Don't think I haven't noticed those empty chairs
After you've scuttled up the stairs
You get here early enough to be in part one
But choose not to return when your bit's done.
Would you leave the cinema halfway through?
Disappearing after going to the loo?
Pretending to need a quick piss
Have you really something
More important than this?
If it's half-time at football
Would you do the same?
Have you really got
No fucking shame?
Call me old fashioned
But it's damned rude
Only 'Poetry Unplugged' etiquette
Prevents me being
More personal and rude!
If you're leaving at the interval
Can you go on first
So we can heckle, boo
And do our worst.
What makes you so special
To go before we've read
There's some great stuff
Featuring up ahead.
Maybe you just like
The sound of your own voice
Well such snobby ignorance
Is your choice.
Just get up and go now
Before I get the hump
If you've got the bottle
As you'll get a clump!
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2013
(I've been to a few open mic nights called 'Poetry Unplugged', at the Poetry Cafe, in Covent Garden. The compere always moans about people who read and don't stay for the second half. This is for them)
Monday 21 October 2013
"By The Museum"
Here I am
By the Horniman
Not horny anymore
All down to a chance meeting
After the final score.
I bumped into him in the station queue
Waiting to let the Q.P.R. through
Once a young boy now
Almost at his half century
He drunkenly whispered in my ear
Knowing I liked things queer
"Do you still like a bit of fun?"
Which is how
I'm sitting here now
On a bench by the road
Having shot my load
With an overweight
Millwall fan
Naked on his double bed
After he had given me head
Watching tits and fanny on the box
All the while playing with our cocks!
I'll be back for more
A bit of fun
That's all it is
When said and done.
The very least for old times sake
For when I was thirteen
And he was two years older
Andy was very much bolder.
He was the first ever boy
Who grabbed my dick
Making me realise
Liking boys wasn't sick.
So although today wasn't much to savour
It was still nice to return the favour.
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2013
(I was working last Saturday, and went to South Bermondsey station, to meet friends in East Dulwich. Millwall had been at home to Queens Park Rangers, and the station was shut, to clear the away fans first. A bloke I know, who I've not bumped into for years, and who was the first boy I ever had gay sex fun with when I was at school, saw me...and I popped over to his flat earlier today. I wrote this while waiting for a bus outside the Horniman Museum, in Forest Hill)
By the Horniman
Not horny anymore
All down to a chance meeting
After the final score.
I bumped into him in the station queue
Waiting to let the Q.P.R. through
Once a young boy now
Almost at his half century
He drunkenly whispered in my ear
Knowing I liked things queer
"Do you still like a bit of fun?"
Which is how
I'm sitting here now
On a bench by the road
Having shot my load
With an overweight
Millwall fan
Naked on his double bed
After he had given me head
Watching tits and fanny on the box
All the while playing with our cocks!
I'll be back for more
A bit of fun
That's all it is
When said and done.
The very least for old times sake
For when I was thirteen
And he was two years older
Andy was very much bolder.
He was the first ever boy
Who grabbed my dick
Making me realise
Liking boys wasn't sick.
So although today wasn't much to savour
It was still nice to return the favour.
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2013
(I was working last Saturday, and went to South Bermondsey station, to meet friends in East Dulwich. Millwall had been at home to Queens Park Rangers, and the station was shut, to clear the away fans first. A bloke I know, who I've not bumped into for years, and who was the first boy I ever had gay sex fun with when I was at school, saw me...and I popped over to his flat earlier today. I wrote this while waiting for a bus outside the Horniman Museum, in Forest Hill)
Friday 18 October 2013
"Labels"
I write
I share
Without a care.
Not quite true.
I choose
What I perceive
are my 'good ones'.
All said and done
We all crave praise
And it's nice
Albeit a somewhat
Alien feeling
To be told
That your poem
Was quite good.
Even so...
I'm not so sure
How much of a compliment it is
To be told by a mate
That I'm like
An 'urban Pam Ayres'!
I think I'll stick to
Calling myself a
Working class poet!
Dulwich Poet 18th October 2013
(A mate at football told me he doesn't really read poetry, but doesn't mind reading some of my stuff that I share on Facebook. Not too keen on his description of me though!)
I share
Without a care.
Not quite true.
I choose
What I perceive
are my 'good ones'.
All said and done
We all crave praise
And it's nice
Albeit a somewhat
Alien feeling
To be told
That your poem
Was quite good.
Even so...
I'm not so sure
How much of a compliment it is
To be told by a mate
That I'm like
An 'urban Pam Ayres'!
I think I'll stick to
Calling myself a
Working class poet!
Dulwich Poet 18th October 2013
(A mate at football told me he doesn't really read poetry, but doesn't mind reading some of my stuff that I share on Facebook. Not too keen on his description of me though!)
Wednesday 16 October 2013
"Bit Of A Blow"
You really shouldn't
Be judgemental.
Me-least of all!
I'm not going to find khazi love
Not when a push comes to a shove.
Any blow jobs I can find
Pretence of beauty left behind
Short or fat, grey or old
There's not much that leaves me cold.
If it's a struggle all done and said
I think of someone else in my head...
"Oh....me and Billy Crook together,...
Me and Billy Crook together
Me and Billy Crook togeth..ah
Ah, ah, AHHHH!"
Ah...that's the worst thing about what I do
Fantasies in my head never come true!
Dulwich Poet 16th October 2013
(Thinking about someone else, like a footballer (!), when getting a blow job from a stranger in a toilet)
Be judgemental.
Me-least of all!
I'm not going to find khazi love
Not when a push comes to a shove.
Any blow jobs I can find
Pretence of beauty left behind
Short or fat, grey or old
There's not much that leaves me cold.
If it's a struggle all done and said
I think of someone else in my head...
"Oh....me and Billy Crook together,...
Me and Billy Crook together
Me and Billy Crook togeth..ah
Ah, ah, AHHHH!"
Ah...that's the worst thing about what I do
Fantasies in my head never come true!
Dulwich Poet 16th October 2013
(Thinking about someone else, like a footballer (!), when getting a blow job from a stranger in a toilet)
"Not Caring"
Gazing out of the window
Late for work.
Minding my own business
Pondering.
You! In my face
Staring
From the bus stop
Through the glass
And right through me
Seeking out space
You not realising
That in my head
I am gloating
From the comfort
Of MY seat
That I should
Give up for
Disabled people.
Which you don't
Qualify for.
The sign informs me
That these ARE
Priority seats
For which I more
Than I qualify as
I don't want to stand.
I do not smile
But am grinning inside
As I say to myself
And to you
Telepathically
"Off you go.
Upstairs you mug!"
Got to get up now.
Here's my stop.
Another day,
Another dollar.
Dulwich Poet 15th October 2013
(I made this up after a man getting on my bus to work squashed his face up against my window, to see how much space there was o the bus)
Late for work.
Minding my own business
Pondering.
You! In my face
Staring
From the bus stop
Through the glass
And right through me
Seeking out space
You not realising
That in my head
I am gloating
From the comfort
Of MY seat
That I should
Give up for
Disabled people.
Which you don't
Qualify for.
The sign informs me
That these ARE
Priority seats
For which I more
Than I qualify as
I don't want to stand.
I do not smile
But am grinning inside
As I say to myself
And to you
Telepathically
"Off you go.
Upstairs you mug!"
Got to get up now.
Here's my stop.
Another day,
Another dollar.
Dulwich Poet 15th October 2013
(I made this up after a man getting on my bus to work squashed his face up against my window, to see how much space there was o the bus)
Tuesday 15 October 2013
"Dear Richard's Uncle"
I don't think
I'd have liked
Your uncle
If what you said
Is true:
" Richard. Never trust anyone with missing teeth.Because
if they can't be trusted with their 'own teeth'
what can you trust them with? And never employ
fat people they don't do anything
that's why they're fat "
Well with all due respect
Which is what people
Say to people
Like your uncle
When they mean
Nothing of the sort.
I'm one of those fat blokes
With missing teeth to boot.
I sincerely hope, uncle
You're not a bit
On the lardy side too
Because if I ever
Catch up with you
You will end up
Getting a slap
That will result
In you fulfilling
The other part
Of the criteria
That you so despise.
Dulwich Poet 15th October 2013
( This is my 'response' to a poem called 'Dear Richard', by Richard Tyrone Jones, which is about 'advice' from his uncle; which was published in the book "Germline". I borrowed it from the Poetry Library)
I'd have liked
Your uncle
If what you said
Is true:
" Richard. Never trust anyone with missing teeth.Because
if they can't be trusted with their 'own teeth'
what can you trust them with? And never employ
fat people they don't do anything
that's why they're fat "
Well with all due respect
Which is what people
Say to people
Like your uncle
When they mean
Nothing of the sort.
I'm one of those fat blokes
With missing teeth to boot.
I sincerely hope, uncle
You're not a bit
On the lardy side too
Because if I ever
Catch up with you
You will end up
Getting a slap
That will result
In you fulfilling
The other part
Of the criteria
That you so despise.
Dulwich Poet 15th October 2013
( This is my 'response' to a poem called 'Dear Richard', by Richard Tyrone Jones, which is about 'advice' from his uncle; which was published in the book "Germline". I borrowed it from the Poetry Library)
"Morning Squash"
Why are so many poems
About the usual
Same old, same old?
Life, death
Depression and such angst
Is what I mused
While part of
The commuter crush
Waiting as per usual
For the daily dose
Of delayed train
On the platform
At Sydenham station
As I leant on
The side of the shelter
Whiling away the time
Reading poetry
As a tiny fly
Landed on the page
Which I turned over
Without hint of rage
And splat!
It became part
Of poetic art
In an instant.
So different to what we write
Wrestling our thoughts
Attempting intellectual fight
If only life and death
Were that simple.
Dulwich Poet 15th October 2013
( Just reading poems on the way to work...and this is what pops up in my head!)
About the usual
Same old, same old?
Life, death
Depression and such angst
Is what I mused
While part of
The commuter crush
Waiting as per usual
For the daily dose
Of delayed train
On the platform
At Sydenham station
As I leant on
The side of the shelter
Whiling away the time
Reading poetry
As a tiny fly
Landed on the page
Which I turned over
Without hint of rage
And splat!
It became part
Of poetic art
In an instant.
So different to what we write
Wrestling our thoughts
Attempting intellectual fight
If only life and death
Were that simple.
Dulwich Poet 15th October 2013
( Just reading poems on the way to work...and this is what pops up in my head!)
Monday 14 October 2013
"Mythical Magic"
If you speak to
A non-league fan
He’ll tell you
There’s no such thing
(Even after you get knocked out of the FA Cup you wonder ‘what might have been’. Hemel have been drawn at home to Sutton United.)
A non-league fan
He’ll tell you
There’s no such thing
As the ‘Magic of the Cup’.
For Shoreham
It’s a nice day out
Up to London
To take on The Hamlet.
For us? A Cup run?
From Dulwich?
You’re ‘aving a bubble!
Cliché corner
It’s the hope I can’t stand
Third qualifying round
Tantalisingly close
A million miles away
In reality
But near enough
To grasp out at
Touch, breathe
Allow yourself to
Live the dream.
Is it any consolation
To have witnessed
The goal of the season
From the boot of our
Little footballing god Erhan?
The simple answer is
A big fat giant huge
Resounding NO!
As I scour the internet
In my lunch break
Seeing who
Hemel Hempstead Town have drawn
In the fourth and final
Qualifying round
Just to check
Who we should have
Been playing.
Dulwich Poet 14th October 2013For Shoreham
It’s a nice day out
Up to London
To take on The Hamlet.
For us? A Cup run?
From Dulwich?
You’re ‘aving a bubble!
Cliché corner
It’s the hope I can’t stand
Third qualifying round
Tantalisingly close
A million miles away
In reality
But near enough
To grasp out at
Touch, breathe
Allow yourself to
Live the dream.
Is it any consolation
To have witnessed
The goal of the season
From the boot of our
Little footballing god Erhan?
The simple answer is
A big fat giant huge
Resounding NO!
As I scour the internet
In my lunch break
Seeing who
Hemel Hempstead Town have drawn
In the fourth and final
Qualifying round
Just to check
Who we should have
Been playing.
(Even after you get knocked out of the FA Cup you wonder ‘what might have been’. Hemel have been drawn at home to Sutton United.)
Sunday 13 October 2013
"Prose Pose"
Now let me get this right
A poem can be anything.
A rhyme or no rhyme at all
Words all over the page
Long or short
Size isn't everything
Written in calmness
Penned in rage.
I uderstand that.
I'm not totally thick.
But what I cannot work out
Is this thing called
'Prose Poetry'.
It looks like a short story.
It reads like a short story.
In fact calling it poetry
At all stinks so much
Makes it smell
Like a short story.
So if you write that stuff
Stop kidding youself
You're a poet.
Though to be fair
I pretend I'm one too.
Perhaps I'll just file it away
Under the sub-section of poetry
Called 'Not for me'.
Dulwich Poet 13th October 2013.
( I cannot get my head round that 'prose poetry' is poetry!)
A poem can be anything.
A rhyme or no rhyme at all
Words all over the page
Long or short
Size isn't everything
Written in calmness
Penned in rage.
I uderstand that.
I'm not totally thick.
But what I cannot work out
Is this thing called
'Prose Poetry'.
It looks like a short story.
It reads like a short story.
In fact calling it poetry
At all stinks so much
Makes it smell
Like a short story.
So if you write that stuff
Stop kidding youself
You're a poet.
Though to be fair
I pretend I'm one too.
Perhaps I'll just file it away
Under the sub-section of poetry
Called 'Not for me'.
Dulwich Poet 13th October 2013.
( I cannot get my head round that 'prose poetry' is poetry!)
"Not All My Own Work"
Sometimes I write poetry
To hide the pain
Other days to pretend
I'm not insane.
For whatever reasons
Right or wrong
It's a thing I do
To plod along.
Sometimes I share
And you think it's alright
Also within your rights
To consider it shite.
But what bugs me most
Is I might be a fraud
As I every so often
Don't rhyme of my own accord.
The word might not be there
Inside my head
So I have to look
Somewhere else instead.
So my thought trail is stuck
Rather than panic
And scream 'oh fuck!'
I delve deep in my back
To look for a book
It's the Penguin Rhyming Dictionary
And I feel like a crook!
So what I've thought,
And what you've read
Are not always original
From my head.
But I take comfort this poem
Is simple to understand
It might be one sylable
And rather bland
But it's dictionary free
And from my own hand.
Dulwich Poet 13th October 2013
(I love writing poetry, I realise it's nothing special, basic bland stuff, but which I like writing. I do wonder though if i am 'cheating' by using a rhyme dictionary, when I am stuck for a word?)
To hide the pain
Other days to pretend
I'm not insane.
For whatever reasons
Right or wrong
It's a thing I do
To plod along.
Sometimes I share
And you think it's alright
Also within your rights
To consider it shite.
But what bugs me most
Is I might be a fraud
As I every so often
Don't rhyme of my own accord.
The word might not be there
Inside my head
So I have to look
Somewhere else instead.
So my thought trail is stuck
Rather than panic
And scream 'oh fuck!'
I delve deep in my back
To look for a book
It's the Penguin Rhyming Dictionary
And I feel like a crook!
So what I've thought,
And what you've read
Are not always original
From my head.
But I take comfort this poem
Is simple to understand
It might be one sylable
And rather bland
But it's dictionary free
And from my own hand.
Dulwich Poet 13th October 2013
(I love writing poetry, I realise it's nothing special, basic bland stuff, but which I like writing. I do wonder though if i am 'cheating' by using a rhyme dictionary, when I am stuck for a word?)
"Existence"
What did you do today?
I got up...and will go to bed.
For the bit inbetween
Not much to be said.
The pretence of wanting to know
How low I go?
So read on my friend
An average day for me
From start to end.
Well I saw the bald bloke behind the door
As my trousers sank to the floor.
Just something less solitary
Than a lonely wank
An anonymous toilet blow job
Is how low my Sunday sank.
Now I'm in no rush to get home
Riding Croydon Tramlink all alone.
I've got my notebook
And pen in hand
Observing you 'normal' folk
Doing the bland.
Out in the shops drizzly rain
Sports Direct Primark
Feel your chavvy pain.
Sunday lunch is a Big Mac
And diet coke with a straw
Such is the lot
Of the South London poor.
Tired old Asian man
With your rainbow umbrella
Are you secretly dreaming
Of having a fella?
All of that is by the by
As I'm undressing the blonde
Bloke opposite with my eye.
Shame you can't see him
Mid twenties and cute
And he's all of mine
For the rest of the route!
That'll be Wimbledon
Time to change
Though in all honesty
He's out of my range.
Over to British Rail
And up to town
Off to the jewel
In the poetry crown
Time to change my books once more
At the Saison Library on the fifth floor.
From there I'll cross the river
Go for a stroll
Before a long lazy bus ride back
To my Sydenham shithole.
And that's basically how
My Sunday's been spent
A simple existence
Rather than an event.
Dulwich Poet 13th October 2013
(This is, basically, how I spent my day today, after I left my flat in the early afternoon)
I got up...and will go to bed.
For the bit inbetween
Not much to be said.
The pretence of wanting to know
How low I go?
So read on my friend
An average day for me
From start to end.
Well I saw the bald bloke behind the door
As my trousers sank to the floor.
Just something less solitary
Than a lonely wank
An anonymous toilet blow job
Is how low my Sunday sank.
Now I'm in no rush to get home
Riding Croydon Tramlink all alone.
I've got my notebook
And pen in hand
Observing you 'normal' folk
Doing the bland.
Out in the shops drizzly rain
Sports Direct Primark
Feel your chavvy pain.
Sunday lunch is a Big Mac
And diet coke with a straw
Such is the lot
Of the South London poor.
Tired old Asian man
With your rainbow umbrella
Are you secretly dreaming
Of having a fella?
All of that is by the by
As I'm undressing the blonde
Bloke opposite with my eye.
Shame you can't see him
Mid twenties and cute
And he's all of mine
For the rest of the route!
That'll be Wimbledon
Time to change
Though in all honesty
He's out of my range.
Over to British Rail
And up to town
Off to the jewel
In the poetry crown
Time to change my books once more
At the Saison Library on the fifth floor.
From there I'll cross the river
Go for a stroll
Before a long lazy bus ride back
To my Sydenham shithole.
And that's basically how
My Sunday's been spent
A simple existence
Rather than an event.
Dulwich Poet 13th October 2013
(This is, basically, how I spent my day today, after I left my flat in the early afternoon)
Saturday 12 October 2013
"So Endeth The Dream"
I'm old school I am
Don't think I don't give a damn
But this could be the day we meet our match
If we win it would be such a catch.
With low expectations the hurt is less
Is that what I'm trying to address?
'No pain, no gain' is what they say
Which is why I'm going to watch us play
Time to rally the troops, sing and cheer
Like to kid myself I've influence here.
Over the last couple of years
We've come on leaps and bounds
Our support's the talk
Of many Isthmian grounds.
On the train past Wembley
Arch to my right
That Cup run pot of gold
Almost in sight.
We need the money to boost the team
Things aren't as rosy as they seem.
Could just be me a negative old git
Who can't make sense of all of it
Suffered so much failure year by year
Could some glory be so near?
No understatement to say
It's so overdue
The First Round Proper
Would be such a coup.
Two rounds to go
To covet that dream
Not so far away
As it may seem.
They say pride comes
Before a fall
But progress an extra two more
And it's the Lions of Millwall!
Dulwich Poet 12th October 2013
(Sadly I wrote on the train to our 3rd qualifying round FA Cup match. I say sadly, because the final score was Hemel Hempstead Town 3, Dulwich Hamlet 1. And so my dreaming of a cup run was over)
Don't think I don't give a damn
But this could be the day we meet our match
If we win it would be such a catch.
With low expectations the hurt is less
Is that what I'm trying to address?
'No pain, no gain' is what they say
Which is why I'm going to watch us play
Time to rally the troops, sing and cheer
Like to kid myself I've influence here.
Over the last couple of years
We've come on leaps and bounds
Our support's the talk
Of many Isthmian grounds.
On the train past Wembley
Arch to my right
That Cup run pot of gold
Almost in sight.
We need the money to boost the team
Things aren't as rosy as they seem.
Could just be me a negative old git
Who can't make sense of all of it
Suffered so much failure year by year
Could some glory be so near?
No understatement to say
It's so overdue
The First Round Proper
Would be such a coup.
Two rounds to go
To covet that dream
Not so far away
As it may seem.
They say pride comes
Before a fall
But progress an extra two more
And it's the Lions of Millwall!
Dulwich Poet 12th October 2013
(Sadly I wrote on the train to our 3rd qualifying round FA Cup match. I say sadly, because the final score was Hemel Hempstead Town 3, Dulwich Hamlet 1. And so my dreaming of a cup run was over)
Friday 11 October 2013
"Ooh, Clapton Ultras!"
People talk about god-forsaken holes
Grounds we suffer to witness a few goals.
Why am I in Mile End
On a Wednesday night?
A Gordon Brasted Trophy game
I can't be that bright.
Method to my madness
That's for sure
It's the famous Clapton Ultras
That's the lure.
Not sure how old school
Cockney they really are
Pronouncing their aitches
But still a star.
Untold songs
And occasional flares
Possibly not the done thing
But then who cares?
Also anti fascist
And proud of the fact
The players all love it
See how they react!
Is this really the Essex Senior League
With their Ultras Anti-Fascista
Football blitzkrieg!
Blowing away all the 'rules'
To the bewilderment
Of terrace old schools.
Here to stay or flash in the pan?
At the moment talk of the land.
So what if I can't fathom them out
They're having a party
And know how to shout.
Breathing life ito the 'Old Spotted Dog'
While knocking back that cheap Polski grog!
Dulwich Poet 11th October 2013
( Went to Tower Hamlets v. Clapton. The attraction was not the game but the away fans!)
Grounds we suffer to witness a few goals.
Why am I in Mile End
On a Wednesday night?
A Gordon Brasted Trophy game
I can't be that bright.
Method to my madness
That's for sure
It's the famous Clapton Ultras
That's the lure.
Not sure how old school
Cockney they really are
Pronouncing their aitches
But still a star.
Untold songs
And occasional flares
Possibly not the done thing
But then who cares?
Also anti fascist
And proud of the fact
The players all love it
See how they react!
Is this really the Essex Senior League
With their Ultras Anti-Fascista
Football blitzkrieg!
Blowing away all the 'rules'
To the bewilderment
Of terrace old schools.
Here to stay or flash in the pan?
At the moment talk of the land.
So what if I can't fathom them out
They're having a party
And know how to shout.
Breathing life ito the 'Old Spotted Dog'
While knocking back that cheap Polski grog!
Dulwich Poet 11th October 2013
( Went to Tower Hamlets v. Clapton. The attraction was not the game but the away fans!)
Thursday 10 October 2013
"Keeping Up With..."
Rack by rack, stack by stack
All that poetry under attack
It's all there like a tin of Alphabetti
Except I'm not scoffing Heinz spaghetti.
Choosing poetry by it's cover
Then I'll devour four of another.
In amongst them my own would be lost
Just need to save the publishing cost
If I had the money to swallow the loss
For my ego not giving a toss.
Currently borrowing Patrick, Paul
Bob and Chris
All with the same surname
Makes me want to do this
To have my own booklet
Would be the biz
I could say I've kept up with them
All the Joneses!
Dulwich Poet 10th October 2013
(Since January I've been reading random books of poetry, from the Poetry Library. You can borrow four at a time, and I started at 'A' & am currently picking ones out that catch my eye in the 'J's. I have four books out by four different writers, all with the surname Jones)
All that poetry under attack
It's all there like a tin of Alphabetti
Except I'm not scoffing Heinz spaghetti.
Choosing poetry by it's cover
Then I'll devour four of another.
In amongst them my own would be lost
Just need to save the publishing cost
If I had the money to swallow the loss
For my ego not giving a toss.
Currently borrowing Patrick, Paul
Bob and Chris
All with the same surname
Makes me want to do this
To have my own booklet
Would be the biz
I could say I've kept up with them
All the Joneses!
Dulwich Poet 10th October 2013
(Since January I've been reading random books of poetry, from the Poetry Library. You can borrow four at a time, and I started at 'A' & am currently picking ones out that catch my eye in the 'J's. I have four books out by four different writers, all with the surname Jones)
Wednesday 9 October 2013
"Snapshot"
On the balcony alone
At the Royal Festival Hall
It's all rather windy
So nobody at all.
On my way to football
Plenty of time to kill
So I'm out here in the cold
Trying to chill
Skim reading books in my bag
Sometimes poetry can be a drag
Undisturbed in my own space
No need to rush it's not a race
This is the way I relax
Obligatory can of Pepsi Max.
The complex is packed
For it's graduation
Brightest and brainiest
From all over the nation
Actually from South Bank Uni
Down the road
A woman strolls over
In proud parent mode.
In my direction a camera thrust
Politely asked for a photo must.
How lucky for them I know the score
I love taking pictures so click off four.
Hand it back pleasantries said
Time to crack on, stuff half read.
Manage a sly glance
From the corner of my eye
I can see they're pleased
As they bid goodbye.
Out of curiousity
I ask her class
In which subject did you pass?
English Lit, a good two-one,
Making me wonder...
What I could have done.
My only 'O' Level
Was at English 'B' grade.
If the clock could turn back
And I wasn't school clown
Could that have been me
In mortar and gown?
Dulwich Poet 9th October 2013
(I was sat in a chair on the open air 5th floor balcony, at the Royal Festival Hall, finishing off the four poetry books I was about to return to the Poetry Library. I was asked to take a photo of a proud mum with her daughter, on graduation day)
At the Royal Festival Hall
It's all rather windy
So nobody at all.
On my way to football
Plenty of time to kill
So I'm out here in the cold
Trying to chill
Skim reading books in my bag
Sometimes poetry can be a drag
Undisturbed in my own space
No need to rush it's not a race
This is the way I relax
Obligatory can of Pepsi Max.
The complex is packed
For it's graduation
Brightest and brainiest
From all over the nation
Actually from South Bank Uni
Down the road
A woman strolls over
In proud parent mode.
In my direction a camera thrust
Politely asked for a photo must.
How lucky for them I know the score
I love taking pictures so click off four.
Hand it back pleasantries said
Time to crack on, stuff half read.
Manage a sly glance
From the corner of my eye
I can see they're pleased
As they bid goodbye.
Out of curiousity
I ask her class
In which subject did you pass?
English Lit, a good two-one,
Making me wonder...
What I could have done.
My only 'O' Level
Was at English 'B' grade.
If the clock could turn back
And I wasn't school clown
Could that have been me
In mortar and gown?
Dulwich Poet 9th October 2013
(I was sat in a chair on the open air 5th floor balcony, at the Royal Festival Hall, finishing off the four poetry books I was about to return to the Poetry Library. I was asked to take a photo of a proud mum with her daughter, on graduation day)
"Piglets"
Bart Simpson
Was the boy
Who sold his soul
But that wasn't real
Just a cartoon goal.
Last night I saw
A Judas team in red.
If family of mine wore that kit
I'd class them as dead.
Plenty of teams
That I don't like
Where I could say
On your bike!
But playing for a team
With the badge of old Bill
I can't believe it was those boys
Using their own free will.
Was it a decision
By a judge in a wig
Go directly to prison
Or football as a pig!
How do you look
Your mates in the eye
When you're from Brixton
Or across Peckham Rye?
When you have the Met's badge
On your shirt
You're nothing more than
A piece of dirt.
Shame on you lads
I hope you learn
Sign for someone else
And your soul will return.
Dulwich Poet 9th October 2013
( I wrote this after Dulwich Hamlet beat Metropolitan Police in the FA Youth Cup, Some of their side were young men who were local, black south Londoners. I simply cannot understand how they can play for such a side.)
Was the boy
Who sold his soul
But that wasn't real
Just a cartoon goal.
Last night I saw
A Judas team in red.
If family of mine wore that kit
I'd class them as dead.
Plenty of teams
That I don't like
Where I could say
On your bike!
But playing for a team
With the badge of old Bill
I can't believe it was those boys
Using their own free will.
Was it a decision
By a judge in a wig
Go directly to prison
Or football as a pig!
How do you look
Your mates in the eye
When you're from Brixton
Or across Peckham Rye?
When you have the Met's badge
On your shirt
You're nothing more than
A piece of dirt.
Shame on you lads
I hope you learn
Sign for someone else
And your soul will return.
Dulwich Poet 9th October 2013
( I wrote this after Dulwich Hamlet beat Metropolitan Police in the FA Youth Cup, Some of their side were young men who were local, black south Londoners. I simply cannot understand how they can play for such a side.)
"Losing Battle"
Why put off today
What you can do tomorrow?
The simple answer
In honesty and sorrow
Is push the calendar back
As there's too much to hack
In trying to get your life on track.
Whatever that may mean
Remains to be seen.
Too much to cope
A lifetime being a dope.
From the outside
You assume I'm fine
Well delve within
There's plenty a sign.
It's not all about being insecure
Nor being constantly poor
Why do you you think
My front door's secure?
Oh how I hate
My flat in a state
I want to change my life
But is it too late?
Every decade I set a goal
But when I 'reach' it
Life's still in the same hole.
Need to learn how to change
Bit by bit
It's the only way
To stop life being shit.
Hold onto that hope and...
Crack on, son
Crack on!
Dulwich Poet 9th October 2013
(A general appraisal of my shit life!)
What you can do tomorrow?
The simple answer
In honesty and sorrow
Is push the calendar back
As there's too much to hack
In trying to get your life on track.
Whatever that may mean
Remains to be seen.
Too much to cope
A lifetime being a dope.
From the outside
You assume I'm fine
Well delve within
There's plenty a sign.
It's not all about being insecure
Nor being constantly poor
Why do you you think
My front door's secure?
Oh how I hate
My flat in a state
I want to change my life
But is it too late?
Every decade I set a goal
But when I 'reach' it
Life's still in the same hole.
Need to learn how to change
Bit by bit
It's the only way
To stop life being shit.
Hold onto that hope and...
Crack on, son
Crack on!
Dulwich Poet 9th October 2013
(A general appraisal of my shit life!)
Friday 4 October 2013
"I Knew You Once"
Probably a decade
Since I saw you last
Didn't recognise you
I just walked past
Going into Charing Cross
To catch a train
I turned round as
You called my name.
A friendly word
You were rather drunk
Always had you down
As a street punk.
So you've moved out to Eltham
It starts to fit
I had you down
As a racist shit.
Maybe mistaken
And you're as good as gold
An error on my part
With prejudgements of old.
You moved from Sydenham
Because it was shite
Did you pick Eltham
As it was preferably white?
Yes thank you, I am well
There wasn't really much else to tell.
Could have said you're quite cute
But didn't want my arse
To feel your boot!
Maybe I should have shocked you
And confroted your fears
I mean wer'e hardly likely to meet
For another ten years
And it might challenge your views
On us dirty queers!
Dulwich Poet 4th October 2013
( A 'stranger' shouted my name outside Charing Cross Station. It was a young man who used to play for Dulwich Hamlet Juniors, as a boy. He had a bit of a reputation as a troublemaker, who didn't like black people. In all honesty I do ot know if this was true or not, and he might now be an ordinary decent bloke. But I based this poem o my preconceptions of him.)
Since I saw you last
Didn't recognise you
I just walked past
Going into Charing Cross
To catch a train
I turned round as
You called my name.
A friendly word
You were rather drunk
Always had you down
As a street punk.
So you've moved out to Eltham
It starts to fit
I had you down
As a racist shit.
Maybe mistaken
And you're as good as gold
An error on my part
With prejudgements of old.
You moved from Sydenham
Because it was shite
Did you pick Eltham
As it was preferably white?
Yes thank you, I am well
There wasn't really much else to tell.
Could have said you're quite cute
But didn't want my arse
To feel your boot!
Maybe I should have shocked you
And confroted your fears
I mean wer'e hardly likely to meet
For another ten years
And it might challenge your views
On us dirty queers!
Dulwich Poet 4th October 2013
( A 'stranger' shouted my name outside Charing Cross Station. It was a young man who used to play for Dulwich Hamlet Juniors, as a boy. He had a bit of a reputation as a troublemaker, who didn't like black people. In all honesty I do ot know if this was true or not, and he might now be an ordinary decent bloke. But I based this poem o my preconceptions of him.)
"Writing On The Wall"
I was leaving
Not believing
That I would
Find poetry up on the wall
Of the grey Royal Festival Hall.
But there it was in black and white
To me only-a magnificent sight
Others oblvious dashing to bars
Or over the River to theatres and stars.
Highlighting the jewel up on the fifth floor
Reawakened my love of writing
And so much more.
I stumbled across you a long time past
But turned about heel leaving fast
Just one of the brainwashed working class
Thinking poetry's not for them
All too posh and quick to condemn.
Never mind John Barnes
Express yourself one on one
With a pen and paper
Is how it's done.
Now I've seen it flashed up high
Words from John Hegley as I gaze to the sky
"You're never alone
At the Poetry Library"
I'd say even less so than
A Spurs fan round Highbury.
Truth be told... I feel alone
With poetry I relax
And find my comfort zone.
If you'd told me
This time last year
I'd have said more chance
Of me hitting the beer
Than sharing my thoughts on open mic
Would have told you
To take a hike!
Not going to get big headed
And take the piss
I realise most of my stuff
Is hit and miss.
But for a few minutes
I can hold a crowd
And what else is that
If not something to be proud?
I'm still the first who will confess
My whole life is a mess.
Poetry can make me
Look positive ahead
Which is a bit better
Than wanting to be dead!
Dulwich Poet 4th October 2013
(There were poems projected, and words over loudspeakers, at the Royal Festival Hall, as part of the 60th birthday celebrations of the Poetry Library, which is currently based there. Most people walked past, not noticing, or ignoring it. I was the only one paying attention)
Not believing
That I would
Find poetry up on the wall
Of the grey Royal Festival Hall.
But there it was in black and white
To me only-a magnificent sight
Others oblvious dashing to bars
Or over the River to theatres and stars.
Highlighting the jewel up on the fifth floor
Reawakened my love of writing
And so much more.
I stumbled across you a long time past
But turned about heel leaving fast
Just one of the brainwashed working class
Thinking poetry's not for them
All too posh and quick to condemn.
Never mind John Barnes
Express yourself one on one
With a pen and paper
Is how it's done.
Now I've seen it flashed up high
Words from John Hegley as I gaze to the sky
"You're never alone
At the Poetry Library"
I'd say even less so than
A Spurs fan round Highbury.
Truth be told... I feel alone
With poetry I relax
And find my comfort zone.
If you'd told me
This time last year
I'd have said more chance
Of me hitting the beer
Than sharing my thoughts on open mic
Would have told you
To take a hike!
Not going to get big headed
And take the piss
I realise most of my stuff
Is hit and miss.
But for a few minutes
I can hold a crowd
And what else is that
If not something to be proud?
I'm still the first who will confess
My whole life is a mess.
Poetry can make me
Look positive ahead
Which is a bit better
Than wanting to be dead!
Dulwich Poet 4th October 2013
(There were poems projected, and words over loudspeakers, at the Royal Festival Hall, as part of the 60th birthday celebrations of the Poetry Library, which is currently based there. Most people walked past, not noticing, or ignoring it. I was the only one paying attention)
Thursday 3 October 2013
"All In This Together"
It's bad enough if you don't have a job
Without being branded a lazy slob
Please excuse my growing rage
But if there's a genuine job
Pay a fucking proper wage!
Out on the streets
With a dustcart and brush
Somehow I don't think
There'll be a voluntary rush.
Pressganged slave labour
Is all it is
Yet another
Cameron Tory swizz!
Dulwich Poet 3rd October 2013
(This is a short, unfinished really, poem about the Tories announcing they want the unemployed to sweep the street in return for their dole money)
Without being branded a lazy slob
Please excuse my growing rage
But if there's a genuine job
Pay a fucking proper wage!
Out on the streets
With a dustcart and brush
Somehow I don't think
There'll be a voluntary rush.
Pressganged slave labour
Is all it is
Yet another
Cameron Tory swizz!
Dulwich Poet 3rd October 2013
(This is a short, unfinished really, poem about the Tories announcing they want the unemployed to sweep the street in return for their dole money)
Wednesday 2 October 2013
"Piggy In the Middle In My Head"
Torn between two things
Story of my life
Not one or the other
Talk about strife.
Feeling fucked up in the head
To such an extent
I sometimes want to be dead.
I don't have a life
I just exist.
Not crazy enough to be mad
Too insecure to be a lad
My whole life has been a constant rut
Hiding my feelings like a closet nut
On the outside people think I'm fine
But inside I'm a constant
Flashing disaster sign.
Desperately holding things together
Trying to keep real
But deep down inside
Only I know how I feel.
Underneath I'm a coward
And scared of pain
Which for someone so fucked up
Is rather insane.
Would it hurt so much
To slash my wrist
Ironically it would have been easier
When I was pissed.
Or strip off naked
And walk into the sea
Would anyone really notice
The end of me?
In my head it's all so crazy
Thoughts always changing
Oh so hazy.
I do understand if I choose to die
There would be lots of people
Who'd choose to cry.
I have no idea
When it will be that day
But for the moment
It's my poetry
Keeping it at bay.
Dulwich Poet 2nd October 2013
(I can't recall why I wrote this, but it is sort of about I've always felt more fucked up, crazy if you like, that people have noticed, or I let on)
Story of my life
Not one or the other
Talk about strife.
Feeling fucked up in the head
To such an extent
I sometimes want to be dead.
I don't have a life
I just exist.
Not crazy enough to be mad
Too insecure to be a lad
My whole life has been a constant rut
Hiding my feelings like a closet nut
On the outside people think I'm fine
But inside I'm a constant
Flashing disaster sign.
Desperately holding things together
Trying to keep real
But deep down inside
Only I know how I feel.
Underneath I'm a coward
And scared of pain
Which for someone so fucked up
Is rather insane.
Would it hurt so much
To slash my wrist
Ironically it would have been easier
When I was pissed.
Or strip off naked
And walk into the sea
Would anyone really notice
The end of me?
In my head it's all so crazy
Thoughts always changing
Oh so hazy.
I do understand if I choose to die
There would be lots of people
Who'd choose to cry.
I have no idea
When it will be that day
But for the moment
It's my poetry
Keeping it at bay.
Dulwich Poet 2nd October 2013
(I can't recall why I wrote this, but it is sort of about I've always felt more fucked up, crazy if you like, that people have noticed, or I let on)
"After You Claude!"
Not feeling well, a stinking cold
Yet on football I'm still sold
Not Man. United
On Sky Sports Four
Even if I liked Murdoch
I'm far too poor.
Only way to watch is live in the flesh
A genuine grassroots amateur sesh.
I am sat in the Champion Hill stand
For a game that puts me in 'la-la land'.
The Cambridge University light blues
Taking on the Amateur Football Combination
Rather well-to-do's.
Old Suttonians and Meadonians
The Honourable Artillery Company
Alongside Bealonians.
They're not playing for the fame
Just the simple love of the game
Rather polite and no swearing to be heard
I've yet to hear a bad word.
Cheating and diving? Well I never...
Not the done thing it's not clever.
Must confess I've not much interest in this game
But enjoyable to watch all the same
The first goal was a delight to see
Missed by all the suits having their boardroom tea!
Even so it's a first for me
I've never sat in the stand writing poetry!
Dulwich Poet 2nd October 2013
( There was a pitch letting at Champion Hill, the Amateur Football Combination had a representative match against Cambridge University)
Yet on football I'm still sold
Not Man. United
On Sky Sports Four
Even if I liked Murdoch
I'm far too poor.
Only way to watch is live in the flesh
A genuine grassroots amateur sesh.
I am sat in the Champion Hill stand
For a game that puts me in 'la-la land'.
The Cambridge University light blues
Taking on the Amateur Football Combination
Rather well-to-do's.
Old Suttonians and Meadonians
The Honourable Artillery Company
Alongside Bealonians.
They're not playing for the fame
Just the simple love of the game
Rather polite and no swearing to be heard
I've yet to hear a bad word.
Cheating and diving? Well I never...
Not the done thing it's not clever.
Must confess I've not much interest in this game
But enjoyable to watch all the same
The first goal was a delight to see
Missed by all the suits having their boardroom tea!
Even so it's a first for me
I've never sat in the stand writing poetry!
Dulwich Poet 2nd October 2013
( There was a pitch letting at Champion Hill, the Amateur Football Combination had a representative match against Cambridge University)
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