DID ROY ROGERS EVER READ THE ILIAD?

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DID ROY ROGERS EVER READ THE ILIAD?

If I had a classical education

I could talk about the Greek Classics

Read the Iliad, and recognise dactylic hexameter:

I would know of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles

Understand  about  the Odyssey, Homer, Diomedes, Poseidon

And other such matters –

Like who the fuck Perseus was?

But I don’t;

Instead of Greek Mythology

I read about Roy Rogers, Buck Jones, Johnny Mack Brown

And how Billy The Kid was left-handed;

About the gunfight at the OK Corral,

And who shot Jesse James in the back;

About The Lone Ranger and Tonto

And other important stuff like that;

Kemo Sabe?

I wonder if Roy Rogers ever read The Iliad?

MONOLOGUE

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MONOLOGUE

This is not an art society

This is a money society

A pleasure society

With most in an amorphous state

Demanding forms for themselves.

Where is the curer of souls;

He who gives advice to the lovelorn

As well as the thief and the life-taker?

There are no real answers;

So what do you do?

Perhaps the black youth had the answer

Waving a train timetable at me as I passed him by;

He had missed his stop and was shouting

‘You gonna’ help me out? Have you got a dollar’?

‘That depends’, I mouthed silently

‘On whether you have a gun or not’.

Luckily for me he didn’t.

GERONTOCRACY RULES

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GERONTOCRACY RULES

Gerontocracy is a word I do not like

Gerontocracy is popularised by silly  old fuckers

Who frequently fall off their (motor) bikes

Gerontocracy is for coffin-dodgers

Who can now afford the platinum model

And peddle dreams that are no longer theirs to peddle

Gerontocracy is doddery rule by senile fools

Who believe they can live forever:

Gerontocracy rules – but only in good weather.

LUNCH OF BLOOD

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This is a poem by Saul Bellow. Not sure if it has a title.

“Mice hide when hawks are high;
Hawks shy from airplanes;
Planes dread the ack-ack-ack;
Each one fears somebody.
Only the heedless lions
Under the Booloo tree
Snooze in each other’s arms
After their lunch of blood –
I call that living good!”

THE BATTLE OF WAPPING (1986)

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THE BATTLE OF WAPPING (1986)

They pushed us once, they pushed us twice

Their steeds with nostrils flared

They forced us back with horse and shield

As if we weren’t there.

They bussed them in from out of town

The workers who replaced us,

No union man would cross the line

No scabs would dare to face us.

*

We were bopping in Wapping

Till the fuzz rolled up,

We were copping in Wapping

Till Murdoch fucked it up.

Don’t buy the Sun, don’t buy the Sun

Have some fun, burn the fucking Sun

*

The miners they had just been ruined

We should have known the score,

But Thatcher’s thugs took us for mugs

So we had to come back for more.

For one long year we held our ground

We wouldn’t let the bastards pass,

Till Murdoch said ‘block print is dead

So yield you scum or kiss my ass’.

*

We were bopping in Wapping

Till the fuzz rolled up,

We were copping in Wapping

Till Murdoch fucked it up,

Don’t buy the Sun, don’t buy the Sun

Have some fun, burn the fucking Sun.

*

St Katherine’s Dock looked like a war zone

Awash with bleeding heads and limbs,

While the backsliders, scabs and careerists

Sat in the shade sipping their Pimms,

Wapping is the new Jerusalem

Fleet Street has been; now Fleet Street is gone

Read all about it, everybody shout it

Murdoch’s steamroller is still rolling on.

*

We were bopping in Wapping

Till the fuzz rolled up,

We were copping in Wapping

Till Murdoch fucked it up.

Don’t buy the Sun, don’t buy the Sun

Have some fun, burn the fucking Sun.

GUZMAN WAS HERE

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GUZMAN WAS HERE

They seek him here

They seek him there

This damn Guzman is everywhere!

Public enemy number one in Chicago

He is now succeeding  Al Capone;

El Chapo Guzman tunnelled deep

Then called a taxi on his new smart phone.

ZANZIBAR

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CURE FOR WRITER’S BLOCK
Saying Zanzibar seven times
Very slowly
Is good for writer’s block
Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r, Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r
Zzz-aa-nn-zzz-iiii—-
Fuck, fuck, fuck

MY FATHER – a poem by John Osborne

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John Osborne poet

John Osborne  was an English playwright, screenwriter, actor and critic of the Establishment. The success of his 1956 play Look Back in Anger transformed English theatre.

In a productive life of more than 40 years, Osborne explored many themes and genres, writing for stage, film and TV. His personal life was extravagant and iconoclastic. He was notorious for the ornate violence of his language, not only on behalf of the political causes he supported but also against his own family, including his wives and children.

Osborne was one of the first writers to address Britain’s purpose in the post-imperial age. He was the first to question the point of the monarchy on a prominent public stage. During his peak (1956–1966), he helped make contempt an acceptable and now even cliched onstage emotion, argued for the cleansing wisdom of bad behaviour and bad taste, and combined unsparing truthfulness with devastating wit.

MY FATHER

My father lived a simple life
But he was a man apart
With gentle ways and humble mind
And an understanding heart

He loved and cared for people
Helping those in need.
He strove to make folk happy
For kindness was his creed.

He never aimed for dizzy heights
Of luxury or fame
But where he walked and where he talked
With love he carved his name.

He was like a rock to lean upon
Each problem he would share.
He found his strength in his belief
And in kneeling down in prayer.

He loved his home and lived his life
With fullness to the end
He taught me much I owe him much
A father and a friend.

Death was peace and joy to him
It was no fearful thing,
His faith was simple and sincere
And God alone his king.

John Osborne

HERONS, CORMORANTS & SQUIRRELS

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Pictures taken in Alexandria Park, Hastings, earlier today

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HOME BEFORE DARK

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SEPTEMBER IS THE LOVELIEST MONTH
September is the loveliest month.
The sky is on permanent fire
The trees painted many colours
Burnished, it seems, with pure desire
In the park, ducks glide silently by
And the always busy seagulls
Resemble sea-planes
Coming in to land from on high
Whilst near the dozing oak tree
The squirrels nutmeg each other
Each acorn hoarded
For the soon-to-come cold weather.
Your arm in mine
We stroll down the park
Heading towards the sunset
Home before dark.