Double ‘A’ Side Singles

Both of these poems come from how much of what I write is influenced by pop music. I love The Who and my cat Moony is named after Keith Moon, so no complaints about his character cos he’s as crazy as the drummer! I wrote this first poem twenty years ago. and was written from the ‘catchy’ title as a starting point.

Mods‘n’Rockers

The mods‘n’rockers
go hell for leather versus parka.
A rough‘n’tumble bank holiday beach
and the motorcycle rumble lambretta screech.

You can’t cope keep control
when the tears rattle reel‘n’roll.
Your moods at one another’s throats, black‘n’blue,
bring a lump to yours too.

And the mods‘n’rockers really kick in
when your head starts to bounce bump‘n’spin.
While Elvis the Pelvis sticks in the boot in Marlon Brando gear
Moon the Loon legs it, kitted out in his zoot, along Brighton Pier.

You feel tense under the strain
with your heart’s crash helmet dented again.
Round after round of knuckle sandwich fish‘n’chip fisticuffs
‘cos the mods‘n’rockers don’t ever let up.

I like inventing characters that you can invent whatever you like with, and this one is one of my favourites. The collage has my old school uniform blazer in it – At times, I like the idea of doing an Alfred Hitchcock film thing of popping up somewhere in my collages without being noticed!

JOHNNY PHANTASMAGORIA

His photographic memory
snaps it up, on the blink.
Nothing rings a bell
as he pulls the other one, and thinks;

He’s a pop star in his head
and never down on song.
Anything he wears gets worn-out
before it catches on.

Everyone he sees gets drawn in.
His first impressions last.
His revolving bookcase cluttered up
with pencil faces rubbed on brass.

So, while the other schoolchildren
shout out he’s a prat
he zigzags off towards the bike sheds
with a weather-cock on his cap.

Double ‘A’ Side Singles

This first is about dying from cancer. I wrote it for a guy called Richard in 2000. I didn’t know him that well but I was struck by the fact that at 40 he was dying from cancer. I smoke so always that nagging feeling that this could one day happen.

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

I wrote this second poem in 2011 when I’d been having a few gout attacks and also thought I might have athritis. Times I really struggled to walk. I wrote this poem on the back of that. Influenced by Blur and Britpop and songs like ‘Ernold Same’ and ‘Arnold Sane’. The song has Chicco Fresu putting music to it with me finding the melody and singing (obviously influenced by Damon Albarn). Chicco’s guitar solo is great, as he said ‘I just imagined the shooting pain of athritis.’ Song from 2016.

ARTHUR I. TUSS

Struggles off the bus
With his pass and a fuss.
Fought in France and Italy I’ll have you know!

Full of pride and swollen ego,
He widowers down the street.
Every foot a mile with his feet.

Deadly I was, used to knock’em in!
Visited of an afternoon by his next of kin.
Snapshots of better times on the mantelpiece.

Literally seconds having settee-slumped down for a little peace
Does he pull himself back up back to the kitchen for the tea-spoon;
Thank bugger, me ‘ome ‘elp ‘ll be ‘ome soon!

Parents’ Evening

Once quietly brilliant.
Now brilliantly quiet.
‘While amateurs fit characters to plots
professionals fit plots to characters’.

There’s something going on.
Something going right or wrong?
This term’s work has been erratic.
Long-term may stick.

Is everything ok at home?
Seems distant at times and a long way away.
Just like a cat that wants to roam
while flattening down 100 blades of grass where it’ll lay.

Music seems to be the way to go.
While lost in it, tends to find focus.
The other day there was a moment
when a look + a sudden flash = (ed) what it meant.

Mythomaniac

I’m a mythomaniac.
I’ve got no empathy with facts.
I make up things to not crack.
I’ve got a devil’s tongue on my shoulder for pacts.

I’m a mythomaniac.
I’ve got a shallow grave for yakety yak.
I make up things for what I lack.
I’ve got an angel on my shoulder to wing it with my quack.

I’m a mythomaniac.
I’m a legend with a tall tale to stack.
I make up things to clickety clack.
I’ve got a grave digger to cover my tracks.

I’m a mythomaniac.
I’ve got truths and lies holding back.
I make up things in my shack.
I ignore it if I give myself any flack.

Sleepy Head

Sleepyhead, shake a leg!
Do some of those things you said
before you peg it.
Baby, time to believe in yourself and beg.

The siesta sun is baking
your fried egg face on the bonnet.
You’re waiting for an awakening
but excuse yourself to sleep on it.

Do you wake up and smell the coffee too late?
Do you just cross off days or will you actually circle a date?
Is what you want to be just beyond you, mate?
These and other questions after the break.