Out on the Town

On its numerous outings, it’s wreaked havoc
among the rest of the field with its zigzagging.
Inebriated on its own exuberance, if stuck
on the inside, its recklessness in getting itself free can be staggering.

Some, indeed, have even called for it to be barred,
fearing it could be the harbinger of a 1928 rerun.
It’s a sobering thought that many a race has been marred
by other horses falling over themselves to avoid this loose cannon.

As a matter of fact, it does come from military stock; its sire in artillery,
but, as a wayward colt, it’s rebelled against discipline.
Anyway, swayed pub punters hope they’ll be painting the town red after Aintree
in the unlikely event it heads straight down The Elbow and goes on to win.

Around the Country

As bell-ringing staff last orders pour
cat-walking workers out on all fours
socialites wear their best social whirl
and binge-drinkers down their necks as a party piece

past the clock and over the hill
to a secret hideaway for a thrill
where check-out girls dressed for the till
hand themselves in to the metropolitan police

whose confiscated toys come tumbling
over the garden fence
and hungry stomachs come rumbling
over the pounds and pence

just in time for tea
and a cosy little chat with the jury
who, looking guilty as hell, as they sit
are out to frame someone who didn’t do it.

Alliteration’n’National Anthemology

One of my most military memories I remember is a memorable memorial on Remembrance Day.
There were flags unfurled flaunting fighter-jets frolicking overhead with flowery smoke in the fray.
Previously primed primary school children with chalk chatted and chomped on their rationed chocolate
with high-flying lowlifes leading lowly folk longing to follow a philosophy, or any old cold callous cut.

As three-market thatchers thought about thinking, and thanked their lisping stars they had no thpeech impediment,
Workers were willed to work on their soft ‘R’s but couldn’t help but Really Resent
that their bullying betters believed in butchering them to a bit of beef
to be ground down and brutally bred as groaners in their own grief.

As the years yearned on yearly, not yet to yield a tomorrow but a yesterday
the preach-privileged pried on property with propriety and prosperously preyed on its precarious prey.

‘Alliteration’n’National Anthemology’ read by JDG schizoid

In My Own Little World

in my own little world
i’m not such a nerd (as i can be)
in my own little world
what you’d call absurd becomes reality

all the girls fall at my feet
and pop stars are just people on my street
i don’t want no more
whatever i fancy i click my fingers for

in my own little world
i get fame and fortune (a star overnight)
in my own little world
what you’d call a silent film isn’t black’n’white

no-one acts their age or knows what it is
no-one who shouldn’t gets into showbiz
only those i like get on top of the pops
no-one feels any peer pressure and if they do it stops

in my own little world
tight-fisted money-grabbers get their hands chopped off
in my own little world
what you’d call people who don’t listen get a van gogh

i’m a poet of international renown
wherever i recite i’m the talk of the town
half the beatles aren’t dead and didn’t split up
and george best could drink what he liked without a hiccup

in my own little world
there’s a price on my head (and i get it!)
in my own little world
what you’d call ‘everything‘ turns in my favour (bit by bit).

Secondary Canteen

The teachers sat on the same table.
They had no choice, however undesirable.
We always sat next to who we wanted to
and budged up if we got next to anyone who

had nowhere else to sit or wasn’t it
Or had fleas or some social disease.
You took your plastic white tray
And perused the menu of the day;

Whatever went with mash potato.
Rice pudding for afters and away you’d go.
The dinner ladies would daily serve
the same thing every week. No-one had the nerve

to say; Liver again! I didn’t. It was my favourite then.
I got my share as everyone gave me theirs.
Away from parental guidance, we’d just talk.
No-one ever gave a fork.

England versus Italia

Dedicated to Paolo Rossi who died this week

As Geoff Hurst plays a blinder against Germany
The home fans rub their eyes in disbelief.
Italians take their hats off to Paolo Rossi
As scoring a hat-trick, he brings Brazil a bit of quarter-final grief.

In a World Cup of national stereotypes
Only lager louts and greaseballs qualify;
Gazza gets into aggro on the terraces, beating up the wife
As slimy Silvio Berlusconi gets behind Forza Italia in his football scarf and tie.

Mafia bosses with back-handers in their pockets
Grease the palms of players playing on the other side.
A pre-match talk on how they can throw it
Cashing in on slotting the ball wide.

As Sicilian mammas in funeral black
Cry out Avanti! football-stripped to kill,
Elderly English Roses, in baggy pink underwear, go on the attack
Winning the Widows XI, with Stanley Matthews skill.

The Beatles line up against Battisti
Chorusing Hey Jude ; naa-naa-naa, na-n’-na-naa, na-n’-na-naa, Fab Four!
Meantime, Lucio chants, sick as a parrot over the moon with Emozioni,
Liverpool Mop-Tops, non incazzare, l’importante partecipare! i.e. You’re not singing anymore!

Over ninety minutes, pasta and pizza beat traditional eggs and bacon
But a cappuccino doesn’t go down half as well as a good old cup of tea.
Umbrellas in the rain and parasols in the sun
Defend in numbers ‘away from home’ tourists from The English Riviera to Rimini.

Bobby Charlton queues up in the box
As Gigi Riva pushes forward to get in a header.
Union Jack the lads with brewer’s droop have to pull up their red and white socks
As Gli Azzurri as Latin lovers hold a press conference with dressing room tactics on how to bed ’er!

So, with the Heroes of ‘66 matched against Beckham and Owen
And Gli eroi di ‘82 drawing a comparison with Baggio and Del Piero, It’s Bye Bye and Ciao;
I blow the final whistle on my latest poem;
The readers think it’s all over! It is now!

extract from ‘Conix – a story for grown up children’

Tall Tales
When Amy Winehouse died, Conix was distraught with grief. ‘I was with her a few days ago, and she seemed fine.’

This was typical of him. Making out he’d been anywhere of importance when news broke. When questioned about how he could have possibly been with her, he looked up from his tears in disbelief as if to say How dare you not believe me! And then very calmly said: I went to Camden Town last week on a uni trip.

Everyone got used to Conix’s tall tales. And went along with them. They were so far and few between that his tall tales actually became entertaining as he added more and more unlikely details to what had happened.

No one ever believed him even when he was telling the truth.


Greeting cormorants as I kayak past
I make seagull noises not knowing theirs.
They look at me with distain
wary of this weird paddling thing that stares.

They nest on the rock face
under a white moon and a pink sky.
Fish fleet-jump up in a sea-skimming race
that they do in seconds as they fly.

The sea as heavy as oil wells up.
At least, it feels like it does. But it’s pure sea.
Seagulls vie with cormorants
but it’s the dark birds that claim victory.


Not for Nothing

I’m unpacking the bags from under my eyes
And had a good night’s sleep, thank you.
I hardly ever used to remember my dreams
But, now and again, now I do.

I’ve not always had my best interests at heart.
I often wonder whether I ever knew.
Not learnt lessons by saying sorry quite a few times
Even though I was told early on not to.

I can be a bit harsh on myself
But then let myself off the hook.
Throw myself back into my moon river
Dipping into an Audrey Hepburn photo book.

Just bought a couple of books actually.
One by a photographer with my same birthday.
And the other with pictures of species near extinction.
Not for nothing do I have nothing to say.