A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

The days end.
The nights send
angels and ghosts.
They notch you up on their bedposts.

Everyone there has a cat.
Some are slim and lean, some are big and some are fat.
Some are white, some are grey and some are black
but everyone there has a cat.

Everyone there goes about their day daily and their night nightly
where things fall heavily or float up lightly
where they let them go or hold on to them tightly
but everyone there goes about their day daily and their night nightly.

Everyone there avoids everyone there.
Everyone looks at everyone behind mirror-glasses they wear.
Everyone folds away a tree and uproots a chair
but everyone avoids everyone there.

That’s how it is.
There’s nothing joining us together apart from cement.
Bricks and rubble as answers to a war-time quiz
that came like a blitz and then went.

So close, we have to whisper.
Walking on tip-toes to avoid a blister.
Family round the wireless in 1939.
Today, so enlightened, we fly up
and crash into the children crossing sign.

Promise me you’ll be there ‘til the end
Or somewhere near like a fair-weather friend.
Promise me you’ll keep your promise safe in your memory bank somewhere.
Promise me you’ll break it if you forget the combination.

Promise me you’ll bugger off when you don’t give a bugger
Or get armed for a hug when we need a hugger.
Promise me you’ll go up the wall when I’m going spare.
Promise me you won’t promise the world
unless it’s an out-of-this-world destination.

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.