THE CROWD SHOUT OUT FOR MORE

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THE CROWD SHOUT OUT FOR MORE

I never thought I’d say

That Ireland is to me

Just another piece of ‘real-estate’ today;

The place where we murdered rabbits

On nights both windy and dark

Giving them that old one-two

With a rigid hand behind the neck;

The place where we captured hares

For coursing in the glen

The blood coursing wildly through our veins

As Morrisseys lurcher

Swept them up from behind – again

The place where Mass was said

And Politics pled

On Sunday mornings

Outside churches

While inside, the sermon was read;

The little man was important then

And favours done, or causes won.

Were little enough

To cause much concern to anyone

Not any more

Now that the greedy guts hold all the floor

And all you hear is rampant cheers

And raucous shouts for more

And more…

And more…

And more…

CYCLISTS

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CYCLISTS

Why do they cycle in the middle of the road,

Or hog the white line,

Go when the lights red

And sometimes stop when they are green,

And steer with their knees

While their hands are doing something obscene?

HEMINGWAY’S HEAD

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HEMINGWAY’S HEAD

Hemingway?

You know I always thought

He had a Romanian head on him

Romanian, how so?

Well, It had that bloated look to it,

And Romanian heads always

Look soggy, I think

Hemingway had it in spades..

‘Course it might be the drink, too

He could never pass a bar,could he?

Or it might be that time he landed on his head

In those two helicopter crashes he had

One after the other, the same day I think.

Split his skull open

Exposed his innards to those African parasites

Who knows what damage they did,

Rampaging around his grey matter.

He never said much about it afterwards

Though that twinkle in his eye

Often looked more like a twitch.

PUT YOUR RED DRESS ON

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PUT YOUR RED DRESS ON

She was wearing a noir velvet coat

Of a dubious nature

Passed on from its now vanished previous owner

The cold beauty of winter was dying

The girl with the coat was in the corner crying

Drawing her long cigarette to her swelling lips

In a kind of slow motion enunciation

Her demeanor was shouting out

What about emancipation!

She is a vision to be imagined

Wrestling with snow-white sheets

With sad music permanently on repeat

Wailing a song of love

About her lover not long since gone

Then she casts her coat aside

And shouts to the throng

I’m going to put my red dress on

67 – A collection of 71 poems

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2nd edition now available on amazon; paperbook & ebook

LONDON HIGH-RISE

The graffiti spreads like muck along the walkways

In the lifts and on the stairs;

BOLLOCKS TO THE POLL TAX

TANYA SUCKS and CORINNE FUCKS

The stench of urine everywhere

This calcified menagerie

Bakes hearts as hard as concrete

Solidifies old attitudes, buries hope

Deifies ignominy

Here, echoes of hollow laughter

Ghost through the floors

Children play high-rise hopscotch

And stilettos click rhythmically

Along tuneless corridors

Another circus of misfits

Adrift in the maze

Cocooned in captivity

In this graceless legacy

Of the stack-em-high days

****************************

PARTING

The sun also rises over concrete

Over this puff-adder sky

And the pricked-up chimneys

Looking like piss-horns in the stark morning

There are no shadows yet

On this marbled plain

So tender in years

But so sparing with love

I shiver at the bus stop

Admiring this proliferation of granite;

So cold, so hard,

So like you….

DEMON LOVER

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DEMON LOVER

Right now,

I don’t want the demon lover

Or the secret longings

Which call my name from the deepest shadows.

I only want lies…

Sweet sensual lies…

Easing me into peace.

Or make them truths

If you so desire,

But tell me nothing

That..

I do not need…

To hear.

PRIVACY IS FOR PAEDOS

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I published this one before but I think it is worth repeating.

PRIVACY IS FOR PAEDOS

We have come to the end of privacy

Our private lives have been winnowed away

To the realms of the shameful and secret.

Someone, somewhere, state, press or corporation

Is watching.

Everybody knows about the Facebook newsfeed

It’s like a sausage – everyone eats it

Though nobody knows how it is made.

We are being manipulated, surveyed, rendered

By intelligence that is artificial as well human

Driven by complex mathematical formulae

That are invisible and arcane

Where corporations feed on the private lives of their users

While governments play fast and loose.

If you have nothing to hide you have nothing to fear

Oh yeah?

Sex and shitting were once the only pastimes safe from the Internet

Well, not any more, baby!

As Max M found to his cost

Though defecation was a bit too much

Even for his eclectic taste

Secrets are lies, sharing is caring, privacy is theft

Facebook can quite easily draw a map of your soul;

Tell us what you like and we will tell you what you are;

We can now tell which of your friends are gay

And whether you may be leaning that way

We know how much you have in your bank, your tank

And where you will holiday next time round,

When your wife will get pregnant – and by whom

We know every thought inside your head

Whether inside or outside this room.

If you want to keep a secret

You must hide it from yourself

Privacy? There is no privacy anymore,

Anywhere

Privacy is for paedos.

CONSPIRACY THEORY

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CONSPIRACY THEORY

The more heads the creature has

The dumber it is.

And that’s what a conspiracy theory is:

An exercise in stupidity

Until it eventually collapses

Under the weight of its own cupidity

OMG…I SLEPT WITH THE BASS PLAYER!

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'So senseless and tragic. When will young people learn?'
Brian Haner

OMG…I SLEPT WITH THE BASS PLAYER!

Bass players are gross

Bass players give you a dose

They usually have long hair

And they’re always scratching down there

They just stand around looking dopey

And their voices are usually ropey

Then they pluck on them string…things

And the sound…omg…my head just whings

And then I look at the lead guitarist play

And I think, he can tickle my frets any old day

So to find myself waking up next to a bass-playing dope

Makes it kinda hard for a girl to cope

‘Cos nobody sleeps with the bass player innit?

Fuck it, I’ll do the drummer in the next bed in a minute!

THE ROUMANIAN

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THE ROMANIAN

 Kostas vendored hot air along with hot beer

In his kingdom ‘Ye Olde Crown by-the-sea’

His tales, though tall, always plausible

And intriguing to many more than me.

He had flown Russian Migs, no less

In Ceausescu’s secret armies in the past

Doing deeds that were less than chivalrous

Before the dictator breathed his last.

Sometime later he fetched up in London

With a wife who was other than great

And who spent his less-than-hard-earned money

At quite an alarming rate.

He took to his own devices

with his hostelry by the sea

and feathered his puffy nest

helped by others as well as me.

He repaid us with roubles that were rubbish

And dollars that were chaff

And then headed off into the sunset again

Leaving behind nothing but his knowing laugh