Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Anonymous on the Omnibus?


Personalities chewed in sideward glances,
recognised on stops along the route.
Snatches of conversations " ... a good funeral".
Damp shakes on a wet day,
or patting down a windy day,
all smiles in the sunshine.
Cigarette smells, cooking smells,
high perfume and the unwashed hoi polloi.
Steamed up windows wiped with sleeves,
or bracingly opened to be closed by frailty.
There's no pleasing everyone. 

Move right along now please!

Up and down the bus the seats preferred,
and conversation shared on journeys of the mind.
Sitting back above an infinite range of hair,
and hats and colours and decorum,
the timetabled world goes by.
Happy drivers and grumpy drivers,
noisy kids and kind.
Bells the stages of life, and woes
and so it goes down all the roads
and routes and destinations infatuated
by the bus pass to heaven
for all aboard the skylark.
"Hello dear, how are you today?"
"Not so bad love".


Monday, 22 May 2017

A Cake Stand of Nostalgia


The aroma of a cigar, platted on the breeze,
rolled on the harvest of a sun's tropical thigh.
Regal, asleep upon the eyelids of summer,
or stirring the azure pipe smoke folks in lore.

Inkwell Welsh hats inverted, dripping, and shinning black,
spluttering on desks by the crossed-nib wooden pens,
blotted Dalmatian upon a snowfield's inkblot story,
or sucked in a daydream that fast tattoos the spittoon.

Guitars slow sundown on a beach of boy / girl eyes
adrift on horizons dressed with cheese moon ribbons,
to wrap a perfect day of angst and hope,
of young love misty for everyone, everywhere.

Fishing on a jetty of moorhen creaks and coughs,
watching the float hypnotise the reeds into a
synchronised paddy-field of coarse fish hides.
A lunch of great reedmace fluff on this perfect day.

The caves of childhood bifurcating the days,
along the secret tunnels of mischief,
exploding into caverns of gleaming loadstones,
erupting into laughter, hell bent on tumbling down.

Childhood homeward plods with a sun kissed neck,
and God grassed knees from the prayer of play.
With but one thought and that of dinner,
for it was a long adventure down the day.
Of fingertip butterflies and elusive nests,
stag-horn beetles and newts supreme.
Onward, onward, the next corner turned,
until dinner calls, and dreams abed,
floating to the stars.

Dad's hand strolling along the whistle of a day
swinging to the discovery of the essence of it all.
He knows, and he will tell you what he knows,
as the day unfolds in a rich inheritance.

The compartment train clacking to the tracks.
The window steamed open in tunnel gasps
and smutty jokes from the engine around the bend.
Six minds in conversation build their day.

A majesty of Grandpa in grandchildren eyes
knowing there is grander scheme of things.
That you are a link in the golden chain,
a nostalgia for their future in your past.

Saturday, 20 May 2017

Oil Change


The sat nav of the Gadarene swine 
is pouring over the oil wells,
one last fracking fix.
The metronome of extinction
is ticking off the species
in a migraine of shanty proclamations.
The departure board can
delay our departure no longer.
Go to the gate at the end of time - now!
Obesity has supersaturated 
the graves of wait and see,
but we can no longer digitise 
the juggernaut.

The cadaver of Gaia is fasciculating
in the morgue of sepulchral space,
so dread and dark, and infinitely cold.
Dancing in close at the witching hour
we are lost in each other's embrace,
all-consumed in the last tears of regret,
at laying the stuff of evolution on the pyre 
of no return - ever! Never ever!
For there will be no one to remember 
the polluted extermination of mankind,
to deny the quicksand, even as the 
tar sands choke in every orifice,
or refuge from the truth just out of mind.
Mindless in an hypnotic eternal sleep.

The tank track grinds forward,
crushing all in its path,
and as the tracks derail
we tumble into the abyss.
We have blown it all away,
every last thistle of the mind.
When the last phone stops ringing
we know there will never be an answer.
There will be no lastpost played
at the going down of the sun
or on the morning of our demise.

So burn forever, hell-bent in your
don't care, don't care! 
Lucifer has won.
But you will care. Smouldering.
For as you sup your one oil for the road,
that demon spirit in the Gaderene swine 
will drive you into the abyss.
When the very last life form dies,
so will the history of everything,
gone forever at the end of days.
In this one world that is.

So that's it - Isn't it?

Thursday, 18 May 2017



Dot's it all about? Susie.
(dedicated to my muses)

It's not about personality,
although that's the human way.
It's hard to say, but it's about policy.
Choices for tomorrow, made by you today.

Historic is not a histrionic,
this is a pivotal time.
In a mousetrap world neurotic,
your cross upon the line

is needed for tomorrow's world.
For your kith and kin and mine,
are reliant on your flag unfurled,
your place within the line,

will make or break this nation.
You HAVE TO decide - it's time!
To stand up and be counted,
to experience the elation
that it was your vote, and mine
that decided, not discounted,
but contributed to democracy,
our voice, the history of our time.

So, read the manifestos,
and decide to make it happen,
to place your cross upon the line,
and vote it into being.

That is Dot's it all about. Susie.

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

A Child's Chapel Hall


The boy’s steps on God's black stairs, muffled in dust on the must of the communion wine, and mindful of all His (or Her's or Ms's) reputed forgiveness. The boy's own dark mystery an irresistible magnetism pulling legs step by step to open that long-unopened cupboard, to discover the crockery of parties past that were set on trestle tables and white paper clothes, with ham sandwiches in ivory white bread, piled with red pop bubbles and sticky bun fingers. Bun feasts that have long turned to fasts in the vastness of time run out of short trousers. Another door, as slim as a pencil box, opened into the back of the organ! More wind in the boy’s gasps than many a hymn to high heaven in those sentry cobwebbed pipes. Frozen in those pipes and tubes were many a retreat voluntary, while the congregation-facing silver pipes, with their black gapped teeth over pouting lips, sang in shivers. The next few steps into the unknown we knew and recognised as the upper circle of the chapel, asleep in the deep dark with not a sound.

Black as hell it was, as the boys clung to the riddle of the Holy Ghost's benevolence however malevolent a naughty boy's cunning plan. Now is the time. Over the balcony onto the polished ledge and down the north face to the pulpit of Olympus. Spread eagled, a cruciform star he was, in the dark matter of this astral enormity, with the chapel clock opposite tutt-tutting disapproval. When suddenly! The light of heaven split the night into a singularity of time, and the voice of God pointing said "What the hell are you doing?". I swear he swore even though I was levitated in nail-splitting suspension above the pews of phews. But it was the deacon who had spoken - thank God it was not God, for we knew the deacon was a parsimonious chapel mouse in a moth-balled suit and platitudes of love in circumlocution. But the adventure had been ruptured. The board's we trod sadly back with plodding heads, down into the light of the moaning church hall under the radiant bricks of gas fires hanging high upon the walls and pulled by the rusty chains, clanking of sufficiency. Boys will be boys, but these boys were parsimoniously down-trodden by the girls ignoring their ignominy; and then Band of Hope spoke. Onward Christian so_o_oldiers / Marching as to warrrr …

Later, stealing down the toilet stairs, as dark as pee stains, into bowels of the chapel, on another escapade resplendent in conspiratorial smirk. Past the toilets, the chancel door condescended to open, as the light switch quietly spilled across the purple velvet tablecloth of the high priest's bible classes that whet the sisterhood's knickers or pulled down their tears upon their rugged cross-laddered skin-flaked stockings. Peddling the foot pump organ's bronchitic phlegm, the toe-curling sound caused a "hush, hush!", and the carafe of communion wine winked in the night-light, as “Let’s go” won the day, and the exit door led back into the chapel. Or on an aside turned into an anteroom, sky-bared against entry by miscreants, but a room with nothing worth stealing, as we stole back into the hall being packed up for home.

Under the outside light of the damp grey sky of sadness that clings to every chapel wall of the valley of the shadow of dearth of fun. Bandorfhope what did it mean? We ask as we play the week away until the evening of the next meeting. The chapel scratches down to sleep in all the rooms of this dusty mansion of God.

Suffer the naughty children to come unto me - tried and tested to destruction upon the thin ice of childhood.