A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

We both go outside
during the break for a cigarette.
Look at each other and you give a quick nod upwards
meaning ‘You got anything to say yet?’

In the film since, I would have played my role:
walked towards you, taken a drag
and said something like ‘You want to go out?’
looking into your eyes as you draw on your fag.

Yet I give a quick nod upwards too
knowing it’s a kind of silent sign to discover.
We finish smoking without a word
and go back in with the break over.

In the film since, we played our roles.
Every scene played out with what was meant.
It’s a long time ago but fresh in the memory.
like smoke from cigarettes past and present.

Post office posts his collage faces
to random names and places.
When he’s not inspired he’s out of sorts
but when he is, he posts all kinds from his multi-faceted fort.

He gets upset cos he can’t tell the difference
between a compliment and an insult
and has mood swings like a child in a playground
as he blames himself cos it’s everyone else’s fault.

Talks to himself loud enough so everyone can hear in his imaginary supermarket
but whispers top secret thoughts to himself in private
and to not give anything away , reserves his right to silence
much to his psychiatrist’s annoyance.

Stands on his bed balcony
with his cuckoo clock
and shouts out the time
every evening at six o’clock
cos doors lock.

In a field not far away and nearer than it’s far,
a team of cats are practicing in Circuslandia.
Props for paws are all set out for them to do their tricks,
Daring furry exploits in a moggy mayhem mix.

A giant plastic foot for them to wrap their claws around,
to then leap from, in unison, and twist back to the ground.
A balcony to jump upon, just millimetres thick.
To see them pad it, so high up, may leave u feeling sick!

No obstacle course of furniture will have them slipping up.
In and out of spring-hinged wardrobes just before they shut.
Spectacular sofa scratching synchronized, covers all thread bare.
Pegs and rubbers, coloured balls, juggled here and there.

Hide’n’seek from room to room in a game of ambush tag.
One minute in a cardboard box, the next in a shopping bag.
Mechanical hands and arms play-fight as, in formation, they attack
Landing in perfect time together, rolling over, charging back.

In a field not far away and nearer than it’s far
a team of cats are practicing in Circuslandia.
Coming soon to your living room, kitchen and much more!
The greatest show ever seen through the cat-flap by your door!

Music purists with a mess in their veins
spew out needle-injected words from their precious brains.
Blabbing-about-nothing and soon-to-be forgettable socialites
dodgem-car roll at smoky jokes that waft off to canned laughter into noisy nights.

If anything gets heavy,
it’s alright ‘cos it’s only temporary
and butterflies in a belly
beep faint signs of life by the hospital’s bedside telly.

Into the small hours, and revising memories for the next day,
swotters and blotters sit a 24-hour test of time that won’t last anyway.
Hot-air balloon and on-the-pull blow-up dolls and action men
randomly float away by mistake to a disco of karma and zen.

If anything gets too light,
It’s alright ‘cos it’ll fall with all its might
and butterflies in a belly
beep faint signs of life by the hospital’s bedside telly.

it’s midnight, and if i’m not pissed
i don’t think i spoke to anyone today.
maybe the odd shopkeeper or tobacconist
but i kept myself mostly out the way.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.