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.
‘Alliteration’n’National Anthemology’ read by JDG schizoid
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.
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!
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.
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.
The birds are back in the square and my flat cat would love to attack for a dare as they swoop from the skies to the tree. But he’d find it nigh on impossible to be fair to make any kind of capture or kill in his lair even if out on the streets. No chance of doing his devilry.
The birds are starlings. The poor dear darlings. Mediterranean magpies on rooftops watch and crank it up a notch for my flat cat that would love to try taking them on too but he’d probably come off worse and die?
I’m on my balcony quite serene with a bottle of white watching the scene. The chances of murder as slim as my cat’s though in my head there’s imminent attacks.
For example, this very day and the washing machine technician who didn’t bother to come. You kept me waiting despite the frigging appointment for four hours, son. I’ve been without a washing machine three weeks. It’s under guarantee and, but for hand washing, my clothes would reek.
Meanwhile, the birds are making a racket in the tree. My flat cat has gone to sleep off his disappointment in dismay. And I’m left having to chase up that technician between a rhyme like third degree or foul play.
Blood and guts over a solicitor’s quill. Skeletons in the cupboard in for the kill. Eyes in dark mirrors. Theirs staring socketed together at each other.
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 