"Empty Basket Case"

Being a single person

Make that the original

Billy-No-Mates

I do love a bargain

Not just ‘pikey corner’

Battling for knockdown this and that

Alongside the granny in her woolly hat.

But a proper half-price

Cut down the middle nice

Not your two for one deal

When you only want a simple meal.

So, Mr. Morrison,

The no nonsense northern grocerman:

I so wanted to become a fan

I saw your advert in the paper

Four tins of baked beans

For one pound forty nine

I wanted some of that to be mine

Similar deal for tomato soup

So it’s off to Peckham

That I troop.

These deals are done not to be kind

Emptying my wallet is in your mind

Special offer tins & good chance

That I’ll put more in my basket

Than I bargained for

Once enticed through your door.

Ker-ching! Mr. Morrison.

Walking along the aisles

Serious shoppers lacking smiles

In and out as quick as poss

Trolley pushers don’t give a toss.

Quickly grabbing what you need

A cheap as you can frenzied feed.

Even I’m sucked in by it all

Picking up apples and tangerines

My ‘halfway alternative’ to horrid greens

Not forgetting a box of eggs

Even though it’s cheaper at Lidl

Thought I’d meet you in the middle.

So far, so good

Time to pay

Look at the queues..

NO WAY!

Twenty deep in EACH row

I’m go to leave and go!

You can price your food  as cheap as you like

But I’m not waiting half the night.

Bollocks to that I’m not so thick

To be reeled in by your advertising trick

If you care about the shopper

Then sort it out

Or become a cropper.

Tonight your plan has backfired

Not enough workers have been hired.

Stop cutting costs & hire some staff

If you want my custom

You’re having a laugh!

Dulwich Poet-22^nd February 2013

(I went to the Morrisons supermarket, in Peckham, taking a detour on the way home, based on the fact they had a big advertising campaign in national papers offering half price baked beans & tomato soup. The shop was so packed, with lots of unstaffed checkouts, that it would have taken me at least half an hour to get served! I left my basket of ‘shopping’ on the floor, in the middle of an aisle & walked out in disgust)

"Frighteners"

 I’m not at school anymore

So why avoid

The doctor’s door?

Is it really that

INTIMIDATING?

Talking down, admonishing

At me, you fool.

Astonishing!

As if a naughty schoolboy.

Not wanting to face facts

Too scared to be told off

Good grief, man!

Pull yourself together.

You’re in your forties

Not 14 and three quarters!

But it’s my fault

No less than I deserve.

Just been punished

For all the things

I’ve ever done wrong.

Serves me right.

All this shit is in my head

Sometimes I wish I was dead

Lonely, friendless, frightened

Hemmed in by four walls

Penned in by my squalor

Even though I’m not mentally ill

I wish I was a bit worse

To fit that bill;

Only qualifying for ‘Loony Lite’

Resigned to a lifetime

Full of shite.

Lots of debt, short of money

Life’s never going to be

That pot of honey.

Day by day I try to cope

Grasping at that sliver of hope.

Dulwich Poet-21^st February 2013

(In the summer of 2012 I had a very bad foot infection, an ulcer on the bottom of my big toe, on my left foot. I was hospitalised for a while, & off work for over two months. I had negelcted to see a doctor for nearly two years, as it go worse. It was healing, but has recently  started to open up again. This poem refers to me not going to see the docotr in the first place)

"My Left Foot"

The things you take for granted

Main one being

Your health

Overweight

Diabetic

Not to mention your

Run of the mill garden gnome

Sore throats & colds.

The list is there.

And now add gammy foot

Big toe to be precise.

The last two years have not been nice

So my simple advice

To anyone………is

Don’t be a prat like me

Go to see your doctor!

What is it with us blokes?

Putting it off

Out of sight, out of mind

Never minding the pain

And the gunk, not to mention…

(blood)

Oozing out of the bottom

Of my big toe

Each and every day

As for the pain

Just grit your teeth

The one’s I have left.

It hurt…agony…

With each step on the pavement

The train, the floor

As I go out the door

No pain, no gain!

As the saying goes.

Bullshit!

Should’ve gone to quacks at least

A year before I did.

Another  ancient one says

There’s no fool like an old fool.

It was healing

Healed I thought.

Now it’s back

Like a bad dream

Not a nightmare

I’m not that scared yet

I ‘m lucky only a small

Ulcer. Be lucky

I want to be an optimist

But that’s not me

If it doesn’t get better

I’m scared to talk

Petrified of not being

Able to walk

All I can do is put my trust

In medication.

Metformin, Ramipril

& now added Flucloxacillin!

This time next year

I might not be a millionaire

But I should be able to open

My own little chemist shop.

Dulwich Poet-20^th February 2013

(In the summer of 2012 I had a very bad foot infection, an ulcer on the bottom of my big toe, on my left foot. I was hospitalised for a while, & off work for over two months. I had negelcted to see a doctor for nearly two years, as it go worse. It was healing, but has recently  started to open up again.)

"Jessops"

Farewell then my dear old friend

Except you weren’t really were you?

We were never really close

You more served a purpose

Rather than anything more intimate.

A ‘marriage of convenience’

So to speak.

Not a loving relationship.

One click and you were gone.

A bit like painting a picture

Or writing a poem

You were decidedly average,

No old master.

Surly in your hurly burly

You had your uses

From chip to disc then home.

Functional simplicity at a price

And a reasonable one at that.

Which suited me. When you

Chose to perform.

I’m used to that

Story of my life

And every picture tells a story.

Like dirty old men on a toilet

You were better than a wank

But nothing special.

So good riddance to you

Even though I will miss you.

Dulwich Poet- 13^th February 2013

(The large High Street  camera chain Jessops closed down in January)

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

"Busman's Holiday"

 So what’s there to do

With a rare Tuesday night off?

No football tonight

In the freezing cold.

It’s obvious-staring me in the face

An Ell Gee Bee Tea  poetry showcase!

Not exciting in a hat throwing way,

It’s clearly proudly, openly gay.

Am I still scared of gossiping staff

At my expense having a laugh?

Walking in taking my seat

Got away with it real neat

Two hours of readings

Light on the ear

Never had anything to fear.

A strange crowd

Not sure I mean weird,

There’s one or two

With stereotype beard.

Some publish poems in real books

Rather old, from their craggy looks.

Seems to be a Christmas Jumper convention

The sort reserved for

An annual Boxing Day fixture.

A small crowd tonight

But quite a mixture.

To my council estate ear

They sound quite posh

If all are welcome tell me why

Do I feel out of place?

Is it because I’ve nothing to say

Even though we’re all gay?

Do I want to be a poet?

If I end up like you

Stumbling, shambling forward

Will I be too old to appreciate anything?

But you clearly do…and have.

Fumbling with the hissing microphone

Like it’s your first time

Desperate for recognition, appreciation

…..Approval.

Some of the words I can relate

Others? That’s why I have a dictionary.

Whoosh! Way over my head.

Comparing one to a Hockney

Sage heads nod in agreeance

Apart from mine

Don’t you mock me..I’m a Cockney!

Lack of concentration my mind is drifting

Taking me away from the Junior Library

To my left the JK Rowling shelf

And suddenly I’m not curled up with a book

But Daniel Radcliffe himself

In my own fantasy world.

Just as well to make time pass

I fear I’m a bit too working class

Apart from the bloke sat at the back

In his Tottenham Hotspur top.

Is the attraction the subject matter

Or is he just mad as a hatter?

Or a bit of everything?

But then…

Why should he fit the ‘stereotype’ queer

If that’s the criteria then I’m out of here.

But here I am

To listen and learn

Not sure what I’ll take in.

A chance to read from the floor

To which the phrase  “No fucking chance!”

Was undoubtedly made for.

Even I’m scared of being rubbish

And rejected.

Story of my life.

Maybe next year, eh?

No problem at all for “P.C. Man”

Chair in front.

He wants his moment of glory.

Desperate to get up & read

From an old gay tome

A precursor to orate his own.

Which is his real purpose.

But first the urge to tick his box

Women first before us with cocks.

So up she got sparkling like her dress

She was good..the readings I mean!

His face contorting into a panicky mess.

Twitching, wondering what he’d done

Don’t worry mate, you got your time

To read your poem line by line

Glancing up at your chosen spot

To see what peals of laughter you got

Ha! Not very much!

Having to hide the let down

In the spotlight you can’t frown.

That’s poetry for you.

It mirrors real life

And in reality

Poofs are just like anyone else.

We can’t stick together.

Dulwich Poet-13^th February 2013

(I work for a public library service. On Tuesday 12^th February there was an LGBT poetry reading, from 7.00pm until 9.00pm, at another branch, as part of our borough wide two week poetry festival. I’ve never been to a poetry reading before, & I’m often busy on Tuesdays, watching football. So it was just ‘luck’ that there was no game tonight)

"Dashing"

Time tick tocking away

Dashing down the road

With Sod’s Law typicality

There’s the bus

That will take me

The two lazy stops I need

To make my ‘appointment’.

Well walk-in clinic actually

Truth be told.

I hate bus drivers.

I gave up as he glided slowly past

Muttering words less than holy.

There he goes, waving at me.

Not to mock, but to get to the stop!

Quick!

The 30 second 30 yard dash!

I’m too old for this.

My carriage awaits.

Panting instead of ranting.

Who would have thought?

Doors open with a smile

“I told you I’d wait”

He knows

I never believed he would.

He’s right.

A friendly bus driver.

Whatever next?

Fat lot of good it did.

Walk-in appointments.

Ten til eleven thirty.

But the sign says

Nobody seen

AFTER eleven fifteen.

My blood test

Can wait

Until next week.

Dulwich Poet- 13^th February 2013

(Written after I was dashing to make an appointment at my local health centre, for a blood test, which is advertised as finishing at 11.30am.)

"No Future"

So what is it like

To lose a loved one

I may be jumping the gun

But I think my Football Club

Is about to expire.

At least-implode!

But I’m totally tied

By the Committee code.

Supposedly-‘what goes on tour

Stays on tour’

As the old saying goes.

That much I can get my head round.

That’s football-honour bound.

But in a committee room?

When it’s all about to go BOOM?!

Could it just be me?

The old terrace drama queen

Living in the century gone;

A dinosaur has been?

We’ve all cried wolf in the past

But the Club has gone on to last

This time though

I fear there’s not long to go.

I know my Club more than most

Fear we’re about to be toast.

Will there be the will to start again

Not just where but also when?

Never mind why and how?

The Trust ‘war chest’ is no cash cow.

There is also a brutal fact

Being selfish…how will I react?

Dulwich Hamlet is my total life

Can I take the pain and strife?

Will this be my excuse to pick up drink

The rest of my life about to sink.

I’ve got nothing without Champion Hill

Would that be enough to make me kill?

No idea what I’d do

My blood pumps Pink and Blue.

Life’s not been perfect

More like fucking shit

Will this over the edge…

Is this really it?

Dulwich Poet- 11^th February 2013.

( I am a lifelong supporter of a small non-league club, called Dulwich Hamlet. The future of which, I think, is extrmely uncertain)

"Seventies Boy"

Remember…

That spaceship in the big silver square

Sitting on the bench in the barbers chair

Wearing proper shorts going to school

And always being thought of a fool

Remember…

The huge old terrace & kicking up dust

Mum’s bread & butter pudding with all the crust

Dad’s home made goulash burning my throat

Getting the Woolwich Ferry just to go on a boat

Remember…

Going away to camp with the cubs

Hours with drunk dad stuck outside his pubs

Bonfire nights at the back of the flats

Setting fire to the chute to scare the rats

Remember…

Stamping your feet at the front of the bus

Thinking you’re grown-up learning to cuss

My wellie’s melting on our portable heater

Breaking in next door to rob their meter

Remember…

Kiss chase in the playground annoying the girls

Being a pansy but not wanting their curls

Woolies pick & mix going to steal

Sleepovers at mates…desparate to cop a feel

Remember…

Ruskin Park rocking horse crushing my teeth

Getting battered by my old man for being a thief

Pulling down the Christmas Tree with my Tonka toy truck

Envying my big brother for his football rucks

Remember…

Secretly playing with yourself in the confessional box

Priests probably doing the same in their holy frocks

Shooting your spunk for the very first time

Imagining death for a mortal crime!

Remember…

Sneaking glances at PE to see who had hair on their willie

Seeing girls knickers pretending to laugh silly

Bunking church to go down the park instead

Using collection money for sweets to be fed

Remember…

Going to Santa & the Oxford Street lights

When it was still magical on December nights

Magnificent half term days on a Red Bus Rover

And that trip to Boulogne from the White Cliffs of Dover

So many things to recall, so long ago

But the harshest truth if you want to know

My childhood was poor and I felt alone

Real happy moments cut to the bone.

The thing though that I remember

MOST OF ALL

Being taken into the changing rooms

Following Dulwich Hamlet Reserves

By my Sunday School Teacher

Who played for the team

With my autograph book

For my giant heroes to sign

I was a boy of eight or nine

And that really was my first time

Seeing grown up cocks all laid bare

Flaccid but huge covered in hair

The moment I realised why I hated kiss chase

And all my strange feelings fell into place.

Dulwich Poet-February 2013

(I read a poem called ‘I Remember’ by Tim Wells, in an anthology of his I borrowed, from the Poetry Library, based in the Royal Festival Hall. That is where I got the idea for ‘Seventies Boy’ from)

"Oh if only...Danny Boy"

Wow! Where did you come from?

Another branch…making up numbers

Awakening me from my slumbers

Fuck me…well not literally

Well maybe

In my dreams & all that..

But you are drop dead gorgeous.

I know you’re straight and far too young

Not just turned on ‘cos you say you’re well hung

There’s something about you I can’t explain

Each time I see I go insane.

I’ve got a mad crush on you; not that you care

The fact I’m gay is my affair.

We talk football, laugh and a joke

Shame you’re straight you’re my perfect bloke

Make no apologies for how I feel

Even though my head tells me to get real

Whenever I spot you I melt inside

If only I could follow my heart as a guide

I go all gooey with that ‘Ready Brek’ glow

It does my head in, want my feelings to go

But all I own, everything I’m worth

All I possess on planet earth

I’d give it all up if you said “Yes, please”

Shut your eyes, let me drop to my knees.

Sadly I know that will never be

I’ll just have to cope with your work company.

Dulwich Poet- February 2013

(I work with a young man called Danny. He is based at another branch, but came to cover at my workplace in December, & made a bit of an impression on me! We have a laugh & joke, & he knows that I fancy him! I wrote this because it’s a few days until Valentines Day)

"Bonkers"

He’s been on a course managing time

You’d really think all will be fine

But when it’s time to go to tea

In his interest to ignore a plea

So full back’s fine when it suits him best

Even if it inconveniences the rest

We can struggle, die of thirst

Because we put customers first!

No flexi-time breaks for the rest of us

Plodding on without a fuss

We can’t do as we please

Only Rodney knows that wheeze!

Dulwich Poet-5^th February 2013

(I wrote this in two minutes, to wind up a colleague at work. We work in a small public library. Tea breaks were late, & we were short staffed. He is notorious for not keeping time, & he had to leave me alone on the counter, which he calls being ‘fullback’ the ‘last line of defence’, like football, so to speak. He went to the Junior Library, to run a Chatterbooks group, with youngsters, He gives them sweets & soft drinks. This session was devoted to poetry, & he was giving the sweets out once they’d written something. So I handed him the above…He didn’t read it out!)