
They bleat and baa
But it won’t get them very far.
Everybody dies.
Don’t pull the wool over your eyes.

Home Ground

He dwells on his life
With no fixed abode.
Serenades his wife
On make-believe road.

A few close shaves,
His beard unkept,
He reads Jesus Saves!
And swears Jesus Wept!

He can’t work out
How he got to this stage;
A pantomime lout
In a fit of rage.

He shakes a fist
But never hands.
He’s got to get pissed
To understand.

The more he gives in
The less he tries.
The less he wins
The higher the highs.

He’s on home ground
But far away.
He looks around
For a place to stay.

The Great Disappearing Man

He’s quite a spectacle as he wastes away.
Savings under the mattress for a rainy day
Going up in smoke for all to see.
Bugger-all hope in his battle to be
The Man who Came Back from Death’s Door
To a standing ovation and round of applause.

But, as visiting hours take their toll
And he’s turned over to a drum roll
The grand finale, the final act
Leaves the spectators wearing black

World of Pandemonium

(I wrote this in September 2000 and last verse is always my claim to nostradamus fame considering what happened a year later)


I crash out

On a dream-collision course.

Everything coming to mind

By magnetic force.


Old age pensioners

On walking sticks, pogo

As pneumatic drills

Dig up concrete to and fro.


Juggernauts, overtaking, jack-knife

Off roller-coaster roads

As parked, blow-up cars

Paper-bag explode.


A battle of tumbling bricks

Breaks out within the city walls.

In a world of pandemonium

Who knows what’s in store?

Medieval Stocks

Last night, I saw myself cry
Out the corner of my eye.
Tears of disgrace.
Tomato pips down my face.

But despite the jeers
And malevolent cheers
I peered at the crowd;
Saw you shouting loud.

And indeed the whole rabble
Looked like your double
As you hurled your abuse
And all that red juice.

Slinging your mud
And baying for blood
I suddenly woke
Next to you, all my fault.

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