IN PRAISE OF MONARCHS

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IN PRAISE OF MONARCHS

He dug ditches in obscurity

Raised ten children to maturity

When pushed he said;

‘I do the best I can. Life’s hard

On the working man, but I mustn’t complain

I’ve got my health, while there’s others

Who can’t stop dying for all their wealth.

All that stuff in China…I wouldn’t give it

If they changed my lot for Royalty I wouldn’t live it.

There’s more to life than being famous you know’.

IF YOU COULD HEAR YOURSELF

IF YOU COULD HEAR YOURSELF

I wish you could listen

To the shit that

Comes out of your mouth;

Believe me when I say

It’s a lot better in than out;

Same old rhetoric;

Same old anti-everything spin;

Don’t believe the anti-christs

Who will tell you

It’s a lot better out than in.

It’s a sin to tell a lie

No matter which side you are on;

Just give it all away now

Then you can never get it back

When it’s gone,

Gone,

Gone…

HEMINGWAY WAS HERE

PAPA

The time is near

The clock is queer

I have had more than one beer.

Papa crept downstairs

In the early morning.

The keys are close to the time.

They open the locked cabinet beneath it.

The shotgun is quickly loaded

Two in the chambers just in case

Then the gun is heeled to the wall

And his forehead firmly anchors it.

Hands reach down –

And Bang!

Papa is no more.

THE HOODED MAN AT THE FOOT OF MY BED

THE HOODED MAN AT THE FOOT OF MY BED
The hooded man at the foot of my bed
Speaks to me
Of all creation
Since the Big Bang
Being measured by the products of decay.
Insanity, chaos, corruption
Lies, rot, ruin
Sickness, dirt and rust
Shed cells, dead cells, atrophy
Sweat, ashes and dust
That at a subatomic level
Create new mass.
And this goes on infinitely.
He talks of forbidden fruit and original sin
Walking into the light
Into streets paved with gold
Of extraterrestrials, gurus, ghosts
Paradise
And mixing with heavenly hosts.
Of hell and reincarnation
Being healed
Raised from the dead
Coming back as a lumberjack
A raven
Or a hunchback
Where will it all end?
I mean to ask my hooded friend
But suddenly he is nowhere to be seen.

SEPTEMBER IS THE LOVELIEST MONTH

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.

Christmas Greetings

 sad drunk man sitting on sidewalk near trashcan Stock Photo - 7713120

A LOAF OF BREAD AND A CAN OF SPECIAL BREW

He sat on a seafront bench
A loaf of bread and a can of Special Brew
By his side
Speaking to someone who wasn’t there.
Though these day you can never tell
Whether they are or not;
He may have had a mobile phone in his ear.
Then he spoke to me;
‘What are you fucking looking at, blue?’
‘Yeah’, 
I thought, ‘that figures,                                                                                     ‘And a And a happy New year to you too’

EINSTEIN’S EYEBALLS

EINSTEIN’S EYEBALLS

Einstein’s eyes?                                                                                                                        Yeah they’re still around,                                                                                                            In a jar
In a safe deposit box
Somewhere in New York.
His brain is somewhere in the vicinity too;
Not altogether in one piece admittedly;
A bacon slicer was allegedly utilised.
His wish was to be cremated
And his ashes scattered in a secret location;
But if it happened
It was minus the aforementioned parts.
‘Having his eyes means his life was not ended’
He’s not dead because I have his eyes’
So says Henry Abrams
The current keeper of those genius eyes
(though rumours are that an auction is imminent)
‘He’s not dead because I have his eyes’
How creepy is that?