Any N.I. number

I wake with a jolt
Bolt upright in bed;
Both bell-shaped ears clanging
Either side of my metal alarm clock head.

Caricatured in a comic-book world
Of sketched in pillow and sheet,
I think out loud, as a speech bubble balloons;
“Bloody ’ell! A working week!”

That ruddy routine and rigmarole;
Striped pyjamas stripped off, shave n shower,
Clothes, coffee and cornflakes,
Breakfast T.V. on the hour.

Whereupon, I foulmouth the boss;
The outsized miniature Mussolini!
His fat-faced ugly mug (pinned-up) gets it
As does Il Duce’s fat-arsed effigy.

The wage-earner’s wrath! The employer’s revenge!
My poor piggy-bank : not in the pink.
Thanks to a tin-pot, battle-weary salary
My artillery reduced to a coin-clink.

Whatever, with eight-thirty a.m.
I pull on my pullover, ready to roll.
The N.I. numbers multiply.
I add myself and go.

Samebodies and Nowbodies

Some people don’t seem to change
Some people seem to, or at least rearrange.
Some people you see routine.
Some people you see you’ve never seen.

Funny things these things.
Running round in rings.
More or less looking for more.
Burying what they’ve been digging for.

Some people are the same.
Some people aren’t.
Some people give it a name.
Some people can’t.

When they finally end up safe and underground
Everyone has done their bit.
Funny how these things go round
in some kind of orbitless orbit.

At the End of the Day

When the children you never bore
have outgrown you with invisible tears they would have bawled.
When the records you bought
got scratched, becoming collectors’ items collectors never sought.

When girlfriends that became exes
rolled down the River Exe.
When, over the River Thames in 1986,
you missed out on playing pooh sticks.

When gold and silver birds dined
on the steps of Christoline.
When blind-folded tourists went out to see the lights
And came back with darkroom negatives of the sights.

That was when it happened and didn’t.
When it was and when it wasn’t.
When models posed where photographers had just sat.
When rebels clicked on rainbows, and spat.

Auditioning for me

Trying to write something
I might read or I might sing
the audience are blurry people in dreams
that I never remember unless they drop onto the floor from beams.

Record me, rather than make me repeat what I say.
Spinning jenny jumpers with cotton lines are starting to fray.
However far there is to go
I’m going to tread on mine to keep on my toes, or at least a theatrical toe.

Bright On

Looking for a place with no past devils.
A clean slate to start anew.
Where the sea washes up and away pebbles
And where what you might have done you still might do.

Houselights glimmering on wintry waters.
Lighthouse lights keeping you from autumn wrecks.
Summer swim suits on sons and daughters
And whistle-welcomes on springtime decks.

Everything’s going for a song as usual
and must be broken into pieces as soon as possible.
Glass figures on the beach hold out a hand
to yours (which shatters where you stand).

Holly Woodstar

Made good, and not just a pretty face.
She started off with a different name in a different place.
She played her roles on screen
but it was her private life that thrilled her public behind a scene.
Yes, she drank, yes she stank – of money.
Yes, she married and divorced- several times.
And yes, was larger than life – of course.
She had her heyday and was loved by many.
She died in decline – one of life’s little crimes.

On My Couch

I lie on the sofa
Telling me about myself.
Little old me, belittling it all.
Dead lonely, a coffin elf.

The first thing that enters my head
As word associations process the data fed;
What comes to mind with “the ties that bind”?
Do-it-yourself, and the fear of being left behind.

Do I play the victim? Would I say I wallow?
Well, I couldn’t say but I’ll come back tomorrow.
Same time, same place.
Just hope I don’t get off me face.

I lie on the sofa.
Smoking away, whacked.
I might die from a fag-end.
Anyone know a good quack?