Young Love

I might glimpse you in passing
On the bus or in the park,
Or on your way to mass,
Or at the flicks, or after dark.
You sometimes wear the cutest cap,
And ankle socks and shorts –
As I shift my coat upon my lap
To hide my inner thoughts.
I never did a thing to show,
The thing that you can never know:

I don’t know why I’m made this way, you see,
But so I am:
I can’t deny these thoughts are part of me,
Behind the dam.
And like as not, will always be,
But there they’ll stay, and never free –
For even you can’t turn my key:
My will is strong, my lamb.

Inside, I long to clutch you,
But instead I’ll run a mile –
And I’ll never even touch you,
And I’ll never even smile.
And I’ll hate myself a little,
Or I’ll hate myself a lot,
Cos I know you’re far too brittle
For the loving that I’ve got.
I never did a thing to coax –
But run along, here come your folks.

So sharpen up the pitchforks, tie the noose,
And watch me dance.
I’d plead my innocence, but what’s the use ?
You’re all a-trance.
Why wouldn’t I commit abuse ?
I broke no law, but what the deuce,
You can’t abide me on the loose !
Why even take the chance ?

I know that feeling that you feel,
That urge you feel you have to act upon.
But take my word, it isn’t real
It’s just an urge that we can heal –
We can resist, for we are steel !
(Although, in truth, it’s never fully gone.)

Don’t vent your hate before your children,
That won’t do.
Don’t let them see and learn your hate –
They’re only young – it’s not too late !
If you hate me for loving children –
Leave me be – because you love them too.

I don’t mean to imply anything about the artist – Victorians certainly fetishised children and childhood, but in a very idealised and utterly non-sexual way.  It’s just strange to look on these types of portrait with our modern eyes.

Hipster Moi

Sure, I’ll be a hipster –
If it’s something you sneer at, I’m in.
If jeering at hipsters is unwritten code,
If trending on trendies is mode à la mode,
Then dump on me, bro, let it all unload –
Hate me, cos you ain’t gonna win.
I might grow a beard cos I reckon you won’t like it,
And even if you like it, I’ll do it anyway.
I’ll sport my hair in dreadlocks, or maybe rock a pixie,
I’ll shop at House of Oxfam, and ride there on my fixie,
And call her Toots or Trixie,
Or sipping on my latte while I’m writing my screenplay.

You think it’s just a pose ?
Well, maybe, bro, it is.  Who knows ?
And then, so what ?
No more a pose than all your hating –
Yours demeans while mine’s creating.
Am I just so smug and grating,
That this sniding’s all you got ?
Well, go ahead and take your shot
Belittle and demote this.
I guess I’m not that hard to spot –
In jelly crocs for all to see,
And vintage woollen socks, I’ll be –
So come on, bro, and hate on me…
I doubt I’ll even notice.

Purple Haze

Purple and mauve
And claret and plum,
Lavender, lilac and carpenter’s thumb,
Indigo, violet, ultramarine,
Fuchsia, magenta and burgundy-bean.
Aubergine, sprouting and blueberry juice –
Much redder than cyan and bluer than puce.

The red and the blue,
And the blue and the red,
And the mix of the two
On the wall or the thread.
Emperors, sportsmen and hippies have shown
That neither these primes is enough on its own.
It’s cool and it’s passionate, hip and genteel –
Much bluer than scarlet and redder than steel.

Unsolitary Confinement

Irridescent, luminescent,
Altogether too incessant,
Incandescent, phosphorescent –
Got the light bulb blues.

Light creating, radiating,
Back-of-eyeball irritating,
Unabating, darkness hating –
Glaring on my dues.

Just leave me in the gloom, I pray,
Don’t flood my cell as bright as day
I’m not some freak or cabaret,
Stop watching me, you screws !

Killer of all sleep and resting,
Particle and wave infesting
With your retina-molesting –
Photons spread the news.

Even when my eyes are hidden,
Locked away behind each lid,
Then still you seep on through, unbidden –
Chasing out my snooze.

Lumination aggravation,
Pleading for some abrogation –
No cessation, no salvation –
Won’t you ever fuse ?

Doorknocker Blues

Don’t you come around here
I’m warning you, don’t you come around here, boy
Cos I won’t be home, d’you hear ?
Cos I won’t be here when you come around here, boy
So don’t you come knocking
            I know that you’re in there
Said don’t you come knocking
            You’re silent as sin there
There’s nobody home, cos I won’t be unlocking
There’s nobody home, so you don’t you come knocking
            Your TV is flickering somewhere within there
            You’re neighbours are bickering, winos are liquoring
            Street kids are snickering.  What do I care ?
            And I can wait days
            And I will
            I can wait days, and I’m waiting until
            You open your door and you find me here still
            You open your door, cos I’m knocking
Why you so stubborn ?
            I guess I just am
So stupid and stubborn
            I’ve no sense for damn
You’re shabby and sloven, a slacker and screw
I bet you’re on acid, and reefer, and glue
Your vision is flaccid – your timing is too
            I guess I’m a bit of a shambles, a clam
            I guess that I get it from you
Now if you was plumbing to tap me for shaking
You’d better just come in, there’s nothing worth taking
            It really ain’t that way, I’m hitting a wall
            I just need to talk yer, was all
You just need to talk, eh ?
            And split a few beers
You just need to talk, after how many years ?
            Thing is, there’s nobody else I could try
            Not Ma.  Not the guys.  Not Father MacKay
            My girl, see, my girl is – well, she’s gone and got…
            Well, me too, I guess, it was my fault alot
            But I never got no sense for damn
You mean you done gone and got your girl with kid ?
Jeez, of all the stupid skid you did !
This takes the slam
            I know, I know !  What could I do but scram ?
Oh.  Now I see
You rabbit out and think of me
And hope you find a life so bad
It grits you up to be a dad
But maybe what you find, my lad, is reasons worth to flee
But then one day, some years away, when you ain’t clocking
They may come knocking.