A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

People arguing and breaking windows
being carried off in a big balloon and coming to blows.
The world is getting flatter by the minute
with politicians in white capes winging it
up to the top of their ivory towers
hot-air propelled by their motions and powers.
The world is getting flatter by the minute.
Taking sides, falling off the edge opposite.

Sleepers-on-the-streets cardboard curled
passers-by watching their money hurled
into the bins of the alright jacks.
Retired disciplinarians getting kept back for smacks.
The world is getting flatter by the minute
and everyone’s losing control and having a fit
being led a merry dance in queues
stepping in unison to blow a fuse.
The world is getting flatter by the minute
As the bombs rain down on the candles they lit
To put them down and out of their misery
Before their eyes have seen the Lord they won’t see.

Watching the news with the sound off.
Silent movie piano and captions are enough.
The world is getting flatter by the minute
though polls say it’s round and you can spin it.

I watch the entertainment
With beer in my belly.
The woman who has two heads.
Her husband who has three.
The world’s ugliest twins
And the tight-rope walker
Who first fell in infancy.

A little later, the midget act ends
And a midget collects small change.
The passionate fire-eater
Who recalls an old flame.
The clown who clowns
And ‘The Amazing Memory Man’
Who forgets his own name.

The illusionist levitates in mid-air
Raised by her magician parents
As Houdini, having escaped,
Captivates the audience.
The barrel-organ grinder
And the bearded woman
Who first shaved as an adolescent.

Finally, the cobbled street
Rotates like a kaleidoscope
As head-over-heels in love
Albert the acrobat somersaults.
The world’s strongest man
And the human cannonball who hurtles
Head-first down the sword-swallower’s throat.

They’re so important, aren’t they?
One of mine died today.
It doesn’t matter how adult you’ve become or how old.
They have such a hold.

They take you back.
Give you a nostalgia attack.
It doesn’t matter who they are or what they’ve done.
Just how young they were when you were young.

You hear the news they’ve died.
Feel something you can’t pin down or up like a poster inside.
Watch the tribute programmes and wallow so well
And wonder when time will tell.

Piss artists draw it out
not leaving til Is it dead?
Later, back home, there’s a rout
with flowers and fruit, plates and bread.

Homing pigeons get sent out.
Dogs get scent about.
How is it back there?
I’m thinking of deserting as a dare.

I’ve been given my marching orders
And I’m marching tomorrow.
Must say there’s too much mud to see any borders.
Have I lent myself to a medal I’ll ever even borrow?

That’s it from me, darling.
Your letters keep me going.
When we get a fighting chance
Our eyes might meet over a million-to-one glance.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).