TIME ON MY HANDS

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TIME ON MY HANDS

Time, so they tell me,
Is a precious commodity;
Nowadays I own lots of it
(ever since the steelyard gates clanged shut)
I wonder how much a few weeks of it
Would fetch at Christies?

see my books on sale here; http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

WINTERTIME

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WINTERTIME
The Kilamanjaros never looked so bright
As the Comeraghs do, swaddled in white
Their new overcoats, bespoke overnight

DID I MENTION THE FREE WINE

Felix Dennis ,the publishing magnate, kicked the bucket recently. Wealthy beyond dreams – possibly a billionaire – had a simple philosophy; ‘to have a blolody good time filling the gap between being born and dying’. He boasted that had spent £100 million on ‘sex,drugs and rock-n-roll – especially on drugs’.  Well, you can’t take it with you.

Born into poverty he left school without an O-level to his name, but found that he was a genuis at spotting opportunities in the magazine market. The one-time hippy began with the satirical underground  magazine Oz, started with his friends Richard Neville and James Anderson. However, it began badly and they were prosecuted under the Obscene Publications Act for publishing obscene cartoons in one issue, and convicted and sentenced to 15 months in goal. They won their subsequent appeal, but not before spending several weeks in prison first. After that the only way was up for Felix; he formed Dennis Publishing and was soon publishing titles such as Computer magazines, Kung Fu monthly, Auto Express, and many others.

Soon he had houses and estates all over the world, including in Mustique, where he spent half the year. He also acquired an estate near Stratford-upon-Avon, where up to a dozen women could be found at any given time. ‘Yes, I do have sex with all of them’, he said once, ‘and of course they all know about each other.  I am not monogamous  by nature and I can’t be any other way. That’s why I never married. The thought of waking up  every day in bed with the same woman horrifies me’. All his women knew he would never marry them, he said, and that they were free to leave him whenever they wished.

For years, he said, apart from expanding his business empire, he did almost nothing bu t have sex., take vast quantities of drugs and feel absolutely fantastic.

However he gave up drugs in 1997 and in recent years his interest in women has been slightly supereceded by his interest in trees and poetry. He had planted a millon trees in his Heart of England forest project on his estate, whilst he developed his love of poetry when in hospital being treated for throat cancer a decade ago. While there he began writing poetry and wrote his first collection, A Glass Half  Full. Afterwards he toured the country  with his poetry-reading show called DID I MENTION THE FREE WINE.  Was it any wonder he was always guaranteed an audience!

‘The forest will be my legacy’ he said shortly before he died.

Felix certainly put the H  in hedonism!

OH,THE SILK OF THEIR FLESH

Oh, the silk of their flesh, once hidden beneath
Those mulberry bushes of plenty,
Their breast on my belly, their tongue in my teeth —
God! What it was like to be twenty!
Sweet Jenny, Ornella, and Charlotte, and Blaine,
In beds or on floors or al fresco,
The threesomes with Lily and knickerless Jane —
Now innocent mummies at Tesco!
                                        Felix Dennis

 

I WONDER WHAT THEY WILL SAY

 

I WONDER WHAT THEY WILL SAY 

I wonder what they will say of me when I am gone?

It was him that penned those lines, you know

The ones about choking the chicken.

Ah, poor Katie Doyle never lived that one down!

And the lies he told in that Altar Boy book he wrote

Just as well his poor mother wasn’t still around…

 

Then there was that tale about the Kray Twins

How he walked and smoked with them

On remand in Wormwood Scrubs if you don’t mind!

How they didn’t seem nearly as bad as they were painted

In fact he almost said they were kind!

 

I wonder what they will say of me when I am gone?

Perhaps they will say nothing

 

HAMPSTEAD GIRLS

 

HAMPSTEAD GIRLS

 A better class of person

Adorns the Hampstead

Red-bricks and glass

Whether lounging in the chic-lit bars

Or just lolling in the grass

Hampstead ladies in particular

Ride their bikes with elegance

And sip their foamy cappuccinos

With practised nonchalance.

On the pavements and in the cafes

There are no sightings

Of the culturally bereft

Even down-and-outs

Lean quite boldly to the left.

John Betjeman could not complain

Or call on Hampstead Heath

For bombs to rain

Nor suffer scorn like poor old Slough

Who he had deemed

Not fit for any humans now

Those air-conditioned bright canteens

In Hampstead’s glades will not be seen

And there’s plenty grass to graze his cow

Hampstead Heath’s as green as Ireland now!

my latest poetry collection – 67 – is now available  @  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

 

 

 

 

           

GILDED BIRDS

GILDED BIRDS

 The only beauty left

Is the struggle for perfection

Beauty is asking to be used

Real beauty endures

Like a rhythm or a cadence

Or a sphere

 

Beauty is an unknown face

Somewhere, in that place

Where something has happened,

Or will soon.

 

DAWNING

DAWNING

 ‘Silly old fool’, someone

Shouts in your wake

And in the brilliantly-lit

Cube of time ‘old’ is dangled

Before your eyes

 

And won’t go away

 

She called you old! And

In the instant it takes you

To turn around and see

The solitary young woman

Bend down to retrieve her parcel

It dawns on you that you are

Nearer the end than the beginning

 

Much nearer

 

It comes, not creeping in the dark,

But galloping unstoppably

Over the horizon

And you never see it

 

Silly old fool

 

 

JESUS SAVES

 

I wrote this piece of doggerel whilst watching a boring football game last night

 

JESUS SAVES

 There is no doubt it is a penalty

A trailing leg caught the number nine

And upended him right on the spot.

Jesus shakes his head;

So stupido, our centre half

So bloody stupido.

Jose de Jesus will be our saviour

He tells himself

Blessing himself three times

Calling on his grandmother, his grandfather,

The Holy Ghost, Castro, Pancho Villa

And all the saints in Christendom.

 

The penalty taker glares at him

If looks were bullets he would be finito

He is stupido too, he thinks

Smiling his little smile.

He sways this way on jelly legs

Feints that way and flops his arms

The ball is struck, the aim is fine

But Jesus has read the striker’s line

And….oh yes….

Jesus saves – this time

UNTITLED

        

UNTITLED

 An unmanned comet passed

By my window last night

Steering by our moon

Stealing love

 

Its journey will be long

 

 from my new collection of poetry ’67’ – http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

THE DANCE OF THE CRANES

THE DANCE OF THE CRANES

 Long-necked and longer-legged

They shimmer among the reeds

Crazy-dancing in the breeze                                             

High-stepping, wing-flapping

Bouncing high in springy leaps

Then  a pause

To step lightly here,

 Tread gaily there

Duets in the sun

Heads bowed.

Balletically symmetric

It ends in a crescendo

That is electric

 

It is love they are dancing about

This joyful abundance

Knowing no bounds

Feeling no pain

You and I, my love

Shall soon learn

To dance like the cranes

 

see all my books & plays @   http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent