It’s that time of year again
When the hope does
you in
Not long til mid-September
All your dreams in the bin.
How times have changed
Since Gavin had a plan
And we’ve been over run
By the bearded ‘New-veau’ fan.
Don’t take that as a negative
In fact anything but
No disapproval from me
Not a single tut.
Well there was maybe one when
He released Kalvin Morath-Gibbs
If that didn’t break my heart
I’d be telling fibs.
Apart from that ‘minor’ quibble
I’m always on Gavin’s side
Now people respect me and
You can say ‘Dulwich Hamlet’ with pride.
In times gone by
I was a laughing stock
Misguided fools labelling me
A bit of a non-league cock.
Patronising me remote in hand
With an Arsenal this; Man. United that
You were the ‘loyal’ armchair fan
Calling me the prat.
I always stuck to my guns
Supporting my local team
But even I could never envisage
Today’s terrace beyond my wildest dream.
Middle class student hipster types
Call us what you will
Only thing for certain
We’re no longer run of the mill.
Gaining a reputation
For being totally unique
Glance around the Isthmian
Other grounds so bleak.
Unlike countless seasons past
I’m feeling such a tingle
Proud to be part of our ‘New-veau’ crowd
As we all sing and mingle.
You might not get our chants and banners
Thinking we’re totally barmy
Just accept we’re all as one
Gavin Rose’s Pink & Blue Army!
Dulwich Poet 29th July 2014
(I wrote a couple of articles for a new Dulwich Hamlet fanzine, that's due out at the start of the season...but I've misplaced the memory stick I put them on. So I needed a replacement, and did this poem instead. As I save this I have no idea if it will be used or not..)
Four poets and me..
Crossing the frog and toad.
Bit of a chit
Bit of chat
Thought that would be
The end of that.
For they know their stuff
Reading off the cuff
As if it make it worse
They're so fucking buff!
But still they talk to me
Not sure if I fit in
Just poetry nights in common
Doin what it says on the tin.
While standing round chatting
They jumped up and recited
On the concrete bench seat
Which was something rather weird
As we were in them iddle of the street.
I'm one of those who can't recite
Never learnt from heart
Only reading scraps of paper
Which sets me and them apart.
I was nudged to read a short one
Trying not to be afraid
And when I heard their laughter
I was so glad I played.
I bade farewell to get beigels
Strolling toward Brick Lane
If you'd said a year ago
I'd have nights like this
I'd accuse you of being insane.
Tonight's a special moment
Whill I'll cherish with delight
For I think I've finally accepted
I'm a 'Proper Poet' who can right.
Dulwich Poet 23rd July 2014
(I read a poem in a 3 minute Open Mic slot, at Jawdance, the biggest monthly poetry event in London. It's got a really big stage, and there were at least sixty people in the room. I only stuttered over one line once, and the poem I chose was really well received. Only six months ago this is an Open Mic event I'd NEVER have had the bottle to read at...)
I want to strip off naked
Run round Shoreditch and prance
Shouting up to the rooftops
" I've just read at Jawdance"!
I thought I'd missed the cut
Signing up a little too late
They put me down as 'first reserve'
Moment handed to me on a plate.
But I wasn't expecting that moment
When the compere called me from the floor
I wasn't ready for anything
Almost sneaking out of the door.
I panicked hunting my poem
As she said my name again
I screamed it was in my bag
Desperate for three minutes of 'fame'.
Walking around with a load of shit
Carried over my shoulder
Thought I was going to miss out
Anger beginning to smoulder.
She saw I was in a state
So let the next bloke go on in front
Giving me the chance to calm myself
Instead of being a total cunt.
Jawdance is a top night
Run by Apple & Snakes
I wasn't sure if I'd be good enough
But know I know I've got what it takes.
Accepted on the 'poetry circuit'
Even if it's 'only' 'Open Mike'
Actually making friends-talking to people
What's there not to fucking like?
Truth be told I can't believe
How much I'm having fun
Never thuoght I'd love this so much
As I've only got the one 'O' Level
When all is said and done.
But you don't have to be educated
If you read and write from the heart
Me and those Uni boys and girls
We're not that far apart.
Dulwich Poet 23rd July 2014
( I wrote this on the train home, having just read for the first time, a 3 minute Open Mic slot, at the extermely popular & quality Jawdance monthly poetry event in Shoreditch. I got there just too late to sign up, but was told I could be 'first reserve', if they had space. I was called up for a slot near theend, and couldn't pint my bit of paper in my bag. Fortunately the woman compere gave me 'breathing space' and let me go on after the next bloke, giving me time to calm myself. I mentioned to another performer, who I was talking to afterwards, that I write lots of stuff, but only ever read, maybe, 10% of what I write. This poem is a prime example of stuff I scribble down but would never perform... )
I had a bit of a shock
When I saw a heading about Spads.
Stuck in the Seventies
I thought it was
A new word for 'Spaz'.
But no, we are
Twenty first century
Politically correct
I guess in 'right on speak'
That's 'bodily challenged'
To show respect.
The Spad I saw
Stood for 'Special Advisor'
As in Gove's little minions
Which was a bit of a surpriser.
So I'm learning new words
Thanks to the sacked
Education bloke
The one's who's made
Our schools a joke.
Words like 'spaz'
We no longer use
Unless it slips out
When we have a short fuse.
Sometimes wrong words slip out
Try as we might..
Almost more preferable
To repleacements deemed right.
There's 'visually impeared'...
Noe I don't want to be unkind
I don't mean to be rude
But it's the blind leading the blind.
For the blind know they're blind
And they know they can't see
They don't need made up new words
Invented for them by you and me.
And don't get me started on Christmas
With that 'Winterval' farce
Middle class do-gooders
Talknig out of their arse.
Forget about changing words
For word changing sake
You're spouting bollocks
And totally fake.
Never mind "It's offensive to Muslims"
And all that nonsense
You never fucking asked them
So cut the pretence!
What I'm saying
Is stop changing words
Poisoning language
With your P.C. crap
Cos cos believe me
If' the old stuff's genuinely offensive
You'll find out ...
With an old fashioned slap.
Dulwich Poet 23rd July 2014
( I wrote this after seeming a two page article on political 'Special Advisors', or SpAds, in the Evening Standard tonight, following the recent Conservative Party cabiet reshuffle...)
Palestinian children dying
Israeli bombs rain down
Yet all some people are interested in
Is our gorgeous heir to the crown.
Innocent Dutch babies
Blown up way above Ukraine
But all some of you seem to want
Is that boy from the royal gravy train.
Soak up that four page special
Just because Prince George learnt to walk
I dread to think the overkill
Once he starts to talk.
They say his mum's a commoner
Almost like you and me
Well give or take a million or two
The perks of royalty.
She'll try to pretend she's normal
By taking her kids to Maccie Dees;
Pretending she's not the sponging class
All on on tax-paying fees.
Go and copy Diana
It's all a waste of money farce
Let's a phoenix from the flames
With a car in a French underpass.
Back to George and that 'cute' smile
Gurn hiding the silver spoon.
Baby grin funded by me
Don't expect me to swoon.
The only 'Silver Spoon' I like
Is sugar in cups of tea
Roll on the revolution
Causing the House of Windsor to flee.
As my pen hits the paper
My thoughts begin to flower
Fingers crossed there's no 'poetry spies'
Who will send me to the Tower.
All I can do is be honest
Sharing my thoughts in verse
Reading out loud with Buck House guests
Hoping it's not a curse.
Being a king needn't be bad
If you go back in the past
Even if you're like me
And don't want the monarchy to last.
There's one royal I've admired
That ancient King Herod chap
Where are you when we need you
To wipe Georgie off the map?
No more sychophanting
End this sickening fawn
Time to turn back history
And sacrifice their first born.
Dulwich Poet 22nd July 2014
(I wrote this after seeing one too many photo of Prince George, the one-year-old royal parasite 'celebrating' his first birthday...)
You make out you're a decent person
Madame 'Moral High Ground'
But everyone thinks you're bonkers
Bet you a penny for a pound.
It's not just your manners
But lack of fashion sense
Straight off the Oxfam bargain rail
Not even worthy fifty pence.
Talk about giving 'eccentric' a bad name
Please tell me it was just for a dare
I mean have you looked in the mirror
And seen the state of your hair?
There's Patty and Selma
Marge's sisters on the box
Even they're more elegant
Than you in your frocks.
Now I can see the appeal of poetry
It's a magnet for the insecure
But you're way past Barking
Upmister and more!
The first I saw you perform
I thought 'What the fuck is this?'
Hand on heart I'm not lying
I hoped you were taking the piss.
But no, you're anti euro, pro-royalist weirdo
Who's not taking the pee
Leave that to your audience
Who can't take you seriously.
But us poets are a decent bunch
Generally meek and mild
So tell me what gives you the right
To act like a petulant child?
If one more time during my set
I hear your tutting voice
I'm going to tell you to FUCK OFF!
'Cos you given me no choice!
Dulwich Poet 16th July 2014
(I go to a number of Open Mics to perform, and there's one woman who does the rounds, and but in if she hears something she doesn't approve of. I think she is barmy, and she really annoys me. Tonight she was trying to interupt one I was reading, so I scribbled this on the bus home)
As time creaks on
I start to fear
What will happen
When the end is near.
There's nothing wrong with me yet
No need to panic
I'm not going crazy
From my normal to manic.
But when I die
I want it to be quick
Scared of suffering
Terminally sick.
If ever that happens
I don't want to linger
Time to go
With the flick of a finger.
Is it too much to ask
To turn off a switch
A painless death
Without a hitch.
I don't want to suffer
Right to the end
Give me the option
Of a man's best friend.
One last farewell
A time to say goodbye
Small prick of a needle
A bit of a cry.
At the moment you can only do this
If you're comfortable or rich
Flying off to Switzerland
When pain's too much of a bitch.
Poor people like me
Have only the nearest bridge
If we want to die with dignity
To sleep in a mortuary fridge.
You preach "god's" will
Saying your prayer
Watching me dosed up with morphine
As if you care.
Pumping my body
With a multitude of drugs
Prolonging my suffering
From white coated thugs.
You warn me of Harold Shipmans
Stalking the ward
Well just let me take my chances
And die of my own accord.
Dulwich Poet 16th July 2014
(I wrote this after a phone-in on LBC Radio, about support from some bishops on assisting dying)
The first time I walked down those steps
At 'Unplugged'
Standing there was a host called Niall
Welcoming me with a gentle smile.
I had no idea if i'd fit in
Whether my verse should go in the bin
I thought my attempts would leave them cold
The standard was top notch, truth be told.
It went OK, so I gave it another go
Every 'Open Mic' a learn to write Poetry Show.
Ever so slowly I supposed I developed a style
And when I looked up that Sean Wei Keung seemed to smile!
You see, when I started 'Open Mic'
It all began from zero
And out of the first lot I heard
He became my poetic hero!
His looks, his style, delivery in place
I was just so relieved
I didn't have that
Dirty old man stalker face!
That's not to put down all the other readers
Not want I mean to convey-far from it
Well apart from cray Lucy Carrington
Who's not just bonkers but reads shit!
Her hero's Sir James Goldsmith
And she penned him a poem of praise
I scribbled an anti-one in response
Calling me 'aggressive'
And now won't hold my gaze!
If that's what you call criticism
I'm sure I'll manage to cope
It's the other little words and comments
That give me such hope.
Quite early on
I must have been doing something right
Because right at the end of the night
People started saying 'well done'
And one of them was my hero Sean
I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven
I wasn't just elated, but felt toally re-born!
His body oozes so much talent
Mine would fit in his little finger
I was shocked and stunned by his praise
I was desperate to linger.
I just mumbled something
About not being a 'proper poet' like him
Can't recall what he said
But in effect don't be dim...
He gave me such a boost.
I want to return the favour
Even though i don't know
If it's your flavour.
Indirectly you and your mates
Have helped make me
The poet that I am
Even if I haven't yet had the bollocks
To go for a John-Paul slam!
You've been a joy to listen to
A delight to hear
You deserve a great send-off
Showered in free beer.
I wasn't sure what to give you
As a parting gift
But as you're going to
'Ooh Argh!' East Anglia
I thought this carrot cake might give you a lift.
Sorry it's not from Waitrose
I'm not from posh Roehampton way
But it's top of the range local from the Co-Op
So I hope this Camberwell Carrot makes your day!
Dulwich Poet 14th July 2014
(Sean Wei Keung is a talented young poet, who make me very welcome when I started on the 'Open Mic scene'. He's moving to East anglia University, and this is a poem about him leaving London)
I'm standing at the bus stop
Getting myself in a state
All because of 'Tesco Express'
Where the service wasn't great.
The queue was building up a bit
I only had a 'Non-League Paper'
'The Observer' & Pepsi Max
About to turn into a caper.
You might call me a Luddite
I hate self service; you can laugh
They're not there for the customer
It's all about cutting staff.
But I'm in a rush to buy my items
So I break my general rule
I'll do the job at your 'speedy' till
About to look a fool.
Have I brought my own bags?
I touch the machine's right bit
Them I'm told-unexpected
Bag in packing area
I'm trying not to have a fit.
So I lift it up and put it down
Stuff in my six cans of Pepsi Max
Hoping the invisible electronic woman
Will sort out fiction from facts.
Next I scan my reading matter
But the machine begins to bark
Now I'm getting really pissed off
With all this self-service lark.
The lump of metal's gone and locked itself
I'm supposed to wait for staff
Now I'm really swearing
You're 'aving' a fuckin' laugh!
I throw my six pack of Pepsi
Into the empty basket with a bounce
Ignoring the smirking queue behind me
As up Sydenham Road I flounce.
Dulwich Poet 13th July 2014
(I don't usuually use self-service machines in supermarkets...and this poem is the reason why!)
You should've stuck to
Tying kangeroos down for sport
Instead of abusing young girls
Before you were finally caught.
I can't believe people think
You're hard done by
Because of your age
Such misguided bullshit
Fills me with rage.
As far as I'm concerned
You should rot in hell
Failing that
It will have to be a cell.
I've heard folk
On the radio wail
'Poor old Rolf Harris
He will die in jail'.
What about the living dead
The innoncents he touched up
And raped in his bed?
As it stands
He'll be on the numbers wing
With all the other nonces
Safe with the protection that brings.
I've no sympathy
Just because he's old
What he got away with
Leaves me cold.
Hero worship
Through childhood eyes
Adulation shattered
As innocence dies.
A lifetime of comfort
Being a national treasure
Using his celebrity
To abuse at leisure.
It might be a cliche
The standard prison joke
But I'm really hoping
He drops the soap.
Battered and bruised
He'll take it up the arse
And then maybe, finally
He'll contemplate
What he's done wrong at last.
Dulwich Poet 8th July 2014
(Rolf Harris was convicted of various sex crimes against children last week)
You're lazing about
Taking up far
Too much space.
But who am I to argue.
you're overweight
And a bit of a bruiser.
Wouldn't dare call you
A loser.
Despite the studded
Collar round your neck.
Is that your name...
Or allegiance?
Chelsea.
Old Skool Mutt
Canine thug of
The doggy football
Hooligan world.
Dulwich Poet 6th July 2014
(Someone took their dog on the train I was on, and it was sprawled across the fllor, by the doors...)
Last week I made a confession
During my brief five minute session.
Admitting I took books
Home to read
So in my defence
I do plead:
Don't think of me
As a thief
Getting it off my chest
Was a relief.
I could see any
'No tealeafing' sign
Browsing like a library
I thought it was fine.
I hadn't realised
The ones without
A Poetry Society sticker
Were up for sale
At only three nicker.
I was told this by our friendly host
Wearing his headmasterly frown
So humble apologies Niall
If I let you down.
As I explained last week
Most I take I return...but
Unlike Buckingham Palace celebrity poets
I haven't got money to burn.
I held my hand up
To keeping one or two
So when I got home
I knew what to do.
From top to bottom
I searched my pit
Didn't want ringmaster Niall
Thinking I was a shit.
In there were more than one or two
Total acquired came to four
So once more sorry and here's twelve quid
Subject closed before you show me the door.
Dulwich Poet 2nd July 2014
(I read a poem about taking books off of the shlef at the Poetry Cafe. Apparently you can actually buy them, which I never knew! I wrote this to read the following week, which is Tuesday July 8th)
I've got this strange turn of phrase
Where I a call everyone else
"A proper poet"!
Deep down that's what
I'm trying to be...
If only I'd be
Prepared to show it.
Beining in denial's
"Pwopa Nawty"
As Danny Dyer might say.
I'm a Sarf Lunnon
'Apprentice Poet'
The wrong side of forty.
Who finds a round of applause
Is wonderful...
Buzzing in my head
Other times it's stony silence
Which deep down we all dread
The best thing about not being a 'proper' one
Is you don't really give a fuck
And if you then 'die on stage'
File it away under 'bad luck'.
Now when I say 'die on stage'
I don't mean like Tommy Cooper
Not literally...
Though his spirit is something
We can all learn from
Battling on like a trooper.
I'm not on medication
Proving you don't have to
Be diagnosed crazy
To be a writer
Even if there's a thin line
Between insanity
And life being brigher.
I re-discovered poetry
For the first time
Since I was a teen
Too scared to ponder
Of those wasted years inbetween.
Poetry's my sort of personal therapy
That I use to keep me sane.
In just over two years I am fifty
Making up for wasted time.
Despite the fact I'm not posh
I've learnt poetry's neither
Poncy mor a crime.
I sometimes feel held back
By lack of multi-syllabled verse
In my head words should be fancy
Which I find a bit of a curse.
But if I can do it so can you
Writing's no longer scary
Or particularly hard
Pick up a pen and join me
Another working class bard.
Dulwich Poet 2nd July 2014
(I wrote this because I have a habit when talking to other poets, as describing everyone but me as 'proper poets', in particular a very talented one, on the Open Mic & London spoken word circuit called Sean)
Look around you
What do you see
I see faces
Staring expectantly.
But other than that
Have a look
I see poetry
Book after book.
There behind you
Sat on the shelf
I hold my hand up
I'm not a man of wealth.
Told from a young age...
Don't steal from your own
And never grass!
Anything else
Let it pass.
There is a reson
Why I sit in a corner
Sat at the back
you never spot
While you rhythmmy yack.
A book or two
In my bag
With the accomplished touch
Of a hardened old lag.
What's the point of books in the dark
They need to read
In the daylight
Of a park.
Nine times out of ten
I bring them back to Unplugged
Wouldn't want the Poetry Society
Thinking they've been mugged.
(Even if that's what they do to us
Have you seen their bar prices
Don't make a fuss!)
The books I 'arf inch
I keep for my pleasure
A delight to read again
At my own leisure.
You might think
It's wrong to steal
But look me in the eye
Time to get real.
One good turn deserves another
That's how the saying goes....
Well stick that up your arse
And stuff your prose!
They say the old are rude
And here's the proof
To think pensioners say
The young are uncouth!
"This copy belongs
To the Poetry Cafe-
Do not remove!
If you want to buy this book..."
Calm down Granny
I just wanted a look!
Please don't get your knickers in a twist
I get the message
Get the gist.
But please explain
If your book's so precious to you
Why even send it out
And get in a stew?
I was probably the first person
To pick it up
Once I read your inscription
I couldn't give a fuck.
It's the first one I've taken
And not bothered to read
Which sort of negates
Your giving away deed.
Despite all that
I almost bought it from you
But I decided I couldn't risk
The Sorting Office queue.
Knowing my luck
There'd be someold bat like you next in line
So I've changed my mind
And fuck it, this book's mine.
Dulwich Poet 1st July 2014
(I go to several poetry readings/'open mics' at the Poetry Cafe, near Covent Garden. They are held in the basement, where there's a couple of shelves of poetry book to read. It doesn't acutally say 'Don not take away'...so often I do exactly that. One, 'Capturing Snowflakes' by Eve Pearce, had an inscription ordering people not to do that, and to buy it from her, leaving her email to do so, or off of Amazon)
