When I use my head
to stick under the sand
it’s a goody that beats evil
with comic heroes getting out of hand.
miaow miaow miaow
wow wow wow
is a chorus to forget
but one you’ll remember I bet.
I got a low boredom threshold
but I can’t be bothered to work out whatever that means.
A tongue I can’t hold
and a button-lipped mouth spilling the beans.
Then there’s my psychedeliKat
doing a centimetre balcony
high up and miaowing
and a doom monger collecting money and bowing.
This place is outer space
where aliens arrive
and they love slumming it
in this exotic dive.
Where they come from is pure,
unspoilt, and as it’s always been.
They beam images back home
and pose in concrete and green.
They’re too clever for anyone here
and do their touristy invisible thing
cos where they come from is pure,
unspoilt, and as it’s always been.
They wonder how this species
never got to them and where they are.
But when they get a closer look
they see how far they have to go, how very far.
Secret reconnaissance
with star spies standing out visible
walking among them as human but undercover
sending back intelligence on this rival.
This place is outer space
where aliens arrive
and they love slumming it
in this exotic dive.
They’re too clever for anyone here
and do their touristy invisible thing
cos where they come from is pure,
unspoilt, and as it’s always been.
If someone had stopped
Pope Gregory IX persecuting cats
the plague may never have happened
with all those rampaging ‘cat’s away, mice will play’ flea-infested rats.
Now, that’s my kind of cat-propaganda Netflix doc fact!
But later, shooting my mouth off about it on a beach sunbed,
the sunbathing papist friend next to me shoots back
and googles what I’ve just casually summer day-out said.
And Vox in Rama! I’m wrong! Shot down in flames!
Pope Greg’s papal bull simply cites satanic cults and black cats as devilish symbolic allegories
but never an order to kill or make my furry goodies game!
Enough to make me black death sneeze!
But what kills me off, and not cats, gets even closer to home.
In order to keep parchment-gnawing mice in line
Exeter Cathedral back then had cat flaps to let mousers freely roam
and even documented the maintenance costs of these saintly felines.
So, Netflix came up with a load of papal bull!
Or google searches wrap flocks in cotton wool!
The only way to really know is to read up on it through authoritative literature.
The easiest thing though will be to just carry on with my poetic license, claiming (with a purr):
If someone had stopped
Pope Gregory IX persecuting cats
the plague may never have happened
with all those rampaging ‘cat’s away, mice will play’ flea-infested rats.
Join me down the waterfront at The Prospect.
Millions of memories going introspect.
Well maybe not millions but quite a few.
We’ll have a couple of pints or the proverbial one or two.
The world spins round at such a pace
with its starter pistol at the start of its rat race
that before you know it, your day is already what happened yesterday
and what you thought would last forever has gone and buggered off to a time far far away.
You’re an elegant woman and a handsome one too.
That’s nothing new.
Bad angels curse good angels and good angels give as good as they get.
Fancy smashing up some glass mansions to let?
Just a little word in your ear.
Shall I whisper it so you can’t hear?
I suffer from nostalgia.
And if my memory serves me well, Miss O’Connor gave me a sticker star for it.
Are you still there
walking the pier’s wooden boards?
Sat in your deck chair
with your wonderful theatrical frauds?
Anyone’s word counts for the number of letters in it.
Scripts thrown into the sea.
Armbands round little arms doing their bit
to keep a silent movie pianist afloat above anonymity.
The sawdust footprints
match those left in the sand.
Under a punch ‘n’ judy policeman’s helmet, each blue eye squints
as the sun shines on the open-mouthed corpse with its last laugh canned.
Send away for a bullet proof glove
to catch every bullet, yeah.
Turn every head, yeah
and fall in love, yeah.
Somersault underwater
and walk in a straight line, yeah.
Turn back the clock, yeah
and wind it forward to skip bad times, yeah.
Subscribe to a new club.
Blush and get a buzz, yeah.
Get discovered and make loads of money, yeah.
Disappear and give everything away, yeah.
Save a mouse from a mousetrap
and give an injured bird wings, yeah.
Brainwash yourself to say what you think, yeah
Give nobody nothing to say no to, yeah.
For about every day, every week, every morning
he hoped she would be there at the bus stop, yawning.
Sometimes she was and sometimes was not
while winter joggers just limbo jogged on the spot.
Roundabout a high-profile Royal Wedding proposal,
as to press they rushed,
there he was, all alone, when up the stairs she came.
Golden chance! She smiled but he just blushed.
Would only ever know her name.
All-seeing blind men and women
don’t need eyes to see.
Visionaries have a braille-finger crystal ball-point pen
and contact lenses for free.
Love is so simple if you don’t look too far.
Everyone looks to the sky to spot that sugar-coated star
but in this chocolate-flaky galaxy
you can melt a heart by just singing to a first-floor balcony.
Please hold on to what you have when you have it.
Don’t let it go just ‘cos you do.
In memory of birthdays past, wax martyrs get lit.
Isn’t it about time you stopped sighing to candle-chances you blew?
Inheritance and repentance and putting up fences,
the farmers and harmers wrote their therefores and sentences.
When the cows came home, bull’s blood would flow
and pop-panal pundits would throw
coins into the sheep-dip, and dip their hooves and paws into the market.
Chauffeurs, for their stars, would wallow in it
as bird tables would get auctioned off as rare antiques,
chiselled out by master woodpeckers at the top of their beak-peaks.
At requiems, those famous last words turned out to be sold in stores
as would-be music-critics turned out to be film-buff bores
who’d whistle and hum
sleeve notes they’d later download to their favourite album.
I If by natural causes
First of all, don’t wear black.
Have an egg and spoon race, or a race in a sack.
Get together on the coast (near the countryside) somewhere at your convenience.
Anywhere will do; a seagull residence.
‘A Day in the Life’ is the song for me, but play what you like.
Peddle what you can sell whether a unicycle or a 7-wheeled bike.
Have a toast to what you’ve already had.
Go crazy but don’t go mad.
Get my favourite chef to cook gilt-head bass.
Recite a poem in fancy-dress after a glass.
When you can’t stand no more, sit down, play pass the parcel.
Or pretend to the throne and make up a joust in a castle.
That’s about it, just don’t wear black.
At midnight, get your grandmother’s best knitting pattern
and go looking for a needle in a haystack.
II If by tragic accident
That’s the way it goes.
Cross your fingers and cross your toes.
If run over, come by foot.
If died in the kitchen, come with a dish to cook.
If in a car, drive and park.
If electrocuted, switch on lights if dark.
Whatever the accident, that’s how it goes.
Cross your fingers and cross your toes.
Watch out for the seagulls from up above!
If I died tripping up, send a postcard with love.
Funeral arrangements as if by natural causes, except (if known)
keep away from anyone accident prone.
III If by murder
Difficult one.
If still dangerous, come with a gun.
If murderer caught, you’ll find out in court.
If still on the loose, hope the chase isn’t wild goose.
Whoever did it will have had their reasons
so no need for revenge or treason seasons.
Just hope it was a good murder and I didn’t suffer.
Who knows, the years ahead may have been rougher?
For funeral, carry on as if by natural causes
but put in timely Harold Pinter pauses.
IV If by suicide
Blimey, what a turn up for the books! Nobody more surprised than me!
At time of writing, it must have been by misadventure, surely!?
However, for now, I’ll go along with the autopsy.
So, here’s my note;
“I’ve never wanted to carry out the unthinkable
‘cos I’ve always thought I never wanted to leave anyone feeling responsible.
You’re not. I’ve been very lucky having had you all.
So makes one wonder why.
Well, you can stand on a balcony for years but when you jump off you fall.
In the end, anyway, we all die.
Sorry if I’ve made it a difficult farewell.
Don’t make a song and dance of it but feel free to do so at the do afterwards.
And remember I won’t be going to heaven, purgatory or hell.
I’ll just be with a pair of scissors, pencils&pens, watercolours&camera, records&drums in
a rented flat at home abroad.”
For funeral, try to act as if by natural causes
but, if I left an unlikely will, invite a lawyer for those complicated clauses.
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 