Sat on the bog
At London Bridge Station
Desperation rather than expectation.
Black marker scrawl
On the stainless steel wheel
That is the toilet roll holder.
Nothing bolder than:
'Poo tally 1'
Well it put a smile on my face
Which never happens
Wiith the invisible scribblers
Non existent dribblers
Who write
'Cock suckers wanted'
Dulwich Poet 26th June 2013
( An original piece of graffiti in a public toilet )
Thursday 27 June 2013
"Book Ends"
Come Close...
I've something to tell you:
I secretly harbour a dream
To have a book of my poetry published.
I'd even be sad enough to
Do it myself
If I had the money
To put it on the shelf
Where it would gather dust.
Like the one I am reading
Which has never been off the shelf
Since nineteen eighty one
When I was still at school
Way back when
I'd just started then
To pick up a pen.
But it was just a phase
Not a craze
So I grew out of the habit.
Who knows?
If I had carried on
Like teenage masturbation
Maybe I'd have been published.
Not to great acclaim
But, like that book
Untouched by anyone's
Hand but mine
In thirty two years.
Would I have 'Come Close'?
Dulwich Poet 26th June 2013
( One of the booklets I borrowed from the Poetry Library is called 'Come Close', by Nigel Gray, published in 1979. It has sat on their shelves, with no issues since January 1981)
I've something to tell you:
I secretly harbour a dream
To have a book of my poetry published.
I'd even be sad enough to
Do it myself
If I had the money
To put it on the shelf
Where it would gather dust.
Like the one I am reading
Which has never been off the shelf
Since nineteen eighty one
When I was still at school
Way back when
I'd just started then
To pick up a pen.
But it was just a phase
Not a craze
So I grew out of the habit.
Who knows?
If I had carried on
Like teenage masturbation
Maybe I'd have been published.
Not to great acclaim
But, like that book
Untouched by anyone's
Hand but mine
In thirty two years.
Would I have 'Come Close'?
Dulwich Poet 26th June 2013
( One of the booklets I borrowed from the Poetry Library is called 'Come Close', by Nigel Gray, published in 1979. It has sat on their shelves, with no issues since January 1981)
"You've Lost Me"
The thing about writing
Is how you're tempted
For just a split second
With flyers from fanzines
And assorted magazines
Asking for your
Original poetry.
'Splinter' invites quality submissions...
Quality? Not up my street
Unless wrapped in a
Multitude of colours
In a large half-price tin
From the Co-Op to scoff
Home alone on Christmas Day.
That's my quality
As I can't write for toffee.
But on reflection..
There's nothing to lose
Just rejection
Which I'm more than used to.
So what's the harm
In giving it a go but
Is my poetry of
Their quality to show?
I can chew after what they require:
"The theme for the launch edition is
Dissonance and
Or synaethesia,
So whether you improvise,
Polymerise, disseminate,
Or aggravate,
Send us ideas pressed against each other,
Faces superimposed,
Something no-one has seen before."
On second thoughts
Having read that pretentious crap
Of which I couldn't understand a word
I now know
The definitive meaning of
"What The Fuck?"
They've totally lost me.
I think I'll stick to my blog.
Dulwich Poet 26th June 2013
(I was in the Poetry Library, and glanced at one of the many fliers they have on a leaflet rack. As you can guess, I wasn't too impressed. )
Is how you're tempted
For just a split second
With flyers from fanzines
And assorted magazines
Asking for your
Original poetry.
'Splinter' invites quality submissions...
Quality? Not up my street
Unless wrapped in a
Multitude of colours
In a large half-price tin
From the Co-Op to scoff
Home alone on Christmas Day.
That's my quality
As I can't write for toffee.
But on reflection..
There's nothing to lose
Just rejection
Which I'm more than used to.
So what's the harm
In giving it a go but
Is my poetry of
Their quality to show?
I can chew after what they require:
"The theme for the launch edition is
Dissonance and
Or synaethesia,
So whether you improvise,
Polymerise, disseminate,
Or aggravate,
Send us ideas pressed against each other,
Faces superimposed,
Something no-one has seen before."
On second thoughts
Having read that pretentious crap
Of which I couldn't understand a word
I now know
The definitive meaning of
"What The Fuck?"
They've totally lost me.
I think I'll stick to my blog.
Dulwich Poet 26th June 2013
(I was in the Poetry Library, and glanced at one of the many fliers they have on a leaflet rack. As you can guess, I wasn't too impressed. )
"Weary Stranger"
Sat on a 363,
To the Old Kent Road,
If you're interested
Which I know you're not.
That little fact is irrelevant
As is this whole poem probably.
But I digress.
Sat next to me
Is an old man
I could probably try to guess his age
But don't really want to
As it's probably far close to mine
Than I care to admit.
Wrinkled thick veined hands
No wedding bands
Dirty clothes
Slightly pongy on the nose
But in a been hard at work
Not trampy sort of way.
He has his dignity
A good old fashioned grafter
Not too worn for a bit of laughter
As he's on his phone having a chat
My dog & bone's as old as that.
Looks as though he's knackered from work
But never been one to shirk.
He appears content with his lot
Probably doesn't own a lot.
Got me thinking about the cards we're dealt
Life's not about how you play them
More how they're felt.
Dulwich Poet 26th June 2013
(I was on a bus today, when an old man, probably early to mid sixties, sat next to me. He looked weary with life, but observing more, he was clearly happy with his lot. I have no idea if this is true, but sort of hoped it was, so I could learn from his basic humbleness of 'accepting your lot', if that makes sense. )
To the Old Kent Road,
If you're interested
Which I know you're not.
That little fact is irrelevant
As is this whole poem probably.
But I digress.
Sat next to me
Is an old man
I could probably try to guess his age
But don't really want to
As it's probably far close to mine
Than I care to admit.
Wrinkled thick veined hands
No wedding bands
Dirty clothes
Slightly pongy on the nose
But in a been hard at work
Not trampy sort of way.
He has his dignity
A good old fashioned grafter
Not too worn for a bit of laughter
As he's on his phone having a chat
My dog & bone's as old as that.
Looks as though he's knackered from work
But never been one to shirk.
He appears content with his lot
Probably doesn't own a lot.
Got me thinking about the cards we're dealt
Life's not about how you play them
More how they're felt.
Dulwich Poet 26th June 2013
(I was on a bus today, when an old man, probably early to mid sixties, sat next to me. He looked weary with life, but observing more, he was clearly happy with his lot. I have no idea if this is true, but sort of hoped it was, so I could learn from his basic humbleness of 'accepting your lot', if that makes sense. )
"Be Prepared"
A young man
Slain in his prime
Such a notorious crime
Your murderers free
Just one or two under lock & key
As the result of the police
Presuming YOU were guilty
Until proved innocent.
Justice
Metropolitan Police style.
Two decades on
Their shame leaks out
Every bit of decency
The old bill flout
Putting your family
Under investigation
To the shock
Of the entire nation.
But I'm not thinking
'This has to stop'
As my train of thought is frozen
On your photographic backdrop.
Surely there was a better one
In your family photo book
Than at the one we
Always have to look.
It's not your fault
Won't speak ill of the dead
But dear oh dear
That wallpaper behind your head!
Truth is we don't know how or when we die
Or how much the media will pry.
Time to do a Baden-Powell
And have a good snap ready to print
It doesn't have to cost a mint
For a respectable picture
To do you proud
No more dodgy pics allowed!
I might approach Dragon's Den
With a bid
For those brown bread photos
With the embarrassing bits hid.
'Be Prepared' as you
Don't know when you'll die
It's a cracking idea,
If 'pie in the sky'!
Dulwich Poet 25th June 2013
(The ongoing disgraceful treatment of the Stephen Lawrence family, for many years, since his murder in Eltham twenty years ago, was in the news again. A 'whistleblower' said in a book that the police had attempted to 'dig up dirt' on his family and friends, to discredit them. When I read the story I once more looked at the photo of Stephen, that they always use. And each time I do I think to myself: "What on earth were they thinking with that wallpaer? Surely they have a better photo than that?" )
Slain in his prime
Such a notorious crime
Your murderers free
Just one or two under lock & key
As the result of the police
Presuming YOU were guilty
Until proved innocent.
Justice
Metropolitan Police style.
Two decades on
Their shame leaks out
Every bit of decency
The old bill flout
Putting your family
Under investigation
To the shock
Of the entire nation.
But I'm not thinking
'This has to stop'
As my train of thought is frozen
On your photographic backdrop.
Surely there was a better one
In your family photo book
Than at the one we
Always have to look.
It's not your fault
Won't speak ill of the dead
But dear oh dear
That wallpaper behind your head!
Truth is we don't know how or when we die
Or how much the media will pry.
Time to do a Baden-Powell
And have a good snap ready to print
It doesn't have to cost a mint
For a respectable picture
To do you proud
No more dodgy pics allowed!
I might approach Dragon's Den
With a bid
For those brown bread photos
With the embarrassing bits hid.
'Be Prepared' as you
Don't know when you'll die
It's a cracking idea,
If 'pie in the sky'!
Dulwich Poet 25th June 2013
(The ongoing disgraceful treatment of the Stephen Lawrence family, for many years, since his murder in Eltham twenty years ago, was in the news again. A 'whistleblower' said in a book that the police had attempted to 'dig up dirt' on his family and friends, to discredit them. When I read the story I once more looked at the photo of Stephen, that they always use. And each time I do I think to myself: "What on earth were they thinking with that wallpaer? Surely they have a better photo than that?" )
Tuesday 25 June 2013
"Homer Eat Your Heart Out"
Finish work
Dead on six
Dash out of the door
You know the score
Got somewhere to be
From one library
To another
Changing my books
At the poetry one.
Get there.
Shut!
NEVER open on a Monday.
I really should know better
In my line of work.
How do I feel?
A bloody idiot.
D’oh!
As my cartoon hero would say.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(I work at a public library in Bermondsey. After work yesterday I jumped on a bus to the Poetry Library in Waterloo
" D. L. R. Decorum"
Tourists.
English guidebook
So not entirely stupid.
Sockless sandals.
Barefoot flip flops.
Less fashion sense than me.
Must be American.
Father and son.
Dad-leg crossed over
Taking up space
Son-stretched
Cheesy sole plonked on seat.
South Quay station:
Gruff: “Mind your foot”!
It works both ways
Manners cost nothing.
You’ve let the side down, old boy.
No doubt Stratford
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
( On the Docklands Light Railway, as what happened, two tourists, hogging four seats, the train wasn’t packed, hardly deliberate. A man gets on, and tells them to make space. They do so and apologise. Diplomatic incident averted )
"Reading on the Train"
One poem
A mere 24 lines
And you use the word
“Transcendental”
No less than FOUR times!
Which kind of
Fucks it up for me
As I don’t have
A dictionary in my bag.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
( The poem I’m referring to is ‘Letter to the Council’. By James Russell Grant; published in his book of poems ‘London Poems’.)
"Words"
Indolence. Nebulae.
Invective. Quietus.
Hefting. Mairie-like.
Cross-strata. Antimacassars.
Quasi-sybaritic. Mandrake.
Simian. Amertume.
Traumerei. Mesalliance.
Inurned. Suborned.
Enzymatic. Mesoderm.
Blastoderm. Extant.
Sortilege. Antipathies.
Erudite. Caesura.
Truculent. Agglomeration.
Rococco. Transcendental.
Satyr. Inculated.
Unassimilable. Comport.
Phew! What a jumble!
Blag it and mumble.
Don’t get me wrong, sir
I enjoy reading your stuff
The challenge of understanding.
But only if…
Your poetry’s not too ‘poncified’.
It’s bloody hard work though
Sometimes it’s like
I’m in training
For the World Scrabble Championships.
Which is really weird.
Because I don’t even
Play the game.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
( I read a book of poetry ‘London Poems’ by James Russell Grant, and there were so many words that I had no idea what they meant throughout the book. The ones listed above, totally random, are just some of them. Part of the reason I often lack confidence in my writing, as I simply lack a decent vocabulary to do so.)
Monday 24 June 2013
"Write On"
It's like having a pee-
Once you start
You just can't stop.
Well yes, I could snap my pen it two
But that's not what I want to do.
The ideas are in my head
And they just won't go
Pen or no pen.
Such is the occupational hazard
Of being a poet
You have to be one
To really know it.
After a while
Enough is enough
Your brain will slow down
And switch to other stuff
Like now-hopefully.
The End.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(I find I cannot just write a poem. It's not something I can do 'to order'. It's just something that happens, sometimes words flow, sometimes they don't.)
Once you start
You just can't stop.
Well yes, I could snap my pen it two
But that's not what I want to do.
The ideas are in my head
And they just won't go
Pen or no pen.
Such is the occupational hazard
Of being a poet
You have to be one
To really know it.
After a while
Enough is enough
Your brain will slow down
And switch to other stuff
Like now-hopefully.
The End.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(I find I cannot just write a poem. It's not something I can do 'to order'. It's just something that happens, sometimes words flow, sometimes they don't.)
"Bookmarked"
It was weeks away
Dessie's deadline day.
Like the onset of old age
It creeps up on you
And before you realise
It's here!
With no chance
To turn the clock back.
Such is life, cobble together
Three small parts rushed
With less than 24 hours to go
But there's only one thing
I want him to like
Will my poem be included for perusal
Or just spiked by your refusal?
Oh please Mr. Editor
Give me a hint
Fulfil my wildest dream
By putting my poem in print.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(A Dulwich Hamlet fan is publishing a book on our Championship season, and asked for contributions from fans. I sent him three articles and a poem. I'm not sure which ones he will publish, but hope he picks the poem! Then I can 'pretend' I am a published poet!)
Dessie's deadline day.
Like the onset of old age
It creeps up on you
And before you realise
It's here!
With no chance
To turn the clock back.
Such is life, cobble together
Three small parts rushed
With less than 24 hours to go
But there's only one thing
I want him to like
Will my poem be included for perusal
Or just spiked by your refusal?
Oh please Mr. Editor
Give me a hint
Fulfil my wildest dream
By putting my poem in print.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(A Dulwich Hamlet fan is publishing a book on our Championship season, and asked for contributions from fans. I sent him three articles and a poem. I'm not sure which ones he will publish, but hope he picks the poem! Then I can 'pretend' I am a published poet!)
"Eye Candy"
Go on...we've all done it
Got on a train
Walked down the carriage
Then spotted someone
Drop dead gorgeous
And sat opposite
To discreetly stare and dream.
Undressing them in your mind
Wanting to kiss those lips
And unbuckle those tight jeans.
If that makes me a pervert
Then so be it.
Your straight double standards
Get on my wick
Because I prefer to think of dick.
A different story when you stare at women
Eyes boggling at a MIFL or GILF's tits
As you think out loud
In your normal laddish style.
Because that's what blokes do,
Strange. Cos if I do the same...
It's 'too much information'.
Equality? Bollocks!
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
( I was being discreetly appreciative of a good looking young man on the train today, and pondered how straight blokes can voices their opinions on women they glance at, but my mates often don't like me doing the same)
Got on a train
Walked down the carriage
Then spotted someone
Drop dead gorgeous
And sat opposite
To discreetly stare and dream.
Undressing them in your mind
Wanting to kiss those lips
And unbuckle those tight jeans.
If that makes me a pervert
Then so be it.
Your straight double standards
Get on my wick
Because I prefer to think of dick.
A different story when you stare at women
Eyes boggling at a MIFL or GILF's tits
As you think out loud
In your normal laddish style.
Because that's what blokes do,
Strange. Cos if I do the same...
It's 'too much information'.
Equality? Bollocks!
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
( I was being discreetly appreciative of a good looking young man on the train today, and pondered how straight blokes can voices their opinions on women they glance at, but my mates often don't like me doing the same)
"Taking The Biscuit"
I honestly can't recall
How old I was,
Make that how young.
Seven, eight or nine?
Even then I was weird/lonely
With no real friends.
No change there then.
I can't remember
What day of the week it was
But I won't forget
The dustbin.
From Champion Hill
To the Walworth Road
That was a fair old trek
For my little legs.
Why was I there?
Who knows? Memory's gone.
Not a clue. Long time ago.
But I won't forget that litter bin
On the lampost
By the bus stops.
Practically full it was
Almost overflowing.
and there on the top
Was a packet of brand new
Biscuits, as good as new
Almost full.
No money for sweets.
Eyes to the left, glance to the right
Nobody I knew in my sight.
Distinctly remember excitement and fear
Hoping that no neighbours were near
Quick! arm moving in for the catch
Those biccies were mine to snatch.
Ready to run down the road
Then came the "Ooh! Poor thing!"
Caught in the act by two old grannies
A baby rabbit in their headlights.
Looking at them face on.
Even then a little child
I could be strange and rather wild
Slowly delicately, deliberately
Ripped off the wrapper
And scoffed one after another.
"Ooh, that's terrible, where's his mother?"
Was my cue to have another.
Back in those days
It was shame not blame.
No social services
No mobile phones to make a call
So Childline was pointless
Even if Jimmy's friend
Auntie Esther had thought of it back then
As she would have seen nothing.
I looked then right in the eye
And decided to give them some proper
To gossip about; real food for thought
Short and sweet
"My mum doesn't feed me"
And left as their tongues
Wagged in overdrive
As I began my journey home
To my loving mum
As my dinner
Would be on the table soon.
I can't recall if my dad
Brought any cream cakes home from work.
I liked them, as I liked myself.
Naughty but nice.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
( A memory from my childhood, I was alone down the Walworth Road, and I found and ate a packet of biscuits, on top of a dustbin. )
How old I was,
Make that how young.
Seven, eight or nine?
Even then I was weird/lonely
With no real friends.
No change there then.
I can't remember
What day of the week it was
But I won't forget
The dustbin.
From Champion Hill
To the Walworth Road
That was a fair old trek
For my little legs.
Why was I there?
Who knows? Memory's gone.
Not a clue. Long time ago.
But I won't forget that litter bin
On the lampost
By the bus stops.
Practically full it was
Almost overflowing.
and there on the top
Was a packet of brand new
Biscuits, as good as new
Almost full.
No money for sweets.
Eyes to the left, glance to the right
Nobody I knew in my sight.
Distinctly remember excitement and fear
Hoping that no neighbours were near
Quick! arm moving in for the catch
Those biccies were mine to snatch.
Ready to run down the road
Then came the "Ooh! Poor thing!"
Caught in the act by two old grannies
A baby rabbit in their headlights.
Looking at them face on.
Even then a little child
I could be strange and rather wild
Slowly delicately, deliberately
Ripped off the wrapper
And scoffed one after another.
"Ooh, that's terrible, where's his mother?"
Was my cue to have another.
Back in those days
It was shame not blame.
No social services
No mobile phones to make a call
So Childline was pointless
Even if Jimmy's friend
Auntie Esther had thought of it back then
As she would have seen nothing.
I looked then right in the eye
And decided to give them some proper
To gossip about; real food for thought
Short and sweet
"My mum doesn't feed me"
And left as their tongues
Wagged in overdrive
As I began my journey home
To my loving mum
As my dinner
Would be on the table soon.
I can't recall if my dad
Brought any cream cakes home from work.
I liked them, as I liked myself.
Naughty but nice.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
( A memory from my childhood, I was alone down the Walworth Road, and I found and ate a packet of biscuits, on top of a dustbin. )
"Raise a Pint of Nelson"
So farewell then. Mr. Mandela
You had a wonderful innings
Albeit a large chunk of it
Incarcerated behind bars
Rather than in them.
Although I no longer drink
May I symbolically
Raise a pint of Nelson
In honour of Nelson
Hight in the air
A toast in your honour
Now that you're a goner.
A Belgian beer
Named by Cockneys
After your good self
I would say 'good health'
But under these circumstances...
One man's terrorist
Is another man's freedom fighter.
No contest for me
You were an inspiration
Across your entire nation
A shining light
For an entire generation.
Without you apartheid
Would still be in place
Third class citizens
By fate of race.
In freedom such a humble man
Side by side you were able to stand
Next to the men who
Kept you under lock and key
For so many decades
Before you were set free.
Even next to our Thatcher witch
Who called you a terrorist
The crazy bitch!
Don't get me wrong
Your homeland's not a perfect place
But because of you
Apartheid was laid to waste.
Your legacy is the hope
That will always live on
Spirit still shining
Even after you've gone.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(Nelson Mandela, jailed ANC leader, and later South African president, is on the brink of death, as I write this. A 'pint of Nelson' is a pint of Stella Artois-'Nelson Mandela rhymes with Stella)
You had a wonderful innings
Albeit a large chunk of it
Incarcerated behind bars
Rather than in them.
Although I no longer drink
May I symbolically
Raise a pint of Nelson
In honour of Nelson
Hight in the air
A toast in your honour
Now that you're a goner.
A Belgian beer
Named by Cockneys
After your good self
I would say 'good health'
But under these circumstances...
One man's terrorist
Is another man's freedom fighter.
No contest for me
You were an inspiration
Across your entire nation
A shining light
For an entire generation.
Without you apartheid
Would still be in place
Third class citizens
By fate of race.
In freedom such a humble man
Side by side you were able to stand
Next to the men who
Kept you under lock and key
For so many decades
Before you were set free.
Even next to our Thatcher witch
Who called you a terrorist
The crazy bitch!
Don't get me wrong
Your homeland's not a perfect place
But because of you
Apartheid was laid to waste.
Your legacy is the hope
That will always live on
Spirit still shining
Even after you've gone.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(Nelson Mandela, jailed ANC leader, and later South African president, is on the brink of death, as I write this. A 'pint of Nelson' is a pint of Stella Artois-'Nelson Mandela rhymes with Stella)
"Ger Orf Moi Laaand!"
I'm just grateful it's not for me
Not my spiritual cup of tea
Pray for you, pray for me.
So much more than four walls
And a steeple.
I love the old buildings
But not what you preach
Someone like me
Is out of your reach
Which is just a well as
We're expected to let Jesus
Into our heart
Opening your door
Would be a start!
Go to most churches
There's a bolted door
Jesus loves you
But you know the score
Not quite enough to let you
Enter the House of God
Best to be safe
If you seem a bit odd.
All His belongings
Under lock and key
If you're honoured
Through glass you can see.
Never mind preace and sanctuary
During the day
"We don't trust you thieves"
Is what you say.
Maybe you're not quite so direct
But locking your building has that effect.
If you don't welcome your 'flock' on days of the week
No wonder Sunday turnouts are ever so bleak.
Why not open up and let me in
Instead of pre-judging
Assuming we'll sin.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(This one is about so many churches being locked, so you can't actually get into them, on almost every day of the week, hardly welcoming, which I think is wrong)
Not my spiritual cup of tea
Pray for you, pray for me.
So much more than four walls
And a steeple.
I love the old buildings
But not what you preach
Someone like me
Is out of your reach
Which is just a well as
We're expected to let Jesus
Into our heart
Opening your door
Would be a start!
Go to most churches
There's a bolted door
Jesus loves you
But you know the score
Not quite enough to let you
Enter the House of God
Best to be safe
If you seem a bit odd.
All His belongings
Under lock and key
If you're honoured
Through glass you can see.
Never mind preace and sanctuary
During the day
"We don't trust you thieves"
Is what you say.
Maybe you're not quite so direct
But locking your building has that effect.
If you don't welcome your 'flock' on days of the week
No wonder Sunday turnouts are ever so bleak.
Why not open up and let me in
Instead of pre-judging
Assuming we'll sin.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
(This one is about so many churches being locked, so you can't actually get into them, on almost every day of the week, hardly welcoming, which I think is wrong)
"Champions"
Supporting The Hamlet is a chore
I am the leper, the non-league bore.
Not taken seriously for loving my local side
Well I’m NOT ashamed nothing to hide.
Been at more games than you’ve had Sunday dinners
Seen more losers than I have winners.
A bit of success is hardly seasonal fare
A championship is exceedingly rare.
In fact the last time I was at primary school
The football fans lot can be so cruel.
A six one loss here, 7-1 defeat there
And at the Hornchurch 9-0 I was way past care
Yet I’m a crazy old fool who comes back for more!
The season just gone makes it all worthwhile
Winning the title with such panache and style
Gavin Rose so modest and humble
He never wavered at all,
Waiting for the Stones to stumble.
Waiting for the Stones to stumble.
Play-off heartache banished at last
End of season suffering a thing of the past
Tears of joy as I chased our Turk
Final whistle going berserk
An amazing day I will always cherish
Right up until the day I perish.
Thanks to modern gadgets like a camera phone
We can relive the moment sitting at home
Not like old videos that would get worn
This is pure internet football porn.
Some of the memories will fade away
But recorded for posterity images will stay
So many supporters invading the pitch
Our great fans my life enrich.
Young and old, black & white
Truly was an amazing sight
A mass of Pink and Blue over thepitch of green
Hardly a blade of grass to be seen.
Hugs and kisses, tears of joy
Been waiting for this since I was a boy.
Truth be told it went in a flash
A bit of blur all post match.
Who knows how long these good times will last
When todays moment becomes a thing of the past?
This last season I will always saviour
Even if performances waver.
Not just the last day which I’ll always recall
But the fiasco of cheating Leatherhead’s wall
Even though we returned and got beat
Them missing the play-offs was really sweet.
And winning at Tooting in all the smoke
Bloody marvellous to see them choke.
So many memories from the “Class of ‘12/13”
The greatest Dulwich side I’ve ever seen.
Dulwich Poet 24th June 2013
( A Dulwich Hamlet supporter is publishing a book, on our Ryman League Division One south championship win, our first title for 35 years. He asked for contributions. I have submitted three articles, and now this poem. I have no idea which ones he will use)
( It was used! 'The Only Way Is Up' the fans' view of a season to remember at Dulwich Hamlet FC )
( It was used! 'The Only Way Is Up' the fans' view of a season to remember at Dulwich Hamlet FC )
Friday 21 June 2013
"Light Bulb Bargain"
Ever had that moment
The ‘ping!’ thing
When something so obvious hits you
Slap bang in the face
As if being slapped
By a fresh slimy wet kipper
Across the chops?
I haven’t.
Neither the idea nor the fish.
Nothing wrong with a bit
Of plagiarisation though.
The idea only cost me
One pound eighty.
Combining my two arty farty loves
If I get round to ‘arf inching it.
The clicking of a camera
And the whirring of braincells
Poetry in motion.
From the Elephant & Castle to Lewisham.
That’s how far it spread
Taking seven years to reach me.
Via the shelf of a
Red Cross charidee shop
Less than two quid and
I still had to think about it.
But brand new at nine ninety five
So still a bit of a bargain.
Being payday yesterday helped.
So are you wondering
What I have purchased?
Or just thinking..
Get on with it you blathering old fool!
Imagine my open palms
As in a game of charades
It’s a book.
But not any old book.
Combining black and white
Working class snapshots
Of a bygone age
Some before I was born
Others I can’t recall at all
As I would have been in nappies
Dockers, Miners, ordinary people
Modernised with student poetic
Interpretations opposite.
Say what you see.
‘Catchphrase’ for thinkers.
Right down my street.
Best one pound eighty
I’ll spend today.
Not least for the
Blurb on the back
By an up her own arse
Literary Agent.
“What they lack in technique
They have passion in bundles”.
Sometimes I have
Little faith in my writing
Lacking self-belief.
Not that I care what others think
As I write for myself
Not always easy to get thoughts to flow
Thanks for the inspiration, love!
Dulwich Poet 21st June 2013
(I was passing through Lewisham today, on the way to work after a hospital appointment, when-on a whim-I popped into the Red Cross charity shop. I spotted a book, which was thirty photographs by Colin Jones, each one with a poem next to it, written by a different student each time, from the London College of Communication. Such a simple idea, and one I am tempted to use, but will probably never get round to, with some of the many photos that I take, adding my words next to them.)
[Colin Jones and poems of note. Edited by Tony Wailey. Published on 2006]
"In The Waiting Room"
Is this really the reality
Week after week
Month after month
Year after fucking year?
Scouring and devouring
Column by column
Page by page
Today’s edition of the ‘Metro’.
The only alternative being
A three month old ‘Country Life’
Perfect for inner city Lewisham
Or the Christmas copy
Of ‘Cosmopolitan’
In flaming June!
Such is life
In the waiting room.
If I ever get to the stage
Where I am like that old dear
Sat rocking in her wheelchair
Thin strands of hair matting
Spittle dribbling out of her cracked
Needlessly lipstick caked mouth
Then, please, do the decent thing
And treat me like you would a horse
Take me outside and have me shot
Then melted down for glue.
Life is hardly a bowl of cherries
Far too healthy for me anyway
But I beg you never let me
End up so desperately lonely
As the old boy opposite
Highlight of his morning being
Swilling & swigging that rancid coffee
From the polystyrene cup
As the nurse stops
For a double take
And asks if he is due to be seen
Right now this early
As he cheerily lets her know
He’s here for his eleven o’clock
As if he’s making a day of it
When it’s not even
Half past nine!
For which the expression
“Good grief!” was invented.
Supposedly I’m still young
At a not so spring chicken forty six
But the great Soprano just pegged it
At a mere fifty one.
Fearful of my own mortality
Knowing I’ll be a young fatality
Whatever hopes and dreams
I once had decades past
Are faded and gone.
Now resigned to an existence
Of hospital waiting rooms
Bandages and pills
Papering over the crack
Of a lifetime of non-achievement
Which is why I retreat
Into my make-believe poetic insularity
Waiting for that final breath
Death-that I both fear and crave for.
Dulwich Poet 21st June 2013
(Another routine hospital appointment, at the Acute Foot Clinic at Lewisham Hospital
Wednesday 19 June 2013
"Light in the Dark"
Sat on a bench
Out on the street
Taking a swig from a bottle.
All alone.
Nothing more than Pepsi Max
In a spot usually frequented
By street drinkers.
I'm in their place
As a sober thinker!
Watching the world pass me by
Not such a bad thing being dry.
Dusk creeping up street lamps on
Soon it will be dark
And I must be gone
'Tis a pity as
I want to perch here all night
But my belly is rumbling
And I want a bite
Put away my pen time to roam
To the reality of the shit life
That I call home.
Dulwich Poet 19th June 2013
( Earlier this evening I was sat on a bench on the pavement, as traffic passed by, just as it was getting dark. Inside I was content, just enjoying the peacefulness of my lonely life, with my pen and notebook for company)
Out on the street
Taking a swig from a bottle.
All alone.
Nothing more than Pepsi Max
In a spot usually frequented
By street drinkers.
I'm in their place
As a sober thinker!
Watching the world pass me by
Not such a bad thing being dry.
Dusk creeping up street lamps on
Soon it will be dark
And I must be gone
'Tis a pity as
I want to perch here all night
But my belly is rumbling
And I want a bite
Put away my pen time to roam
To the reality of the shit life
That I call home.
Dulwich Poet 19th June 2013
( Earlier this evening I was sat on a bench on the pavement, as traffic passed by, just as it was getting dark. Inside I was content, just enjoying the peacefulness of my lonely life, with my pen and notebook for company)
"Dead Envious"
How much I envy you both
For taking that leap
Into the unknown
With so much certainty
The bravery of youth
Presumably believing you would be
Together forever and ever. Amen.
Did you make passionate love
On the side of the track
Knowing you were never
Coming back?
A one way ticket in your brain
Destination unknown
As you hit the train.
Your reasons were only known to you
Doing what you had to do.
For the rest of eternity both entwined
Whatever afterlife you may find
If it even exists...heaven or hell
From our time on earth no way to tell.
If you find something I hope it's bliss
Worthwhile enough to give your future a miss.
Dulwich Poet 19th June 2013
( On Monday evening two teenagers, an 18 year old boy & 15 year old girl, jumped in front of a passing train, near to where they lived in Borehamwood, in Hertfordshire; which is just outside London.)
For taking that leap
Into the unknown
With so much certainty
The bravery of youth
Presumably believing you would be
Together forever and ever. Amen.
Did you make passionate love
On the side of the track
Knowing you were never
Coming back?
A one way ticket in your brain
Destination unknown
As you hit the train.
Your reasons were only known to you
Doing what you had to do.
For the rest of eternity both entwined
Whatever afterlife you may find
If it even exists...heaven or hell
From our time on earth no way to tell.
If you find something I hope it's bliss
Worthwhile enough to give your future a miss.
Dulwich Poet 19th June 2013
( On Monday evening two teenagers, an 18 year old boy & 15 year old girl, jumped in front of a passing train, near to where they lived in Borehamwood, in Hertfordshire; which is just outside London.)
"My Sanctuary"
Ground floor
Well you call it 'First'
Why? I have no idea
Maybe it's to confuse ordinary oiks
In your middle class temple
With an actual singing lift
That is the Royal Festival Hall.
Whatever...that's where I head
First to the first
Staring down at the steel
Hoping my cock will appeal
To any man wanting to
Unwind and unload
After a hard frustrating day at the office
As nervous as me
Hot under the collar
You can bet your bottom dollar
That we will all end up frustrated
Rather than masturbated.
I head to my real sanctuary
The main reason for my visit
My poetry haven up on the floor five
An oasis keeping my brain sane.
Ordinary blokes just go down pub
Or escape to their garden shed
To clear the shit in their head.
Or collapse on your sofa
Listening to your favourite tune
Instead of morphing into a loon
To chase away your demons.
None of that is my cup of tea
Nor an option for alcoholic me
So I head to the Poetry Library
For my personal sanctuary.
I can't pretend to understand
All that I read
But I manage to get enough
For what I need.
Instead of having a sit at home mope
Unlocking my thoughts is how I cope.
Jotting down for inspiration
Often before I've left the station
Unless you write you won't understand
How do cleanse dark thoughts
With a cheap biro in hand.
Haven't got a partner
Just too much time to think
Unable to hide behind gallons of drink
Masquerading as a poet when I'm at the brink
My safety valve when ready to sink.
Dulwich Poet 19th June 2013
(I really enjoy visiting the Poetry Library, based in the Royal Festival Hall, on the South Bank of the Thames. I've really enjoyed writing some of my poetry since I started at the beginning of the year, it's like personal therapy, when my mind is in overdrive. Which is why I pop here so often. The fact the toilets are used by men looking for sex is a bonus!)
Well you call it 'First'
Why? I have no idea
Maybe it's to confuse ordinary oiks
In your middle class temple
With an actual singing lift
That is the Royal Festival Hall.
Whatever...that's where I head
First to the first
Staring down at the steel
Hoping my cock will appeal
To any man wanting to
Unwind and unload
After a hard frustrating day at the office
As nervous as me
Hot under the collar
You can bet your bottom dollar
That we will all end up frustrated
Rather than masturbated.
I head to my real sanctuary
The main reason for my visit
My poetry haven up on the floor five
An oasis keeping my brain sane.
Ordinary blokes just go down pub
Or escape to their garden shed
To clear the shit in their head.
Or collapse on your sofa
Listening to your favourite tune
Instead of morphing into a loon
To chase away your demons.
None of that is my cup of tea
Nor an option for alcoholic me
So I head to the Poetry Library
For my personal sanctuary.
I can't pretend to understand
All that I read
But I manage to get enough
For what I need.
Instead of having a sit at home mope
Unlocking my thoughts is how I cope.
Jotting down for inspiration
Often before I've left the station
Unless you write you won't understand
How do cleanse dark thoughts
With a cheap biro in hand.
Haven't got a partner
Just too much time to think
Unable to hide behind gallons of drink
Masquerading as a poet when I'm at the brink
My safety valve when ready to sink.
Dulwich Poet 19th June 2013
(I really enjoy visiting the Poetry Library, based in the Royal Festival Hall, on the South Bank of the Thames. I've really enjoyed writing some of my poetry since I started at the beginning of the year, it's like personal therapy, when my mind is in overdrive. Which is why I pop here so often. The fact the toilets are used by men looking for sex is a bonus!)
"Desperation masturbation"
I'm on my way
To the supermarket
By bus up to the Parade.
Well that's my story
Can you help?
I need a hand
Gripping round my meat
That would be neat
Standing at the urinal
Outside Sainsburys.
Forty six and not able
To be loved or even
Know where to start a relationship
This is the loneliness of life
I am resigned to.
Not even knowing if
There will be another man
As sad and desperate as me.
Not even raising my hopes
Of a little more than a wank
Behind the cubicle door
Pants round ankles on the floor
Stench of piss in the air
Staring at phone numbers
Where I can only fulfil
The crtieria requested
In my dreams
Not being young or well hung.
Standing is a cesspit
Of a public convenience
Outside Sainsburys.
That is my sex life.
Dulwich Poet 19th June 2013
( Sometimes I go 'cottaging', which is a term used by men who go to public toilets, looking for other anonymous men to have sexual encounters with)
To the supermarket
By bus up to the Parade.
Well that's my story
Can you help?
I need a hand
Gripping round my meat
That would be neat
Standing at the urinal
Outside Sainsburys.
Forty six and not able
To be loved or even
Know where to start a relationship
This is the loneliness of life
I am resigned to.
Not even knowing if
There will be another man
As sad and desperate as me.
Not even raising my hopes
Of a little more than a wank
Behind the cubicle door
Pants round ankles on the floor
Stench of piss in the air
Staring at phone numbers
Where I can only fulfil
The crtieria requested
In my dreams
Not being young or well hung.
Standing is a cesspit
Of a public convenience
Outside Sainsburys.
That is my sex life.
Dulwich Poet 19th June 2013
( Sometimes I go 'cottaging', which is a term used by men who go to public toilets, looking for other anonymous men to have sexual encounters with)
Monday 17 June 2013
"The Proud Jocks"
Oh flower of Scotland
When will I see
Your like again?
I tend to think I’m not a fool
Even though I was at school
But when it came to you jocks
I was in the dark
A foreign race so far apart.
Going north of the border opens your eyes
So much more than haggis & macaroni pies.
What I mistook as a chip on their shoulder
Is something else centuries older
A love of your country proud of it’s past
Burning heart pride that will always last
A peculiar country with your little quirks
Not to mention men in skirts!
A strange language I cannae comprehend
Unintelligible English round the bend.
But Scotland
What us English cannot define
Being Scottish is something you can grasp
Us poor old English have nothing to clasp
Our past is in the Kingdom entwined
Proud to be English it’s in the mind.
I have no idea how to define national pride
Unlike over Hadrians Wall on the other side.
What’s going through my heid is bang oot of order
I’m well jealous of those north of the border!
Dulwich Mishi 17th June 2013
( Returning from a break in Edinburgh
Sunday 16 June 2013
"Writers Block"
I compare thee to a summers day
Well I wish I could
But I’m not that sort of writer
If only I were bright.
Instead I wrack my brain
Digging into its deepest depths
Desperately searching for a word
That sounds worthy for inclusion.
Sometimes it’s a struggle
Hardly worth the trouble
Of enduring mental exhaustion.
The only thing I compare to
Is the reclusive old man
With his clutch of dirty carrier bags
Overflowing with an assortment of
Newspapers, leaflets and notebooks.
A wandering portable
Personal recycling unit
Who scribbles crazy thoughts
On scraps of paper
Sat in a corner
Trying to be anonymous
Of the local library.
That’s the closest I’ll get
To ‘poetry irony’ today.
Dulwich Poet 16th June 2013
( Sometimes I really struggle to write, feeling my vocabulary is far to small. When I get writing I can feel like the ‘stereotype library eccentric’…the ‘irony’ being…I actually work in a public library)
Saturday 15 June 2013
"In The Rooms"
It's been a long time
Since I paid you a visit.
I like to pretend
I'm just getting on with my life
As I joke in my head
I don't want to get addicted...
To addiction!
In an alien city all alone
The emptiness gnaws away
Staying at a backpackers hostel
Surrounded being suffocated
By a young drinking culture
Tempted by the mythical Heineken vulture
Whispering invisibly into my ear
One or two beers to get the taste
Just before closing time, well paced.
Just a couple can't do any harm
The idea's enough to cause alarm.
Why is it whenever I travel
Mental strength starts to unravel?
Watching people having run-of-the-mill fun
Realising my life was over
Before it was begun.
I must release the past and look ahead
The future needn't be something to dread.
Eleven years sober
I still think of drink
More than I dare admit
I've been near the brink.
Time for the rooms and a welcoming chair
Sit and listen or choose to share.
My 'excuse' is I don't want a meeting a night
Struggling inside with a mental fight
The problem is I am seeing
I need to go more for my well being.
Time to battle my own self doubt
The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.
Dulwich Poet 15th June 2013
(I was in Edinburgh for a few days, in a lively, but frienldy, backpackers hostel. The 'temptation' to drink is still there. much more so when away from home in a faraway city. I went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting up there, my 'safety valve')
Since I paid you a visit.
I like to pretend
I'm just getting on with my life
As I joke in my head
I don't want to get addicted...
To addiction!
In an alien city all alone
The emptiness gnaws away
Staying at a backpackers hostel
Surrounded being suffocated
By a young drinking culture
Tempted by the mythical Heineken vulture
Whispering invisibly into my ear
One or two beers to get the taste
Just before closing time, well paced.
Just a couple can't do any harm
The idea's enough to cause alarm.
Why is it whenever I travel
Mental strength starts to unravel?
Watching people having run-of-the-mill fun
Realising my life was over
Before it was begun.
I must release the past and look ahead
The future needn't be something to dread.
Eleven years sober
I still think of drink
More than I dare admit
I've been near the brink.
Time for the rooms and a welcoming chair
Sit and listen or choose to share.
My 'excuse' is I don't want a meeting a night
Struggling inside with a mental fight
The problem is I am seeing
I need to go more for my well being.
Time to battle my own self doubt
The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.
Dulwich Poet 15th June 2013
(I was in Edinburgh for a few days, in a lively, but frienldy, backpackers hostel. The 'temptation' to drink is still there. much more so when away from home in a faraway city. I went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting up there, my 'safety valve')
"Martin"
Sometimes I wish
I was more of a communicator
Perhaps I would have known you more
Now it's too late on that score.
They say only the good die young
In your case it was true.
That's the thing with death
It's only after your last breath
That I learn so much about you.
Who you were. What you did.
A young man who accepted himself
Training to be a journalist
And a great footballer too.
Everything I am not.
If there was any justice in this world
My time would be up without any fuss
And you wouldn't drop dead
On an east London floor
Stuck behind a bathroom door.
Is there such a thing
As heaven or hell
Only you will be able to tell
But I'm convinced there's no such place
And your death proves the case.
Rapists, nonces, drug dealers peddling gear
Walking and breathing without any fear
If it's really that mythical chap 'God'
Who has to pick and choose
Why not those with nothing to lose?
Ending a good life so premature
A loving 'God' should know the score
Putting evil trash in the ground
Not decent people totally sound.
If there's an afterlife, Martin
I wish you well
And hope that bastard 'God'
Rots in hell!
Dulwich Poet 15th June 2013
(On the morning of Saturday 1st June the 27 year old goalkeeper of the Queen's Park supporters team, collapsed & died in his hotel, down in London to play in the Leyton Orient supporters tournament. I didn't know him well, but he was always friendly on our own visits to Glasgow, to play them in 11-a-side games, and their own tournament)
I was more of a communicator
Perhaps I would have known you more
Now it's too late on that score.
They say only the good die young
In your case it was true.
That's the thing with death
It's only after your last breath
That I learn so much about you.
Who you were. What you did.
A young man who accepted himself
Training to be a journalist
And a great footballer too.
Everything I am not.
If there was any justice in this world
My time would be up without any fuss
And you wouldn't drop dead
On an east London floor
Stuck behind a bathroom door.
Is there such a thing
As heaven or hell
Only you will be able to tell
But I'm convinced there's no such place
And your death proves the case.
Rapists, nonces, drug dealers peddling gear
Walking and breathing without any fear
If it's really that mythical chap 'God'
Who has to pick and choose
Why not those with nothing to lose?
Ending a good life so premature
A loving 'God' should know the score
Putting evil trash in the ground
Not decent people totally sound.
If there's an afterlife, Martin
I wish you well
And hope that bastard 'God'
Rots in hell!
Dulwich Poet 15th June 2013
(On the morning of Saturday 1st June the 27 year old goalkeeper of the Queen's Park supporters team, collapsed & died in his hotel, down in London to play in the Leyton Orient supporters tournament. I didn't know him well, but he was always friendly on our own visits to Glasgow, to play them in 11-a-side games, and their own tournament)
Friday 7 June 2013
"Old Man Memories"
It's the men I remember
It seems a lifetime ago
And I suppose it is.
Childhood.
The sunday school teacher
Yes you were a preacher
But I loved your flavoured cubes of ice
Even though I didn't believe you when
You said you invented Tizer.
The big fat policeman ever so cruel
Clip round the ear if you weren't at school
Supposed to uphold law & order
But a bully so I was happy when you got stabbed.
Fearsome headmaster with cane up your sleeve
No matter what I said you wouldn't believe
I was so happy when you died
The only one in mass who pretended he cried.
Lazy milkman sat in his float
Hands stuck firmly in his white coat
I struggled with his full pints and crates of empties
For a slave labor pocket money pittance.
Grumpy bus driver on the 176
We'd scream & holler getting up to our tricks
Shouting, laughing, stamping our feet
As we drove his bus from over his head.
Gas Meter Man emptied the box under the sink
We wanted his money to buy a soft drink
He was never as rich as he should be
As downstairs meter was already with me.
Not enough money for a portion of chips
Man in the shop would give us the drips
Crackling and fat for just a penny
Before childhood obesity had been invented.
Then there was the man at football who'd give you two bob
If you'd let him do a secret job
His hand down your trousers having a feel
No Childline back then so not such a deal.
Then there was the man whose pockets I'd rob
He catch me & beat me making me sob
Black & blue bruises as I'd been bad
He was allowed to do that as he was my dad.
I've come to the conclusion my childhood was shit
If this is all I can remember from it
Calling this a poem is taking the piss
If I can't come up with better than this.
Goodnight children.
Dulwich Poet 6th June 2013
(I had this idea to write about men from my childhood, but really struggled with it, and gave up. This poem just didn't work for me at all...)
It seems a lifetime ago
And I suppose it is.
Childhood.
The sunday school teacher
Yes you were a preacher
But I loved your flavoured cubes of ice
Even though I didn't believe you when
You said you invented Tizer.
The big fat policeman ever so cruel
Clip round the ear if you weren't at school
Supposed to uphold law & order
But a bully so I was happy when you got stabbed.
Fearsome headmaster with cane up your sleeve
No matter what I said you wouldn't believe
I was so happy when you died
The only one in mass who pretended he cried.
Lazy milkman sat in his float
Hands stuck firmly in his white coat
I struggled with his full pints and crates of empties
For a slave labor pocket money pittance.
Grumpy bus driver on the 176
We'd scream & holler getting up to our tricks
Shouting, laughing, stamping our feet
As we drove his bus from over his head.
Gas Meter Man emptied the box under the sink
We wanted his money to buy a soft drink
He was never as rich as he should be
As downstairs meter was already with me.
Not enough money for a portion of chips
Man in the shop would give us the drips
Crackling and fat for just a penny
Before childhood obesity had been invented.
Then there was the man at football who'd give you two bob
If you'd let him do a secret job
His hand down your trousers having a feel
No Childline back then so not such a deal.
Then there was the man whose pockets I'd rob
He catch me & beat me making me sob
Black & blue bruises as I'd been bad
He was allowed to do that as he was my dad.
I've come to the conclusion my childhood was shit
If this is all I can remember from it
Calling this a poem is taking the piss
If I can't come up with better than this.
Goodnight children.
Dulwich Poet 6th June 2013
(I had this idea to write about men from my childhood, but really struggled with it, and gave up. This poem just didn't work for me at all...)
Thursday 6 June 2013
"By George!"
A medal for heroes
The women of Woolwich
Who crouched on the ground by
Slain Gunner Rigby.
An online petition
Asking help for heroes
Who lay down
Not their lives
But put them on the line
Without hesitation
Admiration of the nation.
Could you do that?
Not sure I'd be able to...
Which is why a local Reverend
Wants them honoured
With the George Medal.
Which is where I stopped taking
The piece in the Evening Standard seriously
And in my head
Started taking the piss.
Were they related?
Not the women
But the vicar-the Reverend
Van Der Valk
Cue: 'Der, der, der...
Der,der...der,der,der,der;
De der, de der....der,der!'
Seventies cop show
Imported from Amsterdam
My own gateway
To a Europe I was yet to discover
Drink, drugs...well, OK
Space cakes scoffed only in the Dam
Which made me a goalpost.
Dirty videos and wank booths
Same continent, different world!
A city that introduced me to...
Gay porn! Thank you Holland!
And the only time in my life
I visited a lady of the night.
Peer pressure, closet door still firmly shut
I only had one choice
Follow the sheep and climb the stairs
"Suckee, suckee" or "Fuckee, fuckee"
They say imagination
Is a wonderful thing
So I asked her to go down on her knees
And please wear...
My number ten shirt.
Not short of a trick
She charged me another ten guilders
For extras.
Cheeky bitch! But..
She was quite good
For a woman
As I shut my eyes
And thought of
Sorry, John Collins
Not your number ten
But Matt Norris!
Dulwich Poet 5th June 2013
(Well this didn't turn out as expected...I was going to write about the brave women in Woolwich, who went to the aid of the murdered British soldier, not thinking about their own safety, but when I saw the name of the local vicar the poem ended up about a quarter of a century ago in Amsterdam!)
The women of Woolwich
Who crouched on the ground by
Slain Gunner Rigby.
An online petition
Asking help for heroes
Who lay down
Not their lives
But put them on the line
Without hesitation
Admiration of the nation.
Could you do that?
Not sure I'd be able to...
Which is why a local Reverend
Wants them honoured
With the George Medal.
Which is where I stopped taking
The piece in the Evening Standard seriously
And in my head
Started taking the piss.
Were they related?
Not the women
But the vicar-the Reverend
Van Der Valk
Cue: 'Der, der, der...
Der,der...der,der,der,der;
De der, de der....der,der!'
Seventies cop show
Imported from Amsterdam
My own gateway
To a Europe I was yet to discover
Drink, drugs...well, OK
Space cakes scoffed only in the Dam
Which made me a goalpost.
Dirty videos and wank booths
Same continent, different world!
A city that introduced me to...
Gay porn! Thank you Holland!
And the only time in my life
I visited a lady of the night.
Peer pressure, closet door still firmly shut
I only had one choice
Follow the sheep and climb the stairs
"Suckee, suckee" or "Fuckee, fuckee"
They say imagination
Is a wonderful thing
So I asked her to go down on her knees
And please wear...
My number ten shirt.
Not short of a trick
She charged me another ten guilders
For extras.
Cheeky bitch! But..
She was quite good
For a woman
As I shut my eyes
And thought of
Sorry, John Collins
Not your number ten
But Matt Norris!
Dulwich Poet 5th June 2013
(Well this didn't turn out as expected...I was going to write about the brave women in Woolwich, who went to the aid of the murdered British soldier, not thinking about their own safety, but when I saw the name of the local vicar the poem ended up about a quarter of a century ago in Amsterdam!)
"Rugger Bugger"
If you opt for the quiet life
A self confessed fan of conformity
Be careful what top you buy
In the name of charity.
Stade Francais rugby shirt
Are somewhat loud
Make you stick out in a crowd
Famous for their colour scheme
And at four nicker it made me beam.
Couldn't knock it at that price
When it's that affordable
It's extra nice.
But people stop me in the street
Telling me it's really neat
Who'd have thought I'm Fashionista Boy
I'm more 'good grief' & trampish coy.
Such a price to pay for wearing
Parisian Pink & Blue
But at four quid what could I do?
Dulwich Poet 5th June 2013
(I was wearing a 'garish' pink and blue rugby top, from French club side Stade Francias, which I bought in a charity shop in Bermondsey for only £4. People keep on stopping me and commenting on it!)
A self confessed fan of conformity
Be careful what top you buy
In the name of charity.
Stade Francais rugby shirt
Are somewhat loud
Make you stick out in a crowd
Famous for their colour scheme
And at four nicker it made me beam.
Couldn't knock it at that price
When it's that affordable
It's extra nice.
But people stop me in the street
Telling me it's really neat
Who'd have thought I'm Fashionista Boy
I'm more 'good grief' & trampish coy.
Such a price to pay for wearing
Parisian Pink & Blue
But at four quid what could I do?
Dulwich Poet 5th June 2013
(I was wearing a 'garish' pink and blue rugby top, from French club side Stade Francias, which I bought in a charity shop in Bermondsey for only £4. People keep on stopping me and commenting on it!)
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