A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

AT LEAST FOREVER MINIMUM
The psychedelic pseudonyms
written on your birth certificate
are illegible on soggy paper
and going for a song at your old school fete.

You’re sweating in a heatwave.
Wrapping up to keep away the cold.
You’re not bowled over by anything anymore.
Wear dark sunglasses to be cool on streets of gold.

ON MY BALCONY
Sitting on my balcony.
it’s eleven o’clock whenever that may be
looking down on chess piece people check mate happy
far away below wherever that squared street is I see.

Meanwhile I’m booking whatever flights of fantasy
may boarding card me to greener grass destiny
as my cat is playing with the dangling string bookmark
in whichever ‘notes for poetry’ notebook I happen to have tattooed on my knee.

Both of us restlessly resting from overnight infamous anonymity.

A SEAGULL
strode across my small-hours square.
Noone there.
Acted like it owned it – strode in defiance.
Then flew away when it heard
a human break the nocturne silence.

VICIOUS CIRCLE SERIAL SERIES
Those animals kill
like humane humans order a coffee at a bar.
Those animals pretend to be humans still
and get a prison cell with a star.

If their names don’t come up as a lead
they’re happy.
They don’t speak to keep victims dead and buried.
They end up wanting to get caught to boast of their crimes without setting anyone free.

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
Hit those machines
cos they’re mean
and don’t work on purpose
with their hocus pokus.

Computer driving you nuts
for two hours? Punch it!
CD player stuck
on track 3? Shake it!
WiFi not working
yet again? Scream at it!
Internet radio getting
on your tits? Throw it!

Show them who’s boss
or they’ll have yer!
Time to start giving a toss
cos they’re taking over.

FAN CLUB
I’m your biggest fan.
I follow you everywhere.
I’ve got your autograph
but it doesn’t stop there.

I got your number
and on the back of my shirt.
When things go bad
I feel your hurt.

SORRY BABY PIGEON
You were helpless
and asked for help.
What to do? Did nothing.
Twelve hours later too late.

Had a chance
but in the wrong hands.
Such a sad end.
Ending so sad.

Poor little baby pigeon
Abandoned and lost.
Walked towards me
and that was me being useless.

MR AND MRS MONEY
He counts on her.
She counts on him.
Obsessing with what they’re worth
Investing on each other’s whim.

They share what’s in stock.
Their market moods swing.
Open the door when opportunity knocks
and close it when their heads fluctuate and spin.

Have child benefit for their childhood memories.
Have a mortgage for where they live.
Have mortal assets which they freeze
and a pension plan in place for every day they cross fingers with.

Mr and Mrs Money
say money’s not important ‘cos they have it.
They flip a coin for whether
love is more important than property.

PARADISE OF DEVILS
Live life for the moment
under a volcano
as hearts in ashes over-the-top blow
like passionate loves that went.

I count on your visits.
Help me get through my time.
Free as a jailbird that sits
preening feathers that off plume don’t rhyme.

Pure joy out of everything to lose.
Singing in a city full of blues.
Celebrate one of Dante’s circles
with a passport to a paradise of devils.

OUT OF IT
Someone dies and you know them
as you stick your head under the sand cos you don’t want to know.
Do your CSE maths on how long
you’ve got to go if their life was yours in Death Row.

Then there’s those who die before you
fresh as a daisy and with a wreath pressure.
Some maths don’t add up like 2 and 2
and tragic it is for sure.

I always hated maths lessons.
Never got Mr Colman and what he meant by ‘O’ level glory.
Survivors get on their knees to read obituaries and bless ‘em.
Glad I’m no part of it and out of it, end of story.

MYSTERY DEATH
Lots of clues but nothing
to build a case on.
Witnesses and testimonials
but it was a mystery death as mysterious as any death any book had been written on.

Take a deep breath after that last sentence.

Death’s a mystery
as mysterious as anything could be.
Birth is easy.
It’s as predictable as any rarity.

IN A PERFECT WORLD
Wars don’t exist.
You do your health good by getting pissed.
Nothing once living is ever on the menu.
The many stick it to the few.

It turns in everyone’s favour
and it turns out we all get what we deserve.
I’ve got too much money to spend
and you score the golden goal in extra time in the end.

When influenced by your inspirers
be careful you don’t get carried away.
Write your poems, paint your paintings, outlie your liars
but chances are, however much they’re somebody ,a nobody you’ll stay.

Listen to a bass line.
Remember a line you were told when you had no way of knowing what it meant.
Say everything’s fine
Give up saying the truth for lent.

I’m sorry I put you down, but I can’t help but fight back.
In another life, on my death bed, I’d reach the unreachable.
In this one, I’ll get the sack.
Isn’t it ironic that I could avoid my mistakes, unimpeachable?

The old preach to those who don’t give a shit
as the young throw them out of their punk pulpit.
Pop is a dream dreaming of pop
and what you can do and what the others could not.

Some old stay young
and some young who never were get unceremoniously thrown.
Sing the songs you love and ditch the ones you don’t unsung.
Pop dreamers decorate their own.

I look around at powers that be.
Feel powerless unplugged with no volts energy.
Arrogantly know I’m right
and dream pop every night.

There’s a drug going round
here-a-bouts and round-a-while
lifting everyone off the ground
while floating with a cardboard smile.

Never dare to be down
or you’re met with a frown
or told chin up
by addicts hooked.

Facing facts is a fraud.
Head in the sand, they applaud.
Everyone on a merry-go-round.
Truth is I’m iggy pop bored.

Chances go begging for fate
as street photographers get the shot too late.
Soup kitchen protesters making an almighty din
end up under spin doctors’ knives sticking their fork tongues in.

flags fly
presidents talk
swallows swoop
and people walk

girls make passes
dogs bark
tanks roll
and cars park

fag-ends burn
snipers shoot
records spin
and loiters loot

pop fans clamour
street lamps shine
windows close
and lovers dine.

Government policy forces pensioners onto the streets to march
hardly able to make it across the road
with their gripes and groans in a shopping bag.
Vinyl records blaring out from old peoples’ homes.
Hospital porters spinning around on their bums.
As, lurking behind, tape-measuring funeral directors lag.

On Pleasure Pieland
islanders live life under a system called pie-in-the-sky.
Plumbers fit pipe dreams
and statistics on counting your blessings are always high.

Opticians sell rose-tinted glasses
to see good things over the horizon
and in every house, doors are fitted
so that when one closes, another one opens.

Every silver cloud has a golden lining
and everyone’s glass is always half-full.
Every adult has the job they want
and every pupil is the teacher’s pet in every school.

There’s love at first sight and love that lasts
and, for those more adventurous, true love in blasts.
Underdogs win and no-one feels like they’ve lost even when
they lose.
Everyone walks around in everybody else’s shoes.

Pielanders are so happy they look pie-eyed.
They’re easy to recognise.
Doctors prescribe magic potions for free
and hospitals are only there to rest in cos nobody really dies.

And so I went to the train station
and looked up at the great glass roof ceiling in iron
from where timepieces hung
and from where black suits swung.

Leather-faced passengers
shuffled slowly along in queues, bunched,
with feet in their luggage up to their knees
sticking out their ticket tongues
to have them punched.

And when the announcement told me
which platform to go to, I got on
and fell asleep in my seat to dream
‘til when the locomotive would run out of steam.