"Disrupted Train Of Thought"

Monday morning
Same old, same old.
Usual train to work
Give or take
Depending on wake up time
Surrey Docks in the middle
Canada Water front carriage.
Such is the variety
Doing the commute
South-East London style.
Standing room only
As per usual
But ‘nice’ spot
By the other door
Luxury, handrail spot
To grab hold of
Over bumps and harsh brakes.
There he is
The man I haven’t noticed
But he’s clocked me;
Tall, fancy headphones,
With a cool bald head
In a cool way that only
A black man’s shiny dome
Can be classed as cool.
Smart shirt, pin striped strides
And pristine polished shoes.
Here it comes…
Just after Forest Hill
“Excuse me, what school did you go to?”
I don’t remember him
But he does me.
I don’t like to ask
How I stick in the mind
Not sure I want to know
My schooldays were not
Entirely angelic
Certainly not normal.
Same old, same old.
He looks young
But just a year behind.
Clearly his life has not been
As hard as mine.
But I ask none of this
Not even his name
But he knows mine
After thirty years and more!
Have I been past there recently?
It’s changed
So much built on.
I must go and be nosey, I say.
Small talk.
He was in Rigby
And he remembers
I was a Jones House boy.
Time for conversation to end.
So much more I wanted to ask
But didn’t want to embarrass myself
What was I thinking of?
Talking to a stranger on the train?
Silence after Brockley
Left in my thoughts
Who on earth were you?
And how bad was I
For me to be in your head
Three decades later?
Some questions are best left
Unanswered.

 

Dulwich Poet 29^th July 2013

 

( On the train into work today a stranger recognised me from my secondary schooldays, over thirty years ago! )

"Harmonies"

Down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside,
Don't wanna learn about life no more.

Down by the riverbed,
Down by the riverbed...

All we are saying is give peace a chance...

Dulwich Poet 28th July 2013

(Wondering what it's like to end your life by jumping into the River Thames)

"Wondering"

I'm not H. A. P. P. Y.
I'm not H. A. P. P. Y.
I'm know I'm not
I'm sure I'm not
I'm not H. A. P. P. Y.

　
If only I had the courage
To find out if it hurts.

Dulwich Poet 28th July 2013

(Wondering what it's like to end your life.)

"Vroom!"

Boy racer
Calm down!
This is only
The triangle
By Crystal Palace Parade
Not Brands Hatch.
Life will pass you by
All too quick
Without you offering
A helping hand
With your foot
On the accelerator.
Trust me, son
Life is a car crash
Waiting to happen.

Dulwich Poet 28th July 2013

(A flash car sped past, as I was sat on a bench, at Crystal Palace, earlier this evening)

(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)

"Thoughtful words"

I was once told
By a very good friend
That my problem is
I think too much.
And in that I can see
Where she is coming from.
But on the other hand
If I did not think
As much as I do
I would not permanently
Have a notebook and pen
In one of the two compartments
In my backpack wherever I go
To jot down and preserve
My thoughts that I convert
Into poetry
Just for me
Not a wider readership.
Which is a bonus really
For when I have ended
My shit life
When I decide the moment
Is right
I won't be able to hear you all go
"I wish we'd read these first
And realised how he felt"
Which serves the purpose
Of this silent secret poetry blog!

Dulwich Poet 28th July 2013

( I find poetry theraputic, as well as enjoyable. This is a 'theraputic' one!)

"Stabbed In The Back" or "You Cunt Jack!"

I'd rather curl up and die
Than sell my soul
For a collar and tie.
Accused of brown nosing
The man at the top
Total absurdity
But how does it stop?
Then accused of peddling
The 'official' line
From a bloke who believes
Water turned into wine!
All I've ever done
Is care about my Club
But can a fan be an official
There is the rub.
I speak my mind
You might think I'm strong
But your dagger's dug deep
You are so wrong
Underneath I'm still
Vulnerable and weak.
Criticism I can take
I've got a broad back
But when YOU actually do nothing
That's what I can't hack.
In a fit of anger
I took the messagebaord down
To you it may look
I'm playing the clown.
Believe me when I say
I wasn't being rash
It was clearly thought through
To see who'd give it a bash.
Surprise, surprise
It wasn't those
Who had a pop at me
But others who know
The meaning of
Old fashioned loyalty.
I can see how people
Call it a day
Say 'fuck you all!'
And simply walk away.
I'm not quite at that stage yet
But it's getting closer, you can bet.
Not that far away when it's time to go
Had enough of feeling low
So someone hit me with another blow
Then we can all reap what we sow.
If you feel any remorse
And turn up at the back
You'll be told to leave
As he's finally at peace
And he's alright Jack!

Dulwich Poet 28th July 2013

(I serve on the Football Club committee, but also class myself as a supporter first and foremost, rather than a Club official. I am getting a bit of grief from one or two individuals, who seem to think I more with the boardroom than the fans. Total bullshit that hurts, even though I should ignore it. As it stands I am seriously considering what role I play at the Club, and as I feel at this moment in time, do not think I will stay on the committee for much longer. )

"Definition"

Just how wrong is it
To gawp at
Finely tuned athletes
Minus a leg
And all you're thinking is:
"Phwoar! He's fit!"

Dulwich Poet 28th July 2013

(I was at the Olympic Stadium earlier, for International Para Challenge athletics meeting, with many Paralympians taking part)

(I read this poem out at Walthamstow Library on Friday 16th August 2013)

'Literally Hard Core"

If we all did exactly
What it says on the tin
Well sleeve of the record
To be proper exact
And we kill, kill, killed the poor
I'd be as as dead as the Kennedys.
Just saying.

Dulwich Poet 28th July 2013

(A comment on the classic punk song 'Kill The Poor' by the 'Dead Kennedys.)

(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)

"Bible Stories"

Just the man to be
On your party guest list
That water into wine trick
Would go down a treat
When the off licence is shut.

Everyone loves you
And you love them.
Perfect cover for stalking people.
With hindsight you should not have
Just left the fat ugly birds
For that Pontius Pilate bloke
At the Damascus Disco
Because he will get his own back eventually.

Supper might be a little boring at times.
Oh no, not fishes and loaves again.
Slice the lot and cover in breadcrumbs
Everyone likes a good fish finger sandwich.

Unfortunately there's the unwanted attention.
That Mary Magdalene bitch
Imagine being stalked by a tart
Who's a prick tease?
No wonder you ended up
Batting for the other side
And surrounded yourself
With twelves blokes.

Still, at least you can trust your mates.
It's not a sin to be greedy
More human nature
If we're honest about it
But he wasn't was he?
If it wasn't for those bastard nails
You would have jumped down
And kicked shit out of that
Bastard Judas turncoat.

Can't complain too much though
They didn't expect you
To fake your own death did they?
And I reckon you only played dead
As it had been a baking
Hot day up on the cross
Whereas it was nice and cool
Down in the cave.

Herod hunted you as a boy
So you did well to live so long
Can't believe the silly old sod
Fell for the wicker basket routine.
But fair play to you
For conning him like that

Right old palava you had
With the money lenders
Down at the temple
You got the right hump
Turning the tables over
Reckon you were a bit of a
Bushwacker on the sly.
Shame your book was a bestseller
Gave bad ideas to the Wonga brigade.
But at least it means
You've got more principles
Than your average Geordie.
Were there any casinos
Down your way.
Not that it would have mattered.
Camera phones weren't invented
Back in your day.

In the end everyone
Got their revenge though
Well they thought they did
But didn't bank on your
Bloody magnificent, if I may say do
Reggie Perrin impression
On the cross.
Even though Leonard Rossiter
Is a great actor
He wasn't a patch
On your performance
Where you even made
David Blaine look an amateur.

Seems I'm not the only one
Who hasn't got faith in you
That Thomas bloke wasn't too keen either.
Can't blame him really
Some hippie bloke turns up
Scruffy smelly git as well
Doesn't even like dipping
Into the river for a wash
Makes it part away from him
With one of his magic tricks.
To be honest the jury's out with me
Can't decide if you're a
Tommy Cooper fraud
Or a kosher Paul Daniels.

Truth be told
I'm not a fan of yours
They say the lord works
In mysterious ways,well...
I've just thought of something
Which I've never ever thought of before,
A bit like you in the cave
I'm going to get my rocks off.
If I had been in the crowd
As you were banged up to the cross
I wouldn't have gone home
When the sun set.
There was nothing on telly
For nearly two thousand years anyway.
I'd have stayed the night
With that Magdeline woman.
As she tried to mop your brow
But was too scared to go further
I'd have shoved her out of the way
Undone the cloth covering your modesty
And have given you the blow job
That she hadn't the courage to do.
You might have been cross
But what could you have done
Nailed to one as you came
Much to her annoyance
Wondering why she hadn't
Acted like the harlot everyone thought
She was. She never swallowed
The Body of Christ.
Amen.

Dulwich Poet 26th July 2013

(I had no idea where this would go. The initial idea was to have a short poem, eleven lines, all starting with the individual letters in 'Jesus Christ'. I copied the idea from a poem called 'In the name of the Lord'; which was a 13 liner, by John Hegley; which was in his compilation ''Can I Come down Now Dad', published in 1991. But it didn't quite work like that, and the jumble above is what came out of my head!)

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

"Way Past Time"

Such a landmark
The Grove Tavern
Boarded up now
Steel shutters
Cover in out of date
Assorted gig posters
Garden overgrown.
Whatever happened to the sheep
That grazed in the garden?
We sat there with
Our glass of lemonade
And packet of salt & vinegar
Every summer as kids
A rare family outing up Coxes Walk
As we went blackberry picking
So mum could convert
Empty Bejam ice cream tubs
Into gallons of fruity jam
Which would nowadays
Be put in tiny little jars
Called organic & locally produced
To be sold to the North Cross Road
Poncy posh brigade.
Instead of her giving it away
Door to door
Landing by landing
On our council block of flats
As we were sick of the stuff long before
Our six weeks were up before school.
So we're talking a long time ago.
Talking of the Grove
We used to take our Mutti back there
When we had grown up
And it had turned into a Harvester
The height of sophistication
It even had a salad bar!
And the perfect place to
Show how you love
Your dear old mum
Once a year on Mothers Day.
This is how the masses
Did 'posh nosh'!
It was about then
That I probably realised
Where that four legged menagerie
Had got to!

Dulwich Poet 25th July 2013

(I jotted this down on the 176 bus home, I got the thought as we sat at the traffic lights at the junction of Lordship Lane & Dulwich Common, by the long boarded up Grove Tavern pub.)

"Rising"

I don't have letters after my name
A not an English teacher
Or put on garish patterned woolly jumpers.
Nor do I cycle, eat tofu
Or drink cappucino.
Neither do I wear intellectual spectacles
Or read 'The Guardian'
And if I did I would
Need a dictionary
To understand
What all the fancy
Four syllabled words mean.
Even when I drank
I was no real ale pisshead
And Morris Dancers are plain weird.
I take comfort from the fact
I don't 'tick' any stereotypical boxes
That mark me out as a poet.
But yes, I am
Working class
Unlike a million and
One middles class types
Who call themselves poets
As a badge of poncy honour
Even if their stuff
Is miles more confusing
And up their own arse
Than all of mine put together.
I have to ask...
Are there any
Working class poets
As I'm told
Again, and again and again
Erm, there's Tim Wells, yes
Tim Wells. Um yes,
Tim Wells is good.
So it looks like you and me, pal
Even though we've never met.
But fear not
We're 'Rising'.
By the way
In case anyone is wondering
About my own credentials
I grew up on council estates
I work for the Council in a library
In the middle of Bermondsey
I support Dulwich Hamlet Football Club
I'm always skint and in debt
And I'm a working class poet in my spare time.

Dulwich Mishi 25th July 2013

( As I've mentioned before, I enjoy writing & reading poetry, but it is diffilcult to find a 'general genre' of 'working class poetry'. When I ask various poetry people. library staff, other poets, poetry websites, they all mention Tim Wells, but then struggle to list anyone else, but insist that "there's lots out there"... He edits a poetry zine called 'Rising' which has excellent poems in it, with a working class emphasis, I hasten to add none of mine in that class, I am comparing myself to him as a joke! )

(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)

" Am I?"

"We won the League
At Champion Hill;
We won the League
At Champion Hill!
We won the League
At the Dulwich;
WE WON THE LEAGUE
AT CHAMPION HILL!"
'The Only Way Is Up'
24 small chapters
17 contributors
Dulwich Hamlet
Ryman League
Division One South
Champions 2013/14
Now read the book!
I only mention it
Because...
Three articles were mine
And, and, and...
One -the only-
POEM in the book!
It's strange
I still feel the same
As I did
On Monday
The day before
It went on sale.
But..now look at me
Hail!
I am a published poet!
Happy but gutted
Totally overshadowed by
The madness of Prince George.

Dulwich Mishi 25th July 2013

( A somewhat 'tongue in cheek' piece about me having a poem in a book, published by Dulwich Hamlet supporter Stephen Desmond, to celebrate our title winning season, which went on sale the day after the royal baby was born)

"Decisions, Decisions"

As old Bruce Forsythe would say
"Good game, good game"
Of which I have no complaints
But which one?
East End muttoned glamour
Or home where the heart is?
I chose the much more low key
Training ground get in for free
Than the one in my plans.
I had Brisbane Road as my destination
New York Cosmos on vacation
'Little' Leyton Orient v. such a great name
Though a re-formed shadow
From the height of their fame
No greats like Der Kaiser
Or a chap called Pele
Cosmos mark two
Aren't wall to wall telly.
But I'm still sad enough
To go over the river
Just seeing the great name
Gives me a shiver
An iconic outfit in London town
How can I turn the opportunity down?
Well I was at Champion Hill in the bar
Chilling in the glow of a homecoming Carr
When I told we're playing Guildford City
Gonna miss the Yanks more's the pity.
Our match is at the training pitch
But still my team, life's a bitch
Who would have cared
Which game I saw?
A friendly's a friendly
They're traditionally poor
Nobody would have noticed
If I'd missed the Dulwich game
Hardly anyone else there
To point a finger of blame.
But I'd have known myself
That I was a fraud
If I'd gone to the O's
Of my own accord.
Dulwich Hamlet are in my heart
And I just can't bear being apart.

Dulwich Poet 25th July 2013

(On Tuesday Dulwich Hamlet beat a Huddersfield Town XI 2-1; part of the deal that took our young striker Danny Carr there, in the summer. I was planning to go to Leyton Orient v. New York Cosmos, last night, due to the famous name of the visitors. But I then heard we had a Club XI friendly against Guildford City, at our training venue. Dillema...I chose our match, which we drew 1-1)

"No Talking At The Back"

How times change
Gone is the embarrassed
Tube shoe shuffle
Desperately trying to avoid
The commuting cardinal sin
Of-no,not getting too close
As a light fondle is part of the game
Taking care not to grope-
It's not the done thing to stare
Into their eyes directly!
Peeking down cleavage is fine
As is imagining how
That bulge below the belt
Would expand in your hand.
Think dirty, but never body
Language or worse still real
Language! No talking!
Then they would stare
With that saucer size eyed look
As you would expect committing
The commuting faux-pas
Of opening your mouth wide
Not to yawn...but to chat!
Perish the thought...
Conversation with a stranger
On the London Underground!
Are you trying to kill off
Rush Hour Crush in the Metro?
Distract yourself, if not a  paper
Modern fancy gadgetry can help.
An 'Apple' was something
That kept the doctor away
'Blackberry' was jam you put
On your toast for breakfast.
Now they are electronic
Invisibility cloaks that shield you
On the way to work.
Speaking is for unsuspecting
German tourists
Who ask for Lye-Ces-Tar Square.
It might be seventy years on
But the Northern Line
Is not the place
To mention the War
Don't they realise
That down on the tube
Careless talk costs lives?

Dulwich Poet 22nd July 2013

( I wasn't sure where this poem was going, to be honest. I started scribbling it on a packed train to work, when two other passengers started talking, the bond being the woman sitting down with her had her dog with her, so the animal was the reason to talk, not two strangers being friendly on a train)

" No Plant Pot Glory"

Truth be told
I couldn't care less
About the game.
Though it would have been nice
To have won.
If you're one of the armchair brigade
Who looks down on the Emirates Cup
I don't even want to imagine
The pity you will pour on me
For cheering on Dulwich Hamlet
In the Geoff Harvey Memorial Vase Final
Against Kingstonian
At the footballing mecca
Of the south-west London suburbs
That is Corinthian-Casuals
In downtown Tolworth.
Thankfully we wilted in the heat
And lost four one
Allowing the not really that Special K's
To go home
Via the petrol station.
It's a Sunday don't forget
Where else are you going to get
A droopy bunch of flowers
To put in your prize?

Dulwich Poet 21st July 2013

( Dulwich Hamlet 1, Kingstonian 4; in the final of the Corinthian-Casuals four team pre-season tournament. We fielded a different side each day, the manager getting another look at all his players, to prepare for the new season, was-ultimately-far more important than the poor result)

"Time Travel"

Can anyone explain
How they can turn
London Bridge Station
Into a permanent building site
Spending millions of pounds
To modernise the place
So we can spend millions of pounds
Paying it back
On their new fancy concourse
To keep up with the Shard
As we fume silently
Still upper lip and all that
As we wait for our delayed trains
Which they blame on us anyway
Due to some passenger or other
Falling ill on a preceeding train
Probably fainting at the latest
Mega-unfair fare rise.
But despite coining in it
You cannot work out how
To change the time
On the digital clock
At the bottom of the escalators
Going down the tube?
On the plus side...at least
It will be accurate again
At the end of October
When the clocks go back
So you're only fuckwits
For half the year.

Dulwich Poet 21st July 2013

( At you go down the escalators on the concourse at london Bridge, heading to the Underground there's a digital clock hanging from the ceiling, where they never change the time when the clocks go back or forward)

"Turn It Off"

Would you believe me
If I told you
Hand on heart
Me and television
Have drifted apart?
I haven't watched the box
Since the end of last year
In old fashioned parlance
Does that make me queer?
It began over christmas time
A time I hate, being alone is fine
Watching back to back DVD's
Doing exactly as I please.
Just couldn't be bothered
To change scart leads behind
Without even realising
Wasn't bored out of my mind.
Papers and radio for the news
All you need to formulate views.
There's nothing to stop me
Tuning into the beeb again
But it will have to be a darn sight
Better than your Dragon's Den.
The only pity is
I don't save the licence fee
As I never paid it
Telly was free.

Dulwich Poet 21st July 2013

( I genuinely haven't watched any telly programmes at home since christmas. Too fiddly to squeeze behind the telly changing the scart leads, and re-connecting the digi-box for the signal, so I just keep it set, and only watch DVDs & videos)

"Premature Destination"

I realise it's a Saturday
But this is still unusual.
Plenty of flesh on show
Some in the wrong places with
An assortment of Jesus creeper sandals.
More summer shorts
But not enough
I still have
Far too much choice
Than I am accustomed to.
Seating wise.
Here, there in all four carriages.
So an easy ride
Home to Sydenham.
Rather than going the other way
Where the Overground
Stops short and hits
Imaginary buffers
At Shadwell.
Today's end of the line
Which explains why
There is nobody giving
Me vacant looks in
The vacant seats opposite.
Shadwell is just a name
Not a proper destination
Making it impossible
To depart
And jump on board.
Shoreditch it ain't!

Dulwich Poet 20th July 2013

(The train home from work today was quieter than usual, due to engineering works, with a replacement bus service past Shadwell)

"Overheating"

I owe you no loyalty
But with personal pride
Comes responsibility
Hence the reason
I am half collapsed
In an air conditioned
Overground train
Heading toward Canada Water
No pain, no gain
Bounding two steps at a time
Up and over the bridge
To ensure I'm ready and waiting
As the doors open at nine
For a cardigan clad granny
Resplendent in her winter coat
At the height of the heat
Dotty old dear
Fresh bread already purchased
From the nearby baker
By the ancient mover and shaker
But only because of
The onset of Parkinsons.
Or whatever disease old people get.
But she is not the present yet.
I am still on my way
Recovering on my bright
Overground orange pew
My chest rises rapidly
Control my breathing
And failing miserably
I hasten to add.
Book held across my chest
In a vain attempt to disguise
How totally out of shape I am
Distracting myself by
Not gawping at the
Gorgeous Eastern European boy
Sat opposite.
Way out of my league.
But aren't they all?
Cue more heavy breathing.

Dulwich Poet 20th July 2013

( I dashed for the train to work this morning, so I wouldn't be late. As it was a Saturday the train wasn't packed like sardines, as it is on a weekday.)

"Royal Baby Joy"

What a modern world

Imagine born to be king

Or even first born queen

Which remains to be seen

Hereditary male no longer applies

Whatever the royal stork brings

From up in the skies.

So twenty first century modern

Next in line to the throne

Could actually be, wait for it,  a girl!

Oh so modern, give it a whirl.

Meanwhile…back in the real world

There’s not enough jobs for you to find work

Treated like a leper as you shirk

Victorian workhouses a thing of the past

But reliant on foodbanks you’re forced to fast

Cap in hand for your beans on toast

Only in your dreams is there a Sunday roast.

In human decency we are lacking

When bread and beans the poor are blagging.

It all stems from right to buy

Gone is a council house until you die

Contrary to their myth

We don’t all want to own

Struggling for life

With a mortgage millstone

Slave like existence

Worked to the bone

And now you can’t even stay

Where you are

Thanks to some faceless

Bedroom tax tsar

One shoebox too many

Less benefits today

Unless you bugger off

And move away.

Ethnic cleansing by another name

The end result is still the same

Proud working class people

Forced to give up hope

Only way out…

Is a length of rope.

Out of sight, out of mind

Bedroom tax won’t touch their kind.

Let’s get some cheap plonk to celebrate

There’s a silver spooned royal brat

On the way for Wills and Kate!

Dulwich Poet 19^th July 2013

(There’s a Royal baby, a new heir to the throne, due any day. Much speculation in the media that the parents want the child to be brought up like ordinary people. Meanwhile poor people are actually committing suicide due to the cuts put in place by the Conservative/Liberal Democrat coalition  government. )

"Stick To The rules"

I’m going to be brief

And to the point.

The more poetry I devour

The more I learn

That the only rule

You need to know

About writing poetry

Is that there are

NO RULES!

Which is cool by me.

I’ve just learnt

Something else too.

A middle aged man

Forty six; going on

Forty seven

Shouldn’t really

Be using words like cool.

I’ll put it down to the heat.

Dulwich Poet 19^th July 2013

( I hadn’t written anything for a few days, maybe it’s because we’re slap bang in the middle of a rare heatwave? I jotted this down on the train into work. Sometimes it’s needs something as simple as this to get the mind ticking over. Not so much the message of the poem that’s important, or the quality. Just something that helps you pick up a pen and scribbling anything…)

"Squeaky Clean"

Even in sobriety
Living in a hoarders paradise
Euphemism for my shithole
My flat is not my home
Refuge or Englishman's castle
Merely somewhere I sleep at night
If I can in this heat.
I have just read a poem
About poisoning rats
Under floorboards
and the stench rising.
A bit too close to home
Reminding me of
My own mice
A few years past.
No gas for them
Just good old fashioned
Wood and metal mousetrap
For less than ten bob a kill
Courtesy of Plough Homecraft.
"Can I help you, Sir?"
"Yes mate. Got a problem with mice"
"Would one like the most humane..."
"Just want the fuckers dead, to be honest"
Manners maketh the man.
"Sorry, we gotta ask,
You know what it's like round here..."
I had no problem being a murderer.
Not so much the aftermath.
Discovering skin and bone
Under a shelf or two
Where one or two went
To crawl and die
The clever ones who
Were not fooled by the traps
And tucked in to the trays of poison
For their victory meal.
The greedy bastards
Were no so clever after all!

Dulwich Poet 16th July 2013

( I read a poem called 'Left Behind', about a rat under the floorbards, by Alan Hardy, in the book 'I Went With Her'; published in 2007. I recently borrowed it to read from the Poetry Library. It reminded me of what a mess my own flat it, and how bad it was, when I had a problem with mice, in the past. )

"Hull and Hell"

It seems such a long time ago
That because it was.
A lifetime ago
Many of our younger fans
Were not even born!
I doubt if they
Would even know
Where Hitchin Town's
Top Field was
Nor do they care
Even though they are aware
It was Johnny Egan who
Put the ball in their net.
Twenty one years since
Our previous promotion
All that time spreading the notion
That we went up in style
And I wore a big smile.
Truth is...
I was too pissed to really recall.
I want the half memories
To fade away.
Trying not to be reminded
Of my hazy drunken day.
From Hitchin to Hull
Out of my skull
For the Streatham girls
Ice hockey team
Whole weekend nightmare
Rather than a dream.
Pints and tins before the game.
Then dashing oop north
For more of the same.
Add some vodka
And a bottle of shampoo
That's what I thought
You had to do.
On 'automatic pilot'
In a strange northern town
Lucky not to get battered
Drunk Cockney clown.
Last bell rung, out of my face
Time to get back to our posh hotel place.
A ' little nightcap' with the wedding group
I was the comedy fly falling in the soup
Crashing out in a tray of grub
I should have given up after the pub
But an alcoholic can never stop
Not until the eyelids drop.
Got dumped in my room left for dead
In the morning got called 'vol-au-vent' head.
All surprised to see me awake
I need a drink, so a piece of cake.
Get to the rink, first at the bar
Not got the shakes, but need a top up jar.
Way back then the pubs shut at three
Wasn't going to let that stop me.
Walking round Hull, no boozers in sight
Need an offie open, day and night.
Found a shop that broke the law
I got some tins for my 'score'
Desperate for my alcohol fix
Had to walk miles to make me tick.
A few of my friends
Had gone strolling too
Just until the coach home came
For something to do.
They went to look at
Hull City's ground
The jammy bastards
A Sunday cup final was found.
I never got to Boothferry Park
Before it was knocked down
And I had lost my alkie crown
One of many things I will regret
But I'm a decade sober now
I can't really fret.
Dulwich Poet 14th July 2013

( With Dulwich Hamlet having won the title last season, I got thinking about our previous promotion, in third spot, 21 years ago. That was when I was a heavy drinker, and had not accepted I was an alcoholic. One of our (now ex) fans played ice hockey for Streatham, and they were in the British Womens Ice Hockey Championships, up in Hull, so she missed our promotion game. A few of us went to Hull, after promotion at Hitchin, and saw her play on the second day of the competition. I had no idea where this poem was going, when I began to write it. It's about the weekend, and my regret at wanting more drink, rather than going to the old Hull City ground at Boothferry Park, where my mates found a game being played there.)

"Train of Thought"

What a delight
Just to park
Your bum and ride
On a South-West Train
On rare Sundays like this
When Cornettos melt
And drip onto the platform
Before you've reached
The crunchy bit
That's how hot it is.
All aboard!
Transported into a
Different world.
Nobody at work today
The off-duty hoardes
Are still guarding
Their precious square yard
Of burning sand at the seaside
We shall fight them on the beaches.
Meanwhile, I can stroll
Down air conditioned carriages
Glancing at cooling
Sweaty but no longer perspiring
T-shirt wearing men
As I head down
To the front of the train.
Lots of skimpily clad
Women too.
I cannot tell if they
Have clocked me
Eyeing up their fellas
As their poker player eyes
Give nothing away
Behind their shady specs.
Time to sit and dream
Ice cold air awakening
My overheated dirty mind
As I drift off
Into my make believe
Lonely fantasy world.
Time to get off...
All thoughts dampened down
Time to melt away
Fantasy overcooked
Back on the slow burner
My thoughts are frazzled
Not just now...
But for life.
Here is Waterloo Station.
All change!
As things stay the same.

Dulwich Poet 14th July 2013

( I got on a train today, for a short journey from Wimbledon to Waterloo. The train was not crowded, South-West Trains have very good air conditioning, and my mind wandered to other passengers, on a baking hot day)

"Vocab Rehab"

It’s all words

Mumbo jumbo
Not meaningful or deep
As repetitive as a field of sheep.
Throw a few dozen words
Up in the air
See how they land
Welcome to the world
Of my poetry bland.
Possibly, if I could
Start from scratch
Recincarnation without
My current life first
I could have more of a
Vocabulary burst
If  I were born again
A ‘Me’ mark II
Pronouncing my aitches and tees
From a posh middle class household
Where pater paid school fees.
Could I express myself more
Than I have ever done
If I’d grown up with the Telegraph & Times
Rather than tits in The Sun?
But on reflection
I don’t have to baffle
I got a working class ticket
In life’s raffle.
Time to break down this poetry mystique
There is no shame in being a freak.
My words are simple and concise
For me that’s enough to suffice.
With my stuff you know what you’ve read
No frown or confusion like those well bred.
Award winning poetry
Looks like you’ve lost the plot
I’ll write what I can
With the words that I’ve got.
At last I enjoy poetry
I have no shame
Something for the masses
To stand up and claim
If I can be poet so can you
It really is so simple to do.
When you’re pissed in a boozer
Or filling your belly in a caff
Telling a story or half true tale
To pass the time while drinking ale
Just jot it down like one does
And you got all you need nailed
Power to the people
Power to the pen
Time for working class writing
To rise again!

Dulwich Poet 12^th July 2013

( I wrote this to sort accept I like poetry, and not to worry that my stuff isn’t too fancy, or full of big words that  I don’t know the meaning of. Poetry should be simple, for everyone to write and enjoy. Not to be scared of!)

"Inspiring"

Sometimes you can write something
Look at it
Type it up.
Then the realisation
Slowly but sweetly
Rolls over you
Similar to a wave
Braking gradually
Over the pebbles
Under Brighton Pier
Just me nobody else.
It's my own voice
I can silently hear
Reassuring inside my head
Knowing I can put the poem to bed.
Secretly being a little proud
But not wanting to shout it out loud
Just a little Facebook sharing
With on mouse click
Wary of being thought of
A big headed prick.
The End.
Except...
For the time when
Someone else
Picked up their pen
Having read my attempt a prose
Inspired enough to
Have their own goes.
All I can say to you, Grant
Is bloody well played
You've put my attempt in the shade!
As you can see...

"English beach, not California;
Broadstairs
With sticks of rock,
Charles Dickens Bleak House,
Fish and chips et al.
Way over yonder,
No Pamela Anderson or Knight Rider in sight.
As for English beaches,
Think donkey rides
Pebbles and stones
kids building sand castles with cheap dollar shop buckets
Imported from Chinese sweat shops.
Piers (not Morgan, wanker!) with shitty sub par dangerous fairground rides
They wouldn't pass Magic mountain safety inspection
Populated mostly by old people who do't go on the rides
Who walk around in the summer wearing their whole winter attire
Whilst drinking copious pots of tea in very quaint English tea shops
Only in this land."

Oh dear...I'll get my coat!

Dulwich Poet 10th July 2013

(A little while ago I wrote a poem, this one, & posted it, under my real name on Facebook. A friend of mine wrote a response, by doing his own one, also on the seaside. he said it was his first poem since he left school in 1999, and he composed it by breaking down messages he had sent on Facebook. ).

"Streaker Boy"

A lifetime ago
But I can still picture
Crystal clear
As if you were still here
Right next to me
Not Michaelangelo's David
But Don Bosco's Kelvin
Who was a fellow Salesian boy,
Except I never felt like one
More marooned in SW eleven
Not a Battersea schoolboy of choice
Another mistake, Mutti
One among many
As always not listening to my voice.
I know you did love me
It's just that I was fourth
In your pecking order
Out of a shortlist of four.
I knew my place
Yours was a love
That dare not speak it's name
As was mine for Kelvin
My first schoolboy crush.
It was you I dreamed of at night
Blonde hair and melt my heart smile
As you ran naked
Down the corridor
At the Latchmere Baths
As cheeky and naughty
As a boy not yet born
Bart Simpson.
Where are you now Kelvin?
Married? Two point two kids?
Or hit the skids?
Washed up? No life?
And no looks...
Just like me now too.
Frozen in time
You will always be in my head
The boy from nineteen eighty
Even if you're actually dead.
Forever a boy
On the cusp of maturity
Maturing into a beautiful young man
Who I never knew.
My one regret at leaving
Salesian College behind
Is only seeing you in my mind.
One thing for sure
You will have forgotten me
Not even able to recall my name.
But don't worry
That's not a problem.
For I am content just to be able
To remember yours
Kelvin Picton
Of two beta
My streaker boy.

Dulwich Poet 10th July 2013

(Memories of a boy at secondary school, who loved to streak down the changing rooms corridor, after swimming lessons at the local pool. It wasn't the school I wanted to go to, but my older brother went there, so was made to, too. I was the only one from my primary school to go there.)

"Books for Chaps"

So tell me
What are you?
Surely a book
Is a book
Is a book?
But not you.
You are a special book.
For chaps.
But what type of chap are you for?
The ones who are rather posh
Who go 'Jolly good old bean'
And ask me to 'be a good chap'.
Or perhaps a bit more
Rough and ready.
The sort of chap
Who wears Burberry
Goes to football
And says: 'Do you want some?'
So come on
What sort of chap
Are you?
Me?
I'm just a poet.
Not a chap.

Dulwich Poet 10th July 2013

(Reading poetry books and magazines, a number of poets list their previous books, and something else called a 'chapbook', which it turns out, after I've looked it up, is not a book at all, but a pamphlet. )

(I read this poem out at Walthamstow Library on Friday 16th August 2013)