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
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,
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 –
Papa is no more.
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
And mixing with heavenly hosts.
Of hell and reincarnation
Raised from the dead
Coming back as a lumberjack
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.
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
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.
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 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?