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.
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)
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
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.
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
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.
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.
HERE I STAND
Oh Lord saves me from the angry voices
We have marked our exes down
We have made our choices
Capitalism for the young
Socialism for the old
That way all our streets are paved with gold.
Here I stand, as Paul Robeson said
Trouble is you people want me dead
I want to go ‘cos I can’t stay
But the motherfuckers took my passport away.
They took my livelihood too
Now I’m gonna’ take something from you;
It’s your Status Quo, see?
Status Quo;
The way things are
And always will be;
Well, not any more, mon cherie
BUNKER ON PORTLAND BILL
This windowed concrete slab
Touching the hedgerows
Bunkered in leaf-strewn soil
Chivvies me
Muskets were reddened here
By shorter men than I
Defenders of a long-gone realm
Stooped between fissured ceiling and creviced floor
What mayhem bedlamed this rocky causeway?
Its cannons foddering the deep
The stun of steel slamming granite
The stench of gunfire turning stomachs
Loose limbs cluttering pathways
Death hovering
All quiet now on this promontory;
Sheep nibbling, tea and scones in the old armoury
Picture postcards of battles fought and won
Day-trippers picnicking
In the shadows cast by the big guns
http://www.coppercoastgeopark.com/3DTours/tankunderground.html
The Copper Coast is a stretch of the southern coast of Ireland in County Waterford. It is named for the historic metal-mining industry, the legacies of which now constitute a tourist attraction.
This was where I misspent my youth; where I learnt to swim; where I rode my first motorcycle – a shiny red Honda 50; where I kissed my first girlfriend; where I ate dilisk and Tayto crisps till they made me sick. Ah Bonmahon!
My Writing Life 