"Miracle Chopper"

It’s something you expect in Afghan’stan or Bagdad

Not in the Wandsworth Road, by gad

Helicopter crashing into a crane

To make that up you’d be insane

And the crane driver was late for work

Out of character not known to shirk

What’s that? “A miracle”! You cry

Your big whopper I’m not going to buy

Not such a great one for families of two dead

I think we’ll take that one as read

Simple bad luck it hit the tower

Fuck all to do with a higher power.

Though  ‘miracle’ cries were a tad mute

Don’t want your God portrayed a brute

S’funny how the Bible Boys pick & choose

Claiming credit with nothing to lose.

Chilean miners buried in hell

Who got the credit, well pray tell

It’s that God chap that saved them all

Responding to their praying call

Yet he was the cunt who buried them first

“You bastard God” is what they cursed!

But they all came up alive

All back slapping & high five.

Saved by the dad of that Jesus chap

How can anyone believe that crap?

Chilean miners not ready to die

But he left Lakenal to choke and fry

Call me old fashioned if you must

When it comes to religion I’m not fussed.

Because if this God can pick & choose

By giving him a swerve I’ve nothing to lose.

Dulwich Poet-January 2013

(A helicopter crashed into a crane, which on top of a skyscraper block of flats, at Vauxhall, on 16^th January, killing the pilot & one person on the ground. In 2010 33 Chilean miners spent 69 days trapped underground, before being rescued. Lakenal is a block of council flats in Camberwell, where there was fire, in which six people died, in July 2009 )

(I read this at 'Outsider Performers', part of the Shuffle Festival , which was on the sit of St. Clements Hospital, Bow, E3.)

"Daily...Whenever"

It’s been a while

Since I put pen to paper

Keen as mustard

For the first few days

Then excuses

For scribbling delays.

Cogs whirring

Dormant brain cells turning

All systems go!

Be real-there are no targets

This isn’t the news on the radio

Like LBC

On the hour, every hour.

If I do that I’ll blow a fuse.

This is supposed to be

Creative writing

I think is the poncy term

Even more so than…

(Whisper it) POETRY.

It’s something I like

Want to enjoy

Not get under my skin

And start to destroy.

Does it matter if there’s ‘writers block’?

What that means I’ve no idea

So it’s not actually that

But near enough.

Glancing at the time on the clock

A notebook by my bed

Fat lot of good; that’s my wanking time!

Make a habit jot down what’s in my head

General thoughts from my memory bank

I curse myself if I don’t get it saved

Gone forever…the line I craved.

There’s nothing worse than forgetting

Write it down when I can

Surely not to hard to understand?

Is it worth getting wound up about?

Pouring fuel on my fire of self doubt

Deep breathing releasing pressure

Writing things down at my leisure.

Poetry writing should be to enjoy

Not another tool to self destroy

I must use my pen where and when

And not to beat myself up again.

Dulwich Poet-January 2013

(When I was chatting to a fellow Dulwich Hamlet supporter, at the beginning of January 2013, it crept out in conversation that he writes poetry. I said I hadn’t done so since I’d left school really, & he encouraged me to start again. He told me he tries to write one a day, which is far too ambitious for me)

"Well Deserved"

A flip flop’s a beach shoe on my feet

Not a second home used to cheat

Who would think of a home for gain

Let the train take the strain!

There they go cap in hand

And never claiming the basic brand!

Maybe I’m jealous as I have no moat

Is it MY greed that gets my goat?

Some get rumbled politics career dead

Conveniently mental in the head

It could be genuine, not a recent feat

Don’t think it would work for a benefits cheat.

Teachers, tube drivers…driven by greed

Unlike MPs who are really in need

They’re not out of touch, is what they bleat

Blame the poor man in the street!

Westminster after a 32 per cent rise

On top of their Parliamentary salary prize

No wonder they set their own wage deals

They clearly know how poverty feels.

I’m not well paid but I’m not poor

Crap money is a supermarket floor

There’s nothing wrong to aspire

A living wage a little higher

More power to the railway workers

I’ve never call them a bunch of shirkers

For without their trade union power

It’s minimum wage every hour.

I’d love to be in this together

Not have to worry about cold weather

But I’m not an Eton millionaire toff

So the Tory bastards can fuck off!

Dulwich Poet- 12^th January 2013

(Members of Parliament wanted to give themselves a huge increase in salary, while closing the front desks of police stations, among many other public cuts. )

"Postman Plod"

Giros to the left, grasses to the right

No more cop shops middle of the night

Well they say prison’s one big holiday camp

So they may as well nick you buying a stamp

Go the whole hog with this ‘two for one’

Pop along with a fucking great gun

Just say you were getting your ankle tag

Perfect alibi for your Post Office blag.

“We’re all in this together” is the Con-Dem line

And to an extent that’s actually fine

Just if we’re in the same ‘making cuts’ boat,

I’d much rather it was across their throat.

Shut the nicks, & turn the clock back;

Make sure policemen don’t get the sack.

Just early retirement or a sick pension

More than enough for Maggie’s henchmen.

No returning to Dixon of Dock Green

Old Bill will be like they’re always been

A sly nasty kick in at the station

After they’ve nicked you on a demonstration

Mr. Two-Up, and Mrs. Two-Down,

They were the ones who used to frown-

Union thugs on the telly

Nasty commie underbelly

Til the day it’s them forced on strike

Realisation what police are really like

Clubbed by truncheons on a demonstration

Media cover ups to fool the nation

No, you never realised it was like this

Trade Unionists took the piss

Fed establishment lies you took the bait

All in cohorts to support the state.

Fake hue & cry to support your nick

They’ve ulterior motives so don’t be thick!

Panic stations the middles classes

Blowing out of their property owning arses.

Stop for a moment and take stock

If your station shuts will YOU treble lock?

The answer’s no even if alone,

It’s not very likely they’ll burgle your home.

You’re just as safe in the street,

No matter how many coppers plod your beat

If you’re a victim of crime it’s just bad luck

A cut is a cut…they don’t give a fuck!

If I’m honest there’s only one message to send

“Harry Roberts is our friend, is our friend…”

I’d rather we got rid of the lot

Preferably down the barrel of A Raoul Moat shot!

Dulwich Poet- 10^th January 2013

(The Government want to close down the front desks of many police stations, & relocating areas where the public can speak to police 'face to face' to places like post offices.
Harry Roberts was a robber, who was part of a gang that shot three policemen dead in 1966, he is still in prison today. Raoul Moat  killed two people, & blinded a policeman with a shotgun in 2010, the policeman later taking his own life. Moat was killed 'by suicide' by police marksmen)

"Writing"

Picking up a pen after 20 odd years

No Dutch courage of a few beers

I’m not sure where this will go

Best just let the pen ink flow.

Football is such an emotional game

When given a cheque you want to frame

Too generous to really bank

Better laminate and have a wank

Then having that chat in the Cherry Tree

Unlocking your mind, setting it free

A million thoughts in hibernation

Awakening to use you as inspiration

Now I’ve started can I stop

Or will it be an almighty flop?

I can answer that by being 15 lines in

On the 176 bus home I’m starting to grin

All it needs are words and thoughts

Poetry’s not poncy..that has to be taught

So why am I scared of being caught

Is that why I feel so fraught?

Ok, you’ve convinced me: I’ll give it a go

Nutrition for the brain: I can only grow

You’ve inspired me to write some more

Apologising in advance if I become a bore.

Dulwich Poet-8^th January 2013

"Death"

It's a funny old thing

Have you ever wondered

How you're going to die

Or what happens when you're dead?

I have.

Such is my lack of self-esteem

I see my death in a dream

Constantly. More repeats than ITV

Asleep at night all I can see.

A parachute jump without the chute

Let me tell you, it's no hoot

Those last few seconds scare me to shit

Those moments before the ground is hit.

When I choose it will be a train

Just one bang and no pain

Sorry driver you have no choice

It's my life. It's MY choice.

For those who know me, no need to fear

It won't happen this or next year

Just one distant darkened night

I shall know when the moment is right.

Platform's picked for me to go thump

Certainty of death in my jump.

No am dram of slashing wrist'

Or vodka & pills getting pissed.

I know people like me and I'm not bad

Doesn't explain constantly sad

'Black Dog' doesn't engulf me inside

But in my head there's a puppy to hide.

Life could be better, life could be worse

If I was ordinary I wouldn't try verse

Accept that life is lonely mundane

Just get on & apportion no blame.

Dulwich Poet-7th January 2013.

"Poetry"

There’s no rhyme or reason

Poetry garbled treason

How many lines how many stanzas

Matching to German tank Panzers

But why does it all have to end the same

The frozen mindset it’s all a game

Maybe should jot down what I think of first

See what happens in fragmented bursts.

Sunday aft’noon at the Festival Hall

Searching for cock fun no luck at all

Go upstairs to floor five

The room’s open with poetry alive

Racks & stacks thousands of tomes

Hidden away in a spectacular home

Stone throw away from the London Eye

New Year fireworks high in the sky

As if it’s Bonfire Night instead

Crash bang fizzing, whizz round my head.

Can’t believe I’m at table and chairs

Nor really both’ring if anyone cares

What will my words mean…no idea

Realisation nothing to fear!

Fertiliser for the mind and well being

This is what I’m already seeing.

Gis a clue how long  I should go on…

Poetry’s NOT poncy, the phrase a con!

Who gives a fuck what it means

When life’s never what it seems.

Am I normal, am I crazy?

Dividing line all too hazy.

Here I am with pen and pad

Nudged by a mate I’m so glad

Am content with that ‘Ready Brek’ glow

Rarin’ to give this poetry shit a go!

Dulwich Poet- 6^th January 2013

"Here we go"

Cleansing the soul, clearing the mind

Am I just being scared of what I find

Start from scratch just wait and see

One thing is certain I’ll only be me

But I’m int’rested in this poetry lark

Won’t be a stroll in the park

Not having faith could hold me back

Lack of posh words hope I stay on track

A gesture & a chat is my inspiration

I’ve not written for a generation

The pub’s expensive

That makes me pensive

But I don’t need a drink

To make me think

Costs fuck all to make a rhyme

Liking poetry’s not a crime

Dulwich Poet- 5^th January 2013