Challenging & Worthy

Ballet, op’ra and poetry –
Loved by luvvies and the BBC
But otherwise ignored by all and quite right too.
Up their own arses, these brown-nose arts
Are permanent’ly trapped in a bubble of farts
Just like the upper-chattering classes talking poo.
Please, oh please, let me never be trendy,
Keep me away from the cognoscenti,
Shovelling tax-pounds into their bottomless troughs.
I’ll take my chance with the free-will market
Than crawling on my belly on a critic’s carpet –
They may be lefties, but trust me – they’re just a bunch of toffs.

Those Who Can’t

So you say you don’t like my fill-in-the-blank,
Well okay grandad, off you trot,
So you think my taste is ‘square’ and ‘rank’,
Well God bless you and off you trot,
And love what you love and leave what you don’t,
And tell what you will and spare what you won’t,
But if you can’t wait to gossip what you hate,
Well groovy, daddy-o, off you trot,
Don’t let me stop you, but hold on there,
Just let me work out how much I care
While I crank my fav’rit song upto ten –
WHAT’S THAT ? SAY WHAT ? COME AGEN ?
You were prob’ly calling it a ‘din’ and ‘rot’
Cos these days, whinging’s all you got –
So I guess you don’t like the whole ‘darn’ lot,
But don’t worry, geezer, off you trot.

World Peace

I could lie here for hours.

I could lie here for hours,
Lie in tranquillity,
Keep all your showers and saunas from me.
There’s only one way for seeping out grime,
I just need a tub and a loofah – and time.
Secluded, alone, with my own private lake,
I soak in the warmth as I soak out the ache,
I massage my fingers through lathering cream,
And I breathe in the salts with the tickle’ing steam.
And eyes closed, transposed, I lie,
And nothing will matter until I’m dry.
I let wash away all the pressure and bile.
So go on without me, at least for a while.

I always imagine a bath is the perfect place to mine inspiration, but I think the brevity of this poem shows how little I find.  I’m more likely to turn up forty winks – and nothing wrong with that.

A Bout with a Spout

Tucked up under the eaves of the church
The gargoyles lurk upon their haunches,
Spindly fingers stroking their paunches.
Out the corners of my eye they lurch,
But when I turn, they’re stony still –
A sneer on every maul and bill.
“You can’t fool me by playing statue,
Because, one of these days, I’ll catch you !”

Craning up at the eaves of the church,
I’m staring-out their stones and mortar,
Gagging on their breath of fetid water.
Square is my gaze upon their perch,
Just waiting for their craggy blink
To prove they move as much as they stink.
But I stare in vain, and most unwise,
When one of them gurgles, and spits in my eyes.

Five Strangers Among Us

I counted them myself,
I’d never seen a-one before,
I’m sure of that –
But in my room, I saw them stay.

With all my hostly stealth
I spent with each a turn or more
To smile and chat,
And cautiously explore each stray.

The woman dressed in wealth,
Who lurked awhile too near the door –
She wore her hat,
And managed to ignore the fray.

The kid who coughed his health,
And sprayed hellos to all before.
This spore-filled brat
Has left his greeters sore and grey.

The petite pixie elf
Was charming praise and looks galore.
This purring cat
Was frolicking and luring prey.

The bloke with flashy pelf
Was boasting of his market lore.
We bored him flat,
Cos no-one’s keeping score today.

The geek upon the shelf
Who watches feet upon the floor.
Demure he sat,
Afraid to up and join our play.

I counted them myself,
I tried my best to build rapport,
Yet for all that,
They left my room, went on their way.

A Life at the Living

Here we go again, another day,
Much like the day before,
Much like tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Leading on to evermore.
So here we go again, along the way –
At least we know the score,
As neither happiness nor sorrow,
But the daily drills that bore.

It shouldn’t be like this, we know,
This life, it shouldn’t be like this,
But where did all our future go,
With so few larks to reminisce ?
We cursed how Sundays crept so slow,
Now years of them have been and gone,
With precious little work to show –
Just what the hell was going on ?

I guess we had a time or two –
I bet we did, in all that time,
In all the endless pantomime,
We must have done what young folk do.
But things have settled down, of course,
Along the way, we’ve settled down
In quiet suburbs out-of-town,
And joined the lonely labour force.

And here we go again, another day,
Just like the year before,
Just like the way we always swore
We’d never let become this grey.
But we were young and so naive
To think that we were special then,
To never lose and never grieve –
Till slowly if turned into when.

It shouldn’t be like this, we know,
This life.  It needn’t be like this.
If we can just recall the bliss
Before the endless status quo.
If only for a moment, let us play
Upon a Sunday slow –
Tomorrows and tomorrows come and go,
But now is still today.