My life is a lie
No matter how honest
I try to be
And what about you?
Probably halfway
Inbetween
If you're honest.
Could I be exactly that?
Honest??
Who knows???
Too many question marks...
So am I?
No idea
But with poetry
At least I can try.
Dulwich Poet 31st March 2013
(I saw the first line of a poem called "Truth", by Rehan Qayoom, in a poetry zine called 'Playerlist 2'. It was seven lines long, consisting of a mere 22 words. It's opening line was 'I am a lie'...& after reading it I wrote this.)
Sunday 31 March 2013
"Voices not Slogans"
I just missed the Dalston Junction Overground
Which meant I caught the London Bridge driver sound.
Not what you expect on a Sunday evening
When the trains are hardly heaving.
I heard it before, but thought it was an urban rumour
Grumpy train drivers with a sense of humour.
In a staged posh voice even plummier
Than a shelf of Sainsbury's jam
Accent worse than 'Hi-de-Hi!' ham
Pulling out of New Cross Gate:
"The buffet trolley offering hot and cold snacks
Assorted beverages alcoholic & non-alcoholic,
Is not available today"
I don't know if this is to the dismay
Of the fellow passengers around me
As all the seats around me are empty.
And the ghosts of the rush hour commuter
Cannot tut their disapproval.
Not that they would speak
If this was in the week
As showing any sign of normality
Is certainly not the done thing
Of a daily commute from the suburbs.
As it is...today
One can let their hair down
So I hear a peal of laughter
From someone over my shoulder
Acting rather bolder
Than someone buried
In their 'Metro' on a weekday morning.
Or maybe they usually drive into work
And simply don't know the rules.
Dulwich Poet 31st March 2013
(I got a train up to central London this evening. Very quiet, as it was a Sunday evening, & Easter Sunday to boot. The driver was clearly bored & tried to put a smile on passengers faces. The title of this poem comes from the announcement he made, as the train terminated at London Bridge: "Southern Railways making everyone's journey better. It's not a slogan it's a voice" )
Which meant I caught the London Bridge driver sound.
Not what you expect on a Sunday evening
When the trains are hardly heaving.
I heard it before, but thought it was an urban rumour
Grumpy train drivers with a sense of humour.
In a staged posh voice even plummier
Than a shelf of Sainsbury's jam
Accent worse than 'Hi-de-Hi!' ham
Pulling out of New Cross Gate:
"The buffet trolley offering hot and cold snacks
Assorted beverages alcoholic & non-alcoholic,
Is not available today"
I don't know if this is to the dismay
Of the fellow passengers around me
As all the seats around me are empty.
And the ghosts of the rush hour commuter
Cannot tut their disapproval.
Not that they would speak
If this was in the week
As showing any sign of normality
Is certainly not the done thing
Of a daily commute from the suburbs.
As it is...today
One can let their hair down
So I hear a peal of laughter
From someone over my shoulder
Acting rather bolder
Than someone buried
In their 'Metro' on a weekday morning.
Or maybe they usually drive into work
And simply don't know the rules.
Dulwich Poet 31st March 2013
(I got a train up to central London this evening. Very quiet, as it was a Sunday evening, & Easter Sunday to boot. The driver was clearly bored & tried to put a smile on passengers faces. The title of this poem comes from the announcement he made, as the train terminated at London Bridge: "Southern Railways making everyone's journey better. It's not a slogan it's a voice" )
Saturday 30 March 2013
"Tired Mind"
So tell me
How short
Does a poem
Have to be
When you're feeling tired
But have the urge to write?
That'll do.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2013
( My mind was wide awake, I had ideas in my head, but it was too taxing for me to joy anything down)
How short
Does a poem
Have to be
When you're feeling tired
But have the urge to write?
That'll do.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2013
( My mind was wide awake, I had ideas in my head, but it was too taxing for me to joy anything down)
Friday 29 March 2013
"Burning bridges"
On my way home
(Well not strictly true,
I'm off to Crystal Palace
To see if I can get lucky
In the public toilets there.
But that's another story)
So I'm at London Bridge Station
Waiting for my platform to appear
Rather than being a naughty queer
Which is for later.
Up it flashes
Everyone mad dashes
When some 'ordinary'
Crypled Palarse fans
Come toward me
Along the walkway
Which could make my day
As I head to platform thirteen.
Sadly I don't know
Their final score.
I really want to ask them
As if an armchair bore
But I don't know their fate
So am unable to question
"What was the score, mate?"
Just in case
They'd pulled it back
From two nil down
And they'd see my displeasure
With my 'fuck off' frown.
What I really wanted
Is their defeat confirmed
So I could be right in their
'Sad All Over' face
And calmly inform them
"Good! fuck you..ya
Sad Palace cunt!"
In case you never guessed
I'm never really at my best
When confronted with
The sad, suburban
Middle class tossers!
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2013
(I noticed that Crystal Palace were losing 2-0 at home to Birmingham City, which was on the television, in the background, of a pub I was in, when I left, before the end of the game. In case you are wondering...they ended up losing 4-0!)
(Well not strictly true,
I'm off to Crystal Palace
To see if I can get lucky
In the public toilets there.
But that's another story)
So I'm at London Bridge Station
Waiting for my platform to appear
Rather than being a naughty queer
Which is for later.
Up it flashes
Everyone mad dashes
When some 'ordinary'
Crypled Palarse fans
Come toward me
Along the walkway
Which could make my day
As I head to platform thirteen.
Sadly I don't know
Their final score.
I really want to ask them
As if an armchair bore
But I don't know their fate
So am unable to question
"What was the score, mate?"
Just in case
They'd pulled it back
From two nil down
And they'd see my displeasure
With my 'fuck off' frown.
What I really wanted
Is their defeat confirmed
So I could be right in their
'Sad All Over' face
And calmly inform them
"Good! fuck you..ya
Sad Palace cunt!"
In case you never guessed
I'm never really at my best
When confronted with
The sad, suburban
Middle class tossers!
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2013
(I noticed that Crystal Palace were losing 2-0 at home to Birmingham City, which was on the television, in the background, of a pub I was in, when I left, before the end of the game. In case you are wondering...they ended up losing 4-0!)
"Manners"
Sanctuary
Quieter than the smallest library
In the tiniest village.
Which is where
For poems I pillage.
But you would expect that
At seven PM on a Good Friday
On the fifth floor
Of the Festival Hall
By the River Thames.
There was me
The old man in the stacks
The lady behind the jump...
That was it.
Until...the man in black
Walked in.
I barely noticed him.
Had he come in on a whim?
He wasn't drunk swaying
Or muttering and praying
As far as I could spot.
In fact it was so brief
I didn't even notice
If he was hot.
An insignificance
Compared to the suited & booted
Bloke behind him.
A few brief words
And out he went.
Security.
Then Mr. Officious walked round
Looked at me and frowned
As I was standing reading
Poetry magazines
In the Poetry Library.
Well why else would I be there?
He asked if I was a member.
If I had my wits
I would have responded
" I can't remember"
Instead...
I just told him I was.
He did his patrol
Thinking he was on a roll
I looked him in the eye
And asked him if
It would have mattered
If I was not?
And then he politely
Back-tracked
Knowing for a fact
He'd asked the wrong person
And things could worsen.
So I let him off
Without so much as
An embarrassed cough
Which was a shame
It was all so tame
I couldn't give a shit
If he'd thrown a fit
In fact I'd have positively
Revelled in it.
And probably written a poem.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2013
(I returned some books & borrowed some more, from the Poetry Library, which was suprisingly open today, on the Easter Good Friday bank holiday, a security guard kicked a bloke out, who can't have been there for the poetry)
Quieter than the smallest library
In the tiniest village.
Which is where
For poems I pillage.
But you would expect that
At seven PM on a Good Friday
On the fifth floor
Of the Festival Hall
By the River Thames.
There was me
The old man in the stacks
The lady behind the jump...
That was it.
Until...the man in black
Walked in.
I barely noticed him.
Had he come in on a whim?
He wasn't drunk swaying
Or muttering and praying
As far as I could spot.
In fact it was so brief
I didn't even notice
If he was hot.
An insignificance
Compared to the suited & booted
Bloke behind him.
A few brief words
And out he went.
Security.
Then Mr. Officious walked round
Looked at me and frowned
As I was standing reading
Poetry magazines
In the Poetry Library.
Well why else would I be there?
He asked if I was a member.
If I had my wits
I would have responded
" I can't remember"
Instead...
I just told him I was.
He did his patrol
Thinking he was on a roll
I looked him in the eye
And asked him if
It would have mattered
If I was not?
And then he politely
Back-tracked
Knowing for a fact
He'd asked the wrong person
And things could worsen.
So I let him off
Without so much as
An embarrassed cough
Which was a shame
It was all so tame
I couldn't give a shit
If he'd thrown a fit
In fact I'd have positively
Revelled in it.
And probably written a poem.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2013
(I returned some books & borrowed some more, from the Poetry Library, which was suprisingly open today, on the Easter Good Friday bank holiday, a security guard kicked a bloke out, who can't have been there for the poetry)
Thursday 28 March 2013
"Sleep"
It's gone half one
In the morning
And I'm yawning.
Just had a posting session.
Will anyone read it
Why do I bother?
Couldn't give a fuck
I'm tired
And I off to bed
To have a wank
Before I turn the light off.
Night.
Dulwich Poet 28th March 2013
(This one is self explanatory!)
In the morning
And I'm yawning.
Just had a posting session.
Will anyone read it
Why do I bother?
Couldn't give a fuck
I'm tired
And I off to bed
To have a wank
Before I turn the light off.
Night.
Dulwich Poet 28th March 2013
(This one is self explanatory!)
Wednesday 27 March 2013
" Who's Counting? "
By a million miles
Today has been the most productive
Day of my life.
Ever!
Not one, not two, not three.
Not even four or five.
Today I've written no less than
Six poems.
Yes...six.
Ess; Eye; Ex...SIX!
Why did you have to die so young
Where are you now Roy Castle
And your smoke filled trumpet
I'm a record breaker.
Well I feel I deserve
To be a record breaker.
I suppose this one makes
It number seven
Which puts me
In seventh heaven.
That's not heaven as in a gay nightclub
Under the arches at Charing Cross
Nor a fantasy island in the sky
That only exists in my head
Which is where the vast majority
Of my poetry belongs.
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(This poem is true, I've never written so many in single day)
Today has been the most productive
Day of my life.
Ever!
Not one, not two, not three.
Not even four or five.
Today I've written no less than
Six poems.
Yes...six.
Ess; Eye; Ex...SIX!
Why did you have to die so young
Where are you now Roy Castle
And your smoke filled trumpet
I'm a record breaker.
Well I feel I deserve
To be a record breaker.
I suppose this one makes
It number seven
Which puts me
In seventh heaven.
That's not heaven as in a gay nightclub
Under the arches at Charing Cross
Nor a fantasy island in the sky
That only exists in my head
Which is where the vast majority
Of my poetry belongs.
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(This poem is true, I've never written so many in single day)
"Nicked"
I hate it when you never
Have the end to a story
And you have to make it up
Like right now.
There he is with a copper
Placing a hand on his head
On his way to a concrete
Slabbed cell for a bed.
He was going without a fuss
As I went past on a bus.
So what did he do?
I'll never find out
To be honest hand on head
It won't keep me awake
Lying in my bed
Whatever he's done I'm not fuss'd
Just passing time sat on a bus.
The thing is deep down I'm just like you
We're all nosey gits.
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013.
(On a bus toward Lewisham earlier today, I saw a man being put into a police car, out of the window)
Have the end to a story
And you have to make it up
Like right now.
There he is with a copper
Placing a hand on his head
On his way to a concrete
Slabbed cell for a bed.
He was going without a fuss
As I went past on a bus.
So what did he do?
I'll never find out
To be honest hand on head
It won't keep me awake
Lying in my bed
Whatever he's done I'm not fuss'd
Just passing time sat on a bus.
The thing is deep down I'm just like you
We're all nosey gits.
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013.
(On a bus toward Lewisham earlier today, I saw a man being put into a police car, out of the window)
"Wrong Message"
Poor old BILL STICKERS
Always getting the blame
About to be prosecuted
Even if it's not him.
Jesus Christ!
It's not Bill
Who's been plastering Lewisham
With their message:
Jesus Saves
Sinners
Repent and be
Baptised
Well if Jesus
Is that good at saving
Stop flyposting
And start behaving
Get in goal on Saturday
Because Phil Wilson won't be.
And as for being baptised
Or being born again
I'll take my chances
By standing in rain
Behind the goal
When we all get drenched
By praising our own Lord...
EDGAR!
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(I spotted lots of christian stickers plastered all over Lewisham earlier. On bus stops, walls & shop windows. Last night our First Team keeper got injured & will miss the rest of the season. The greatest player in the Club history is Edgar Kail, who played from 1918 until 1933)
Always getting the blame
About to be prosecuted
Even if it's not him.
Jesus Christ!
It's not Bill
Who's been plastering Lewisham
With their message:
Jesus Saves
Sinners
Repent and be
Baptised
Well if Jesus
Is that good at saving
Stop flyposting
And start behaving
Get in goal on Saturday
Because Phil Wilson won't be.
And as for being baptised
Or being born again
I'll take my chances
By standing in rain
Behind the goal
When we all get drenched
By praising our own Lord...
EDGAR!
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(I spotted lots of christian stickers plastered all over Lewisham earlier. On bus stops, walls & shop windows. Last night our First Team keeper got injured & will miss the rest of the season. The greatest player in the Club history is Edgar Kail, who played from 1918 until 1933)
"Panic Stations"
I'm getting worried.
I keep on writing poems.
Nowt wrong with that
It's like having those
Sweet little candy 'whizz & pop' things
That melt on your tongue
In my head right now
As the next line magics itself
From the tip of my pen.
So why am I thinking
About how much of a failure
I will feel
If I can't think of anything?
Expecting and feeling worthless
Story of my life.
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(I had already made up a few poems today, & I started worrying in case they would dry up in a few days time)
I keep on writing poems.
Nowt wrong with that
It's like having those
Sweet little candy 'whizz & pop' things
That melt on your tongue
In my head right now
As the next line magics itself
From the tip of my pen.
So why am I thinking
About how much of a failure
I will feel
If I can't think of anything?
Expecting and feeling worthless
Story of my life.
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(I had already made up a few poems today, & I started worrying in case they would dry up in a few days time)
" Poor Man's Fantasy"
Counting up rolls of money
I came over rather funny
With a strange urge
To throw it all up in the air
Letting it softly land on my hair.
(I'm talking paper notes NOT coins
That would hurt, obviously!)
But stranger than that...
I wondered what it would be like
To stay in a fancy posh West End hotel
And strip naked
Lying on top of a kingsize
Pink and Blue waterbed
With hundreds of tens and twenties
Floating down onto me
In a dream world with
The rent boy of my choice.
Bloody hell! Is that what
Working on a turnstile
Next to Griff does to you?
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(There was double our usual gate at our home match with Maidstone United lat night, 1,073 people. I was the second volunteer on the turnstile, & helped count the money afterwards)
I came over rather funny
With a strange urge
To throw it all up in the air
Letting it softly land on my hair.
(I'm talking paper notes NOT coins
That would hurt, obviously!)
But stranger than that...
I wondered what it would be like
To stay in a fancy posh West End hotel
And strip naked
Lying on top of a kingsize
Pink and Blue waterbed
With hundreds of tens and twenties
Floating down onto me
In a dream world with
The rent boy of my choice.
Bloody hell! Is that what
Working on a turnstile
Next to Griff does to you?
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(There was double our usual gate at our home match with Maidstone United lat night, 1,073 people. I was the second volunteer on the turnstile, & helped count the money afterwards)
"Second Half Team"
Same mistakes
Typical route one
Well the 202
To be factual.
Always the way
When I miss the train
Dash down the road
To make the bus
Take the strain
Knowing full well
No matter what time
You will crawl through Catford
If you move at all.
Then comes the anger
And Resentment
For being such a
Stupid old fool.
It was just fifteen minutes
Until the next train.
Instead of being stuck in traffic
I should be almost there now.
Which explains why
We are a second half team.
Even if the boys are
Three nil up at half time.
It's because I missed it.
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
( I just missed a train, & instead of waiting for the next one, I 'convince' myself it will be quicker to be on the move, taking a much slower route, by bus. I was on my way to watch the Youth Team in an afternoon match. It was 0-0 when I got there, we were 1-0 up at half time. In the second half we went 2-1 down, but won 3-2)
Typical route one
Well the 202
To be factual.
Always the way
When I miss the train
Dash down the road
To make the bus
Take the strain
Knowing full well
No matter what time
You will crawl through Catford
If you move at all.
Then comes the anger
And Resentment
For being such a
Stupid old fool.
It was just fifteen minutes
Until the next train.
Instead of being stuck in traffic
I should be almost there now.
Which explains why
We are a second half team.
Even if the boys are
Three nil up at half time.
It's because I missed it.
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
( I just missed a train, & instead of waiting for the next one, I 'convince' myself it will be quicker to be on the move, taking a much slower route, by bus. I was on my way to watch the Youth Team in an afternoon match. It was 0-0 when I got there, we were 1-0 up at half time. In the second half we went 2-1 down, but won 3-2)
"Anglo Saxon"
People say I swear a lot
So fucking what?
And your point is...
Calm down dear! It's only a word.
You think your'e better than me
Because you're ellocuted
Say my language is polluted
Well bollocks to that you snooty cunt!
I'd rather swear than go on a
'Jolly' Tally Ho! Hunt.
It's just how I express myself clear
The way I talk not the beer
You can't blame booze as I don't drink
FUCK SHIT CUNT WANKER
Is the way I think
I haven't studied the Oxford Concise
From cover to cover
And of the Daily Telegraph
I'm no lover.
You carry on being snooty and aloof
For all your distain I'm too long in the tooth.
If you don't like my vocabulary
It's plain FUCKING TOUGH!
Just accept working class speak
IS FUCKING ROUGH!
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(A little moan about people who complain about swearing at football, & life in general, who imply that people who swear are stupid & lack the reason to argue)
So fucking what?
And your point is...
Calm down dear! It's only a word.
You think your'e better than me
Because you're ellocuted
Say my language is polluted
Well bollocks to that you snooty cunt!
I'd rather swear than go on a
'Jolly' Tally Ho! Hunt.
It's just how I express myself clear
The way I talk not the beer
You can't blame booze as I don't drink
FUCK SHIT CUNT WANKER
Is the way I think
I haven't studied the Oxford Concise
From cover to cover
And of the Daily Telegraph
I'm no lover.
You carry on being snooty and aloof
For all your distain I'm too long in the tooth.
If you don't like my vocabulary
It's plain FUCKING TOUGH!
Just accept working class speak
IS FUCKING ROUGH!
Dulwich Poet 27th March 2013
(A little moan about people who complain about swearing at football, & life in general, who imply that people who swear are stupid & lack the reason to argue)
Tuesday 26 March 2013
"Return To Sender"
I got a text this morning
While I was still yawning
Feeling as old as I look
Sitting in a surgery waiting room
While reading a book:
“Love you my gorg woman
Life without you would be so dull xxx”
Fail on all counts
I’m not a bird
No matter what you’ve heard
Calling me ‘gorg’ is insane
Can't even qualify as a plain Jane.
Regarding a dull life..best not ask YOUR first wife.
That’s the problem with modern gadget phones
With their annoying ‘Top of the Pops’ ringtones
Once your text has gone you can’t call it back
A retrieval system is what it lacks.
A hasty bit of damage limitation
Before it goes viral across the nation:
“Just spotted phone has had a mad moment
Needless to say message wasn’t for you or Joes mum”
Phew! Clarification!
Got us out of a sticky situation
That’s a relief
I’d only like you on Hampstead Heath
With my cock down your throat
As you opinionating can get on my goat.
And having your mouth full
Would be the only way to shut you up.
Dulwich Poet 26th March 2013
( A mate from football, who I’ve known all my life, sent me a text earlier, meant for his partner, which he also sent to his ex-wife, in error! )
Monday 25 March 2013
"Car Crash Waiting To Happen"
Ten yards either side
Black and white stripes
Flashing yellow
You stupid woman
Stop!
Don't get splattered
Wait until tomorrow
Then...
Just like the queen
Has two birthdays
There will be two
Pancake Tuesdays.
Dulwich Poet 25th March 2013
(Getting off the bus this morning, I was walking past two zebra crossings, no more than thirty yards apart. Yet a woman tried to cross the road, & jumped back from a car, inbetween the two of them, almost getting knocked down.)
Black and white stripes
Flashing yellow
You stupid woman
Stop!
Don't get splattered
Wait until tomorrow
Then...
Just like the queen
Has two birthdays
There will be two
Pancake Tuesdays.
Dulwich Poet 25th March 2013
(Getting off the bus this morning, I was walking past two zebra crossings, no more than thirty yards apart. Yet a woman tried to cross the road, & jumped back from a car, inbetween the two of them, almost getting knocked down.)
"Dentist's Chair"
Where are you now Dr. T.K. Lee?
Do you remember what happened to me?
Was I just another notch
On your dentist chair
I very much doubt you fucking care.
Never thought about it before
Was just a shit thing in life
One of many to cause me strife.
Looking back you were really clever
Make that devious
A slitty eyed cunt.
Smiles and concern a total front.
I hope you’re brown bread
No life after death
I’ll be so happy
If you’ve had your last breath
Don’t want to be the one to
Hunt you down.
Already had the ‘lucky escape’
That was meant to be
When I was fifteen
It was you I went to see
Armed with a kitchen knife
I turned up that day
But by then you had moved away.
Small blessings for not getting
REVENGE.
No use crying over the past
Childhood tears that don’t last
The tears I shed then
Burnt invisible scars
As if on my cheeks
You had stubbed out cigars.
I was threatened by your drill
You promised that my mum you’d kill
Making me scream & shout out loud
So my mum would come to give me a slap
Then you’d have your way up my crack.
Asking her to shut the door on the way out
Then quietly turning the key
So no one would see
You do whatever you may
Made even worse as I knew
I was gay.
Even though I had no hair to sprout
I could only whimper instead of shout.
Resigned to the fact you were
Fucking me against my will
Lying quiet ever so still.
I thought I was being punished
By that man God
As my evil dentist impaled me
On his rod
Only sharing now decades past
Because I told a mate at last.
I hope I didn’t shock him
Wasn’t my aim
But he must see
I wasn’t to blame.
Maybe I shouldn’t let
Dormant thoughts resurface.
But that’s what poetry does for you
Your mind takes twists and turns
Turning the clock back
But also keeping life on track.
Did that dentist make the wrong seem right
Should I have put up more of a fight?
When I was young there were
One or two others too
But they were on MY terms
I knew what to do.
At least then I had a hairy cock and balls
They were all my own calls.
That bastard dentist I fucking HATE
And now it’s all far too late.
Rightly or wrongly
I neglected my teeth
He has been my normality thief.
Not just too scared
To sit in a dentists chair
Can’t even brush my teeth
Life’s so unfair.
Now I’ve no knashers at the front
Rotted filling & lost ones at the back
How would my life be if this hadn’t happened?
Maybe the same is how it would go
The way I live was fate’s dice throw
If one day I learn it wasn’t my fault
Maybe those flashbacks will come to halt..
Then I might find someone who doesn’t give a damn
And maybe love me for who I am.
Dulwich Poet 25th March 2013
(This poem is about when I was not just sexually assaulted, but raped several times, over a period of two to three years, aged about nine to eleven, before & up to when I hit puberty. I have never told anyone this, apart from two friends in the last year, one male, one female. The thing with poetry is that I don’t where it will go, now what I will write; and this is part of the reason I do not put my real name to any of them)
Sunday 24 March 2013
"Five Knuckle Shuffle"
Is there a hidden message somewhere?
Lost down the side of a page?
Often perceived as solitary and shameful
Very much so.
Everyone does it though
What a guilty delight it is to enjoy
And everyone partakes man and boy
Never admitted though, a mark of failure, despite
Knowing it universal.
It can't be so bad
Nocturnal fun always to be had
Go on...do you want to admit what it is yet?
Dulwich Poet 24th March 2013
( Masturbation-everyone does it...I have almost every day, since the age of eleven!)
Lost down the side of a page?
Often perceived as solitary and shameful
Very much so.
Everyone does it though
What a guilty delight it is to enjoy
And everyone partakes man and boy
Never admitted though, a mark of failure, despite
Knowing it universal.
It can't be so bad
Nocturnal fun always to be had
Go on...do you want to admit what it is yet?
Dulwich Poet 24th March 2013
( Masturbation-everyone does it...I have almost every day, since the age of eleven!)
"Hunting"
What am I looking for?
It's scary
Frightening
Enlightening.
Criteria?
Just don't think
Or I will succumb
To mild hysteria.
A title can catch my eye
And you must look like one
Not awkward
Out of shape
Like a spilt tin
Of Heinz Alphabetti.
The choice is easier
If I hold onto you
Leaving me only three picks.
Maybe I should listen
To the wise words at A.A.
That's Alcoholics Anonymous
Not the car people.
Look for the similarities
London. Football.
Plain English.
That's it really.
Drinking. Even if...
I don't do that anymore.
Sex. One handed
More often than not.
Other stuff doesn't
Interest me at all.
Translated into English. Que?
What's that all about?
Copying someone's work.
Who runs the red pen
Through it all?
How would I really know
If you even speak
Finnish or French?
Middle of the road
Middle of the stack
Glance at one
Put it back
But the choice is so vast
My seaching will last
There's always some poetry
In a book for me.
Dulwich Poet 24th March 2013
(I visited the Poetry Library again. You can borrow four books at a time. I kept one, renewing it, & found three more to try. This poem is about trying to find ones that I think I might enjoy, by looking through them, shelf by shelf.)
Frightening
Enlightening.
Criteria?
Just don't think
Or I will succumb
To mild hysteria.
A title can catch my eye
And you must look like one
Not awkward
Out of shape
Like a spilt tin
Of Heinz Alphabetti.
The choice is easier
If I hold onto you
Leaving me only three picks.
Maybe I should listen
To the wise words at A.A.
That's Alcoholics Anonymous
Not the car people.
Look for the similarities
London. Football.
Plain English.
That's it really.
Drinking. Even if...
I don't do that anymore.
Sex. One handed
More often than not.
Other stuff doesn't
Interest me at all.
Translated into English. Que?
What's that all about?
Copying someone's work.
Who runs the red pen
Through it all?
How would I really know
If you even speak
Finnish or French?
Middle of the road
Middle of the stack
Glance at one
Put it back
But the choice is so vast
My seaching will last
There's always some poetry
In a book for me.
Dulwich Poet 24th March 2013
(I visited the Poetry Library again. You can borrow four books at a time. I kept one, renewing it, & found three more to try. This poem is about trying to find ones that I think I might enjoy, by looking through them, shelf by shelf.)
Saturday 23 March 2013
"Waiting"
The train now approaching
Platform one
Is going the wrong way.
Fingers tingle
A few passengers mingle
Under a half open shelter
Sleet flurries pelter.
Shame I don't smoke
Got no matches to keep me warm
Block out the cold
The pen is mightier than a lighter
My mind is a distraction
But only a fraction
Can hardly see the top of The Shard
Diverting my pain by being a bard
Good grief!
Now there's an extra
Three minute delay
Which never seems to happen
On a balmy day.
Stuggling now..really froze
Brain cells shutting down
No more prose.
Hang on...
What's that coming along?
THANK FUCK...
Here's my train!
Dulwich Poet 23rd March 2013
(I was waiting on a windswept really cold elevated platform at South Bermondsey Station, and simply got my notebook out to take my mind off of the 20 minute wait, until my train was due)
Platform one
Is going the wrong way.
Fingers tingle
A few passengers mingle
Under a half open shelter
Sleet flurries pelter.
Shame I don't smoke
Got no matches to keep me warm
Block out the cold
The pen is mightier than a lighter
My mind is a distraction
But only a fraction
Can hardly see the top of The Shard
Diverting my pain by being a bard
Good grief!
Now there's an extra
Three minute delay
Which never seems to happen
On a balmy day.
Stuggling now..really froze
Brain cells shutting down
No more prose.
Hang on...
What's that coming along?
THANK FUCK...
Here's my train!
Dulwich Poet 23rd March 2013
(I was waiting on a windswept really cold elevated platform at South Bermondsey Station, and simply got my notebook out to take my mind off of the 20 minute wait, until my train was due)
"Spring In My Step"
Oh I got a spring in my step
Not because spring is here
Daffoldils & crocus
Hokus pokus
Temperatures plummeting
Wind chill factoring
But I got a spring in my step
The Hamlet 2, Whitstable nil
And I wasn't even there!
Dulwich Poet 23rd March 2013
(It was my Saturday working, so I missed going to football. It was a very cold day, but when your team wins it gives you a buzz)
Not because spring is here
Daffoldils & crocus
Hokus pokus
Temperatures plummeting
Wind chill factoring
But I got a spring in my step
The Hamlet 2, Whitstable nil
And I wasn't even there!
Dulwich Poet 23rd March 2013
(It was my Saturday working, so I missed going to football. It was a very cold day, but when your team wins it gives you a buzz)
Friday 22 March 2013
"Scout's honour"
Dib, dib,dib.
Dob,dob,dob
What's that coming out of your gob?
A boy scout on a Commons tour
Has thrown up all over the floor.
Poor lil' MP's moaned at the smell
With the stench they cause
How could they tell?
The worst whiff of all
Is their expenses scandal
That is what I can't handle.
Greedy rich bastard fat cat pigs
Blaming unemployed for daring to smoke cigs
Not only that but going to the bingo hall
Spreading the myth it's a free for all!
Maybe there wouldn't be so much derision
If they had to make a crucial decision
Like a tin of beans OR a loaf of bread
Will you have enough money to be fed?
Long gone are the days of MP's caring
Don't even think about wealth sharing.
If you were an eighties child
In those dark days when Maggie was wild
we never imagined it could get an worse
But her bastard son Cameron is our curse.
Dulwich Poet 22nd March 2013
(It was reported that an un-named Welsh boy scout threw up during a tour of the House of Commons, on Wednesday, & Members of Parliament complained about the smell during the Budget debate)
Dob,dob,dob
What's that coming out of your gob?
A boy scout on a Commons tour
Has thrown up all over the floor.
Poor lil' MP's moaned at the smell
With the stench they cause
How could they tell?
The worst whiff of all
Is their expenses scandal
That is what I can't handle.
Greedy rich bastard fat cat pigs
Blaming unemployed for daring to smoke cigs
Not only that but going to the bingo hall
Spreading the myth it's a free for all!
Maybe there wouldn't be so much derision
If they had to make a crucial decision
Like a tin of beans OR a loaf of bread
Will you have enough money to be fed?
Long gone are the days of MP's caring
Don't even think about wealth sharing.
If you were an eighties child
In those dark days when Maggie was wild
we never imagined it could get an worse
But her bastard son Cameron is our curse.
Dulwich Poet 22nd March 2013
(It was reported that an un-named Welsh boy scout threw up during a tour of the House of Commons, on Wednesday, & Members of Parliament complained about the smell during the Budget debate)
Thursday 21 March 2013
"Fourteen"
I've counted mine, none qualify
I tried to kid myself there were no rules
Length, strength, sublime rhyme
Yet here I am sitting reading you
An actual poetry pamphlet
Dedicated to fourteen lines ONLY
Mine tend to be longer as I'm so lonely
Nothing else to do you see
Hence my drawn out commentary
Hadn't realised short verse was mandatory
Won't manage that no matter how hard I try
If I took it that serious I'd start to cry
Oh my golly gosh! Small world
This IS my fourteenth line.
Dulwich Poet 21st March 2013
(I was in the Poetry Library earlier today, and was reading various poetry magazines/fanzines. One was issue 13 of '14' magazine; which is devoted to poems fourteen lines long.)
I tried to kid myself there were no rules
Length, strength, sublime rhyme
Yet here I am sitting reading you
An actual poetry pamphlet
Dedicated to fourteen lines ONLY
Mine tend to be longer as I'm so lonely
Nothing else to do you see
Hence my drawn out commentary
Hadn't realised short verse was mandatory
Won't manage that no matter how hard I try
If I took it that serious I'd start to cry
Oh my golly gosh! Small world
This IS my fourteenth line.
Dulwich Poet 21st March 2013
(I was in the Poetry Library earlier today, and was reading various poetry magazines/fanzines. One was issue 13 of '14' magazine; which is devoted to poems fourteen lines long.)
"Lonely Needs"
In search of my 'holy grail'
All too often it's a fail
Why are you here?
Same reason as me?
Slightest noise off you flee
Both wanting one thing alone
Paying attention hard as a bone
Move inside flick the lock
Better than home alone with a sock
Not bothered by looks or age
Just one part of you I want to gauge
It doesn't make sense
Why you won't come inside
Much more intimate
Where we can hide
That's what I hate
About places where we piss
Far too often
It's hit and miss.
Dulwich Poet 21st March 2013
(Here I try to explain the frustration of going to public toilets looking for a sexual encounter, but often others are to oscared to do anything, and won't move into the safety of being behind a locked door of a cubicle)
All too often it's a fail
Why are you here?
Same reason as me?
Slightest noise off you flee
Both wanting one thing alone
Paying attention hard as a bone
Move inside flick the lock
Better than home alone with a sock
Not bothered by looks or age
Just one part of you I want to gauge
It doesn't make sense
Why you won't come inside
Much more intimate
Where we can hide
That's what I hate
About places where we piss
Far too often
It's hit and miss.
Dulwich Poet 21st March 2013
(Here I try to explain the frustration of going to public toilets looking for a sexual encounter, but often others are to oscared to do anything, and won't move into the safety of being behind a locked door of a cubicle)
'Not Worth Two Bob'
Time to go out and celebrate
Georgie Boy Osborne is our mate!
A true budget for the working man
No more supping out of a can
Oh a WHOLE penny off a pint
What a fine sight
Doff my cap to you
Mr. Chancellor!
No matter I can't afford
A loaf of bread
Gotta work til I'm dead
Being evicted because
I've one room too many.
So-with all due respect-
Stuff your penny!
Don't want to be seen as a loser
Popping out to my local boozer
But it's boarded up full of rats
And the next one's converted
To posh yuppie flats.
Too little, too late
What a fucking state.
Can't fool me with your penny off
Toffee nosed scummy Eton toff.
Desperately trying to be nifty
First duty drop since about 1950
All smoke and mirrors
Taking me for a cunt
But I'm not fooled
By your cheap stunt!
Dulwich Poet 21st March 2013
(ConDem coalition Tory chancellor George Osborne knocked a penny off of beer duty in his budget yesterday)
Georgie Boy Osborne is our mate!
A true budget for the working man
No more supping out of a can
Oh a WHOLE penny off a pint
What a fine sight
Doff my cap to you
Mr. Chancellor!
No matter I can't afford
A loaf of bread
Gotta work til I'm dead
Being evicted because
I've one room too many.
So-with all due respect-
Stuff your penny!
Don't want to be seen as a loser
Popping out to my local boozer
But it's boarded up full of rats
And the next one's converted
To posh yuppie flats.
Too little, too late
What a fucking state.
Can't fool me with your penny off
Toffee nosed scummy Eton toff.
Desperately trying to be nifty
First duty drop since about 1950
All smoke and mirrors
Taking me for a cunt
But I'm not fooled
By your cheap stunt!
Dulwich Poet 21st March 2013
(ConDem coalition Tory chancellor George Osborne knocked a penny off of beer duty in his budget yesterday)
Wednesday 20 March 2013
"The Unexpected"
I saw you sitting on a shelf
Worn and thin
Ready for the bin
You stared at me:
Never judge a book by its cover.
I was wanting a trip
Down memory lane
Simple enough not taxing the brain
Transported back to the picket line
But I judged you wrong
This was no major reminisce
Not even a 'miner' one.
Who were you Mark Welton?
Did you know heaps of slags?
What made you write a poetry book
In nineteen eighty one
Before the Great Strike had even begun?
Ego? Talent? Or just...
Because you could
Regardless of whether you were...
Any good.
Not for me to judge
Who's to say I'm any good either?
Not me. Which is why
I picked you up...
At random from a shelf
In the Saison Poetry Library
Where you haven't moved from
Since nineteen ninety three!
I opened you up
Lying in bed
And you told me
'Poems Don't Make Good Girlfriends'
I'll have to take
Your word for that
I'm no expert when it
Comes to twat
Northern or Cockney!
One you called
'Cock and Cunt'
On half of the two
I've had a punt...
Another you had a crystal ball
What can I say, Mark
Bloody good call:
'Bankers Are Wankers And Don't Poets Know It'
Fast forward to now it's plain to see
The rest of the country all agree.
Enough of you now, I've taken you back
Forgotten again on the library stack.
Dulwich Poet 20th March 2013
('Slag Heap', by Mark Welton. A poetry booklet I borrowed from the Poetry Library, based in the Royal Festival Hall, on the South Bank. It hadn't been stamped out to anyone else for twenty years.)
Worn and thin
Ready for the bin
You stared at me:
Never judge a book by its cover.
I was wanting a trip
Down memory lane
Simple enough not taxing the brain
Transported back to the picket line
But I judged you wrong
This was no major reminisce
Not even a 'miner' one.
Who were you Mark Welton?
Did you know heaps of slags?
What made you write a poetry book
In nineteen eighty one
Before the Great Strike had even begun?
Ego? Talent? Or just...
Because you could
Regardless of whether you were...
Any good.
Not for me to judge
Who's to say I'm any good either?
Not me. Which is why
I picked you up...
At random from a shelf
In the Saison Poetry Library
Where you haven't moved from
Since nineteen ninety three!
I opened you up
Lying in bed
And you told me
'Poems Don't Make Good Girlfriends'
I'll have to take
Your word for that
I'm no expert when it
Comes to twat
Northern or Cockney!
One you called
'Cock and Cunt'
On half of the two
I've had a punt...
Another you had a crystal ball
What can I say, Mark
Bloody good call:
'Bankers Are Wankers And Don't Poets Know It'
Fast forward to now it's plain to see
The rest of the country all agree.
Enough of you now, I've taken you back
Forgotten again on the library stack.
Dulwich Poet 20th March 2013
('Slag Heap', by Mark Welton. A poetry booklet I borrowed from the Poetry Library, based in the Royal Festival Hall, on the South Bank. It hadn't been stamped out to anyone else for twenty years.)
Tuesday 19 March 2013
"Cuddles"
I woke up with a monkey on my chest
My arms cradled round as if human
Right close up like I was a zooman.
This one was cuddly
And had a Disney tag
Stuck to its arse.
I know it's a boy
Even if it's a toy
Because HIS name is Tracy
And it would be strange if I slept with HER.
It WAS Tracy who gave
Me my monkey.
I was always so lonely
And she told me
It's nice to cuddle something
When you have nobody at all.
Does that sound hurtful?
Or harsh?
In fact it was one...if not THE
Sweetest thing that
Has ever happened to me.
Which is why HE
Is called after SHE.
Dulwich Poet 18th March 2013
(A good few years ago now, a woman I know, & the only one I know who I am proud to call my 'girly friend' gave me a cuddly toy. I still have it, & hug it. She is married & I was proud to be invited to the ceremony last year)
My arms cradled round as if human
Right close up like I was a zooman.
This one was cuddly
And had a Disney tag
Stuck to its arse.
I know it's a boy
Even if it's a toy
Because HIS name is Tracy
And it would be strange if I slept with HER.
It WAS Tracy who gave
Me my monkey.
I was always so lonely
And she told me
It's nice to cuddle something
When you have nobody at all.
Does that sound hurtful?
Or harsh?
In fact it was one...if not THE
Sweetest thing that
Has ever happened to me.
Which is why HE
Is called after SHE.
Dulwich Poet 18th March 2013
(A good few years ago now, a woman I know, & the only one I know who I am proud to call my 'girly friend' gave me a cuddly toy. I still have it, & hug it. She is married & I was proud to be invited to the ceremony last year)
Monday 18 March 2013
"Football Snapshot"
Unique.One in each corner
But I'm not here for the pubs
Another ground facing the demolition ball
Soon nothing to be here at all.
Of consequence.
Flats. Houses. Or a B & Q.
Totally irrelevant.
But does it matter
As long as it pays for a new ground?
Progress.Time to move on from
History. Memories.
Tears and cheers.
Consigned to the dustbin
In boring old farts minds
Most blurred & lost
Under a tsunami of beers.
It's not my club
Probably not yours
But we're united in one cause
Every ground I've been to
Is what makes me be me
In the fixture list of life
From Griffin Park today
To shrines like Wem-Ber-Lee.
Moments to cherish
Before I perish
As my dreams tend to do.
Like losing at Hythe yesterday.
I was stuck at work
So Chelsea Juventus kids was my perk
Can't survive without
My football fix
Added bonus of snapping
A new set of ground pics.
No need to raise a glass
Of the old black stuff
Just sat in this stand
Makes me high enough
Football grounds is my strange bent
Simply buzzing at Brentford
Where I went.
Dulwich Poet 17th March 2013
(Today is St. Patrick's Day, when a crazy amount of English people pretend to be Irish & drink large amounts of Guinness. I went to Chelsea under 19's 4, Juventus 1, in the NextGen Series quarter finals, played at Brentford's ground)
But I'm not here for the pubs
Another ground facing the demolition ball
Soon nothing to be here at all.
Of consequence.
Flats. Houses. Or a B & Q.
Totally irrelevant.
But does it matter
As long as it pays for a new ground?
Progress.Time to move on from
History. Memories.
Tears and cheers.
Consigned to the dustbin
In boring old farts minds
Most blurred & lost
Under a tsunami of beers.
It's not my club
Probably not yours
But we're united in one cause
Every ground I've been to
Is what makes me be me
In the fixture list of life
From Griffin Park today
To shrines like Wem-Ber-Lee.
Moments to cherish
Before I perish
As my dreams tend to do.
Like losing at Hythe yesterday.
I was stuck at work
So Chelsea Juventus kids was my perk
Can't survive without
My football fix
Added bonus of snapping
A new set of ground pics.
No need to raise a glass
Of the old black stuff
Just sat in this stand
Makes me high enough
Football grounds is my strange bent
Simply buzzing at Brentford
Where I went.
Dulwich Poet 17th March 2013
(Today is St. Patrick's Day, when a crazy amount of English people pretend to be Irish & drink large amounts of Guinness. I went to Chelsea under 19's 4, Juventus 1, in the NextGen Series quarter finals, played at Brentford's ground)
Friday 15 March 2013
"Dumping Ground"
Little girl, smaller boy
Once their parents bundle of joy
What we gonna do with you?
Fancy a drink down the pub
There you have the ‘modern’ rub
No sat outside with lemonade & crisps
Too many nonces to take the risks
No childcare…that costs money
Being a loving parent isn’t funny
Off you go kids read some books
Where’s the harm in that?
So what if they’re not with me
Across the shops I can almost see
Just the other side of the square
Getting you out of my hair
Dumping you in the LIBRARY!
Tell me, what makes a parent
Think it’s safe to play
Out of sight, out of mind
Keeping an eye on them
Such a bind!
Out of sight, out of mind
Keeping an eye on them
Such a bind!
Daughter of eight, son of five
Charging round & being a pain
All alone, this is insane!
It’s a Madeleine waiting to happen
Or a Jamie Bulger led away
Then it will be time for blame
Sullying my good colleagues names
We are NOT baby sitters
Not being paid to care for your critters
What on earth are you thinking
Dumping your kids
While you’re out drinking?
Giving you the benefit of the doubt
If that’s what you’re up to
When you’re out.
You might just be eating tasty grub
But by the time you finish your plate
The sick bastards have got them
And you’ll be too late.
Chances of happening
Are a million to one
But is it worth the risk
To lose your son?
Dulwich Poet 15th March 2013
( I work in a public library. A parent left their two young children unsupervised, while they sat inside a local pub a couple of hundred yards away)
Wednesday 6 March 2013
"Poetry In Motion"
Selfish, selfish…me,me,ME!
It’s only the sweets I can see
Poetry’s rubbish cos I can’t write
All that clever stuff
Bores me out of sight!
It’s nothing fancy
Just words after words
About anything and nothing at all
The stars, the sky, the sea or birds.
No need to mutter
Just give it a flutter
Let the words flow
From the tip of your pen
If you give it a go
Trust me…you’ll try again.
There’s no need to rhyme
There are NO rules
No right or wrong
So you can’t look like fools.
Just get scribbling
Let the ink flow
Poetry IS the way to go.
Dulwich Poet-5th March 2013
(A colleague at work covered poetry in the library we work in, for his monthly ‘Chatterbooks’ session aimed at primary school kids. He gives them free soft drinks & sweets, paid for out of his own pocket when they attend. I knocked this up on the counter, trying to imagine how they see poetry.)
Tuesday 5 March 2013
"The Reason"
Short & sweet
That’s why I’m here.
Here it is:
Where’s my sweets
You cunt?
Dulwich Poet 5th March 2013
(A total piss take, to give to a colleague, who was covering poetry, for the ‘Chatterbooks’ session, in the library I work at)
Sunday 3 March 2013
"Hands On"
Much as I try
I’m not quite sure
What you have done wrong.
But it seems you broke
The Cardinal sin
Of groping young men with
A penchant for frocks
Rather than young boys
With miniscule cocks.
All above the age of consent
Not as if you were paying rent
But I can’t condone what you did
If…it’s not what they wanted.
But who knows what goes on
Behind your closed doors
More than praying on your knees
Sliding on polished floors.
I couldn’t care less
Where you lay your hands
It’s just the hypocracy
I can’t stand.
But I really mustn’t grumble
I was brought up with your guilt
While having a fumble.
Your double standards are shocking
Respectable gay folk
You’re always mocking
Just what did you feel like
Deep inside
Knowing you are gay
So much to hide?
Do you really imagine
You’re the only poofta in a robe
There’s thousands of you
Across the globe.
Who knows…maybe Jesus
Christ was one too?
Twelve young men in biblical fable
Breaking his bread at
The Last Supper table.
I hate you Cardinal O’Brien
Because you’re a pious two-faced Jock
Not because you want some cock.
Dulwich Poet 3rd March 2013
(The head of the Roman Catholic Church in Scotland, Cardinal Keith O’Brien, resigned after he admitted making passes and touching young priests in the eighties. He has been a steadfast critic of gay rights)
Friday 1 March 2013
"Papa Pensioner"
Farewell then Benedict
You sounded like a posh egg
Rather than a rotten one.
Time to retreat and retire
Pipe and slippers, roaring fire
With no need to worry
About your Bedroom Tax.
You’ will be a recluse
In a country retreat
Somehow I don’t think
You’ll have much concern
About turning up the heating
Or missing a lunchtime seating.
But then I fear
That your view
Of a ‘simple life’
Is somewhat different to mine
Is somewhat different to mine
A bit like our opinions
Of the Catholic Church.
Dulwich Poet 1st March 2013
(Pope Benedict XVI stood down as leader of the Catholic Church, unprecedented in modern times)
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