He's Alive!"

I was on a bus this morning
Started to scribble something down
What a fuss over nothing
I feel a bit of a clown...
The only problem is
That isn't entirely true
I was genuinely fearful
And did what I had to do.
Hand on heart I'm a bit shocked
By how much I care
He's a good mate and all that
So much love is there.
Sharing my worries with mates
Desperately trying to cope
And there was pessimistic me
Practically giving up hope.
I know we've argued down the years
But also had such fun
In truth I don't have many friends
When all is said and done.
Emotions all over the place
Thinking your mate's done himself in
Expecting to identify a body
Not knowing if he had a next-of-kin.
I got a bell on the way down at Dartford
He will Old Bill & the Crisis team
Honest mate if you'd have seen me
You'd have been amazed by my beam!
I know you won't believe me
Blame emotions still raw
But know you were alive
Was better than beating t****g the day before!
I can't pretend to understand your illness
To me it looks as there's not much wrong
All I can tell you is to hang on in there
Old Skool love be strong!

Dulwich Poet 27th December 2017

(This is a 'follow-on' poem, after I heard a god friend of mine had not attempted to kill himself...)

"Scared to Death"

Tony you fucking scare me
What am I supposed to say
You're my bestest Marmite mate
And I don't know if you're alive today.
I don't care if you're crazy
No matter how mental mad
For underneath all your posturing
I know you're more good than bad.
I just love your company
Almost as much as I love your dog Kail
Perhaps they turned you too crazy
By diagnosing you in jail.
I'm scared you've topped yourself
And now you're at rest
I really hope you haven't
But you will know what's best.
We've so much to do
If only we had money
Got so many grounds to visit
Even though life's not sweetness and honey

.........................................................................


(A good mate of mine has mental health problems. When I wrote this I genuinely though he had topped himself. I was on my way down to where he lives in Kent expecting to have to identify a body. This poem is 'unfinished'...I got a phone call while at Dartford, waiting to change trains, telling me that he was 'ok', being seen to by police and his local crisis mental health team. In effect this is an 'unfinished' poem...)

"Cake Ache"

There's a programme on the telly
It's called 'The Walking Dead'
In truth I've never seen it
It has to be said.
But now I've genuinely seen it
With my very own eyes
Cook, cook and cook more, Eddie
His eyes rolling to the sky.
There's this thing called 'revenge'
It's a dish best served cold
All because he didn't eat cake
A mistake one year old.
Slaving in the kitchen
My sister cracking the whip
Poor old Eddie
Just wants to lie down and kip!
Time to carve the turkey
Have you done the sprouts
Have you done the carrots
Is all she barks and shouts.
Christmas should be peaceful
A time to relax and rest
But he's too scared to do that
Here comes the turkey breast.
Eddie's come from his daughter
With a huge tray of macaroni cheese
The silly man thought that would be enough
To sit down and rest as you please.
Get to work on that stuffing
Slice up that plantain
Next are the yummy yum yams
So true 'no pain, no gain'.
Not long now we're all arriving
Is this what they mean by Christmas cheer
Poor old Eddie's hardly got the energy
To crack open a tin of beer.
As we tackled the food mountain
We held our breath with cake on his plate
As...YES! Eddie's finally redeemed himself
By spooning it down a year too late!

Dulwich Poet 26th December 2017

(Last year on Christmas Day my sister's partner couldn't manage any of her home made cake. I wrote a poem about it. Here's the '2017 revenge' poem!)

"Thugs & Muggers"

This is the big one
The Boxing Day derby's here
They're right near the bottom
So this game should hold no fear.
This is the one I want to win most
More than any other game
And if they turn us over
I'll only have myself to blame.
Did I cross the road too early
Or sit on the wrong tram seat?
Wear the unlucky pair of socks
My fault if we get beat!
I don't care about Billericay
For Tamplin I don't give a toss
It will break my heart today
If we finish with a loss.
This is the one that gets me buzzing
Fills my heart with joy
The big one I always want to win
As a Dulwich fan man and boy.
I don't care if it's scrappy
If we can't string together a pass
I'll settle for a one-nil own-goal
Rebounding off someone's arse.
No need to be greedy
Though I want to crush them out of sight
A repeat of St. Paul Harding's Day*
Six one would make my night.
So come on Dulwich Hamlet
This could be our swansong before we fold
How about leaving me with a memory
For me to cherish when I get old?

Dulwich Poet 26th December 2017

(I wrote this on the way to the Dulwich Hamlet Boxing Day game away to our bitter rivals t*****g & mitcham united, AKA the thugs & muggers)

*Boxing Day 1984: Dulwich Hamlet 6, thugs & muggers 1-Paul Harding hat-trick.

"Poetry Virgin No More"

Badahur, Tony, Knuckles
Whatever name you choose
Tonight I'm so proud of you
Stepping up in your poetry shoes.
The first time's always daunting
Reading at an Open Mic
But you really grew into it
What's there not to like?
Why are we so scared of sharing
Jotting down a thought
This poetry lark's for everyone
Not just the well-spoken educated sort.
I can't wait to hear you next time
Whenever that may be
Your poetry deserves a wider audience
Not just a sad old fucker like me!
No need to feel inferior
Or fear a posh much-syllabled word
Working class poetry
Is crying out to be heard.
Have you heard the saying
The pen is mightier than the sword
Arise and get up on that stage
You're a poet not a fraud!

Dulwich Poet 21st December 2017

(A mate of mine read at an Open Mic for the first time tonight in Chatham, in Kent)

"Bah Humbug & Proud!"

In truth I don’t like Christmas
How I hate this time of year
Just want the whole bloody thing over
Never had much cheer.
Go ahead and enjoy it
Just accept it’s not for me
I’m actually quite proud of the fact
I’ve never had a Christmas tree.
You say: “Come on smile, it’s Christmas”
Ask  where’s that happiness and cheer
I prefer less of that right now
If you could spread it round all year.
How many people are there out there
With this forced jollity unable to cope
The only way they are able to do so
Is hanging in a noose on a rope?
In a way I am lucky
I can go to family for free food
No cards or presents delivered
It just me and not deliberately rude.
I’m not going to go totally skint
Spending money I haven’t got
Just because I’m playing Mr. Scrooge
Doesn’t mean I’m not happy with my lot.
Dinner at my sisters
Loads of meat & spuds on my plate
And already being a fat bastard
It don’t matter if I put on weight.
But I’d be just as content
In my rented room only me
Snacking away on junk food
Watching a library DVD.
In truth I only want one thing for Christmas
Seeing my team win on Boxing Day
Three points off the Thugs & Muggers keeping me going
Until the season ends in May.
I’m equally at ease home alone
Or sat round the family table
The only thing that ruins this time of year for me

Is that lazy ‘killjoy’ label.
I’m happy to be happy
In my non-Christmassy ordinary way
And if you can’t accept that
Then fuck off on Santa’s sleigh!

 Dulwich Poet 20^th December 2017

 ( My take on Christmas!)

"The Question Is..."

Tonight
I've no need to quiz you
For I know
It was a job well done
Within reason...
I'm more than happy
To pat myself
On the back.
Plaudits from others
That's what I struggle with.
I done ok...
That's another monkey
Off my back
As we get a step
Closer to Hamburg.
Which is a weird feeling
Not knowing if...
We have a team to take there.

Dulwich Poet 29th November 2017

(Last night I ran a fundraising quiz night, to help the fund to take Dulwich Hamlet to Germany in July 2018...)

"Not So Spartan"

Sitting in a local boozer
This is where I should belong
Over fifteen years sober
Hope that doesn't sound wrong.
The Blythe Hill Tavern
It's won awards you know
The Catford pub with a Forest Hill postcode
It's the place to go.
A tidy little boozer
I can feel the warmth and it's clean
Not sure I would have appreciated that
When I was an 'apprentice pisshead' teen.
I'm here to read poetry
A lot on the Open Mic
undoubtedly I'll be back again
This is a venue I like.
Not shoved upstairs
A dingy room above a pub
We're right in the centre
Taking over a bar at the hub.
There's 'ordinary' punters here
Sitting round the side
Quietly taking in words heard
Or in the far corner to hide.
Can't see any fancy coffees
Or posh gastro dining list
People they just come here
To get merry and a bit pissed.
Clearly an Irish run local
And no worse for that
Genuinely homely
Not filled with 'Plastic Paddy' tat.
A bit of 'diddly-dah' fiddling
Not intrusive but a lovely sound
I'm sure to come back again
One of the most relaxed venues I've found.
So if you're ever going past
And see me popping in for a drink
I've not fallen off the waggon
It's not what you think.
I'm just doing poetry in a traditional boozer
21st Century in an old fashioned way
If all venues were like this
I'd read every fucking day!

Dulwich Poet 23rd November 2017

(I went to a poetry Open Mic, that was in a put called the Blythe Hill Tavern, and it was in the pub itself, which was a really nice little local boozer)

"Throwing In The Towel"

Alone I stay in hostels
Because they are so cheap
It's just a place to crash out
Late at night to sleep.
I don't really socialise
Sort of nod and chat
Often the room-mates are younger
So I leave it at that.
The downside is that it's always easy
To have a five-knuckle shuffle
In the darkness of the dorm
You can hear the quietest ruffle.
Other than that they suit me
Somewhere to rest my head
All I'm rally after
Is somewhere to crash with a bed.
I leave my towel on my pillow
So it marks it down as mine
As long as I've got a secure locker
Everything else is fine.
But this time I got annoyed
There was a tealeaf on the prowl
In the daytime when I was out
Some fucker nicked my towel!
I know I shouldn't have brought it
A North American ice hockey gift
Although if I'm slightly honest
I'm not sure why I'm miffed.
Because nice as it was
I'm not a Montreal Canadians fan
And I lose lots of things
Though try not to if I can.
For a little while I was gutted
Would've killed the fucker if I could
Making mountains out of a molehill
Getting more wound up than I should.
Rather than go mental
And attack the culprit with a proverbial cosh
It really wasn't the end of the world
As I could still shower and wash.
Still got more towels at home
While nicking mine was taking the piss
It's going to take a lot more to ruin my week away
Than something as minor as this.

Dulwich Poet 6th November 2017

(On my recent trip to Budapest, I stayed in a basic backpackers hostel...someone actually nicked my towel from my bed!)

"Lost"

The Metro I could cope with
Getting around without much fuss
But it was so confusing
Sorting a tram line from a bus.
Usually I'm fine
I can deal with this travelling lark
But Budapest left me baffled
Especially in the dark.
Street name were confusing
Weird Hungarian babble
If only real place were allowed
They'd be brilliant in Scrabble.
I gave up trying to find the ice hockey
I didn't know my 'utca' from my arse
It wasn't worth getting wound up about
Just had to let it pass.
I was partly to blame
My research wasn't rally thorough
To be totally honest
I could've been in a different area or borough.
But that's the beauty of 'Bill-no-Mates'
Getting lost only annoys myself
Winding yourself up on holiday
Isn't good for your health.
So I missed out on Hungarian hockey
Hardly what I'd call a crime
And it gives me something to look forward to
When I come back next time.

Dulwich Poet 5th November 2017

(When I was in Budapest recently, I couldn't quite get to grips with the public transport system & street names & got lost several times)

"What's Magyar for Scum?"

I went to top flight football
Ujpest was their name
But after the match on Saturday
They'll never be the same.
At heart I'm an old romantic
Seventies European nights in black and white
Exotic sounding like Ujpest Dosza
Memories turned to shite.
You wouldn't have thought it was the 21st-Century
With so much monkey noise
Glad I wasn't stuck behind the goal
With the racist Ultra boys.
Not that I'd have said anything
My safety comes first
But on all my continental travels
This really was the worst.
Ujpest aren't my team
But I like to pick a side
Usually it's the home lot
But I've got some pride.
Videoton had two black players
Racism's more than taking the piss
And when Ujpest got a penalty in stoppage time
I was praying for them to miss.
My pleas to my God Edgar were answered
Unsurprising as Hegazi was his hero
The euphoria of the home scum
Plummeted to less than zero.
A great save by the keeper
A point each they'd have to share
Serves you right you racist fuckers
For polluting my football air.


Dulwich Poet 3rd November 2017

(This was about the racism at a Hungarian first division match between Ujpest and Videoton, which I went to on Saturday 28th October. My 'God Edgar' refers to Edgar Kail the great Dulwich Hamlet pre-War player, and Hegazi is the Egyptian international he would have watched playing before us, before the First World War), when he was a schoolboy)

"At the Pictures"

What an absolute bargain
When you've an hour at night to kill
Less than three quid to go to the cinema
Where you can sit down and chill.
The film might not be to your taste
As is says 'Sex Shop' on the door
And they're screening a gay one
Which makes me love it more.
Almost in darkness
Only one or two people around
Undo my belt and drop trousers
Practically without a sound.
Looking up at the big screen
Such beauty to watch
My handing won't be straying
Not moving from my crotch.
I don't speak Hungarian
But language is universal you'll find
The other blokes' in the room
seem to know what's on my mind.
We're all here for the same thing
Wanking in the dark
To me it seems much safer
Than trying to cruise in a park.
Some thing you can't hold off
It's time for mouths to open wide
There's nothing better than someone's cock
Filling up inside.
Don't get me wrong I'm not obsessed
I only went there twice
And at home when they ask how I'm holiday was
I'll coyly say it was nice!

Dulwich Poet 3rd November 2017

(This is, as you can see, about going to a sex cinema in Budapest!)

"Just My Luck"

What a fucking palarva
It could only happen to me
My left luggage locker won't open
Stuck in a strange country.
Couldn't remember which locker
But it had '40' on the key
There was no-one to help
As far as I could see.
Running round like a headless chicken
As I started to panic
There appeared a beautiful vision
Just as I was about to go manic.
A young Hungarian railway beauty
I wasn't even thinking 'Phwoar!'
But judging by his age I thought
He'd speak English and help me more.
He came round to the lockers
Seeing I was in distress
In truth close to tears of frustration
At getting in such a mess.
Taking my key he tried it
Having no luck at all
Taking his phone out of his pocket
He made that emergency call.
He told them the problem
Help would be half an hour
I was in a right old panic
This trip was going sour.
I had no real money left
And was sure I'd miss my flight
Thought I'd end up like Tom Hanks in 'Terminal'
Sleeping on the airport floor that night.
I had visions of me calling my brother
Pleading for an emergency fare
Otherwise the airport would become my home
A travel Groundhog Day nightmare.
My young knight in shining armour
He left me as I shook his hand
Should've taken his photo...laminated by my bed
But that was the last thing on my mind
I'd make do with a fading memory instead.
Not longer than half an hour
The locker company's man came to do the job
After he'd handed me 'my' bag
He must have thought me a knob!
Turns out my key said forty
And that's the locker he tried
But it wasn't my bag
That was stuck inside.
My key matched the one underneath
With a different number on the door
As if you remember where you dump your bag
I'm sure you know the score.
Now it was the mad dash
Before it was too late
Bypassing a last trip to the supermarket
Before they closed my boarding gate.
I just about managed it
With literally minutes to spare
And I'm chilling out writing poetry
Sat in my Ryanair chair!

Dulwich Poet 2nd November 2017

(Less than three hours before my check-in closes to come home from Budapest Airport, I am stuck at one of the main Budapest train stations, because the key in my left luggage won't work. It's key number 40, which I put in locker 40. Turns out my stuff was in locker 42!)

"All Too Brief"

I never thought I'd feel this sad
Sitting on a train
Just spent one day with family
Don't know when I'll see them again.
They say home is where the heart is
And I feel this for sure
The welcome from practical strangers
Was emotional and more.
My namesake uncle deceased
Putting flowers on his grave
Something I genuinely wanted to do 
Not just the right way to behave.
Paying my respects
To family I never knew
Seeing my surname on headstones
Made me Hungarian too.
I'm not usually 'touchy-feely'
But did the either cheek 'kiss,kiss'
For this was my distant family
What could be more natural than this?
What's more I'm no longer a 'virgin'
By that I mean I used Skype
I doubt I'll ever use it again
Back to 'Luddite' text and type!
My cousin was translating
Explaining every word
With me lacking all Hungarian
Not knowing a dickie bird.
There she was in Manchester
Me in her Szeged home town
At first I couldn't work out what was happening
Wearing a right old puzzled frown!
I saw so many photos
Trying to picture my family tree
Fascinated by that little English kid
Was it really me?
It's so long ago
Being only four or five
But an old black and white photo in a folder
Has brought part of my childhood alive.
And who's that little child...
My dad as a little boy
Looking at a fading picture
Brings me such joy.
This is part of where I come from
Indelibly making up my past
To say I'm happy is an understatement
Coming home to Szeged at last.

Dulwich Poet 1st November 2017

(I wrote this on the train back to Budapest, from my dad's home town of Szeged, having visited the place, and my family there for the first time...at the age of 51)

"Jobsworth"

The man's a total cretin
Complete imbecile
If ever he's on Death Row
Hope he half-chokes on his last meal.
I'd chop his fucking balls off
Serve them us as an In The Jungle dinner
And if he were a contestant
I'd make him eat the corpse of Michael Winner.
I hope you get your toes trapped
At the bottom of an escalator
And I'd chop your fucking cock off
So you'd still be a wanker but not a masturbator.
You'd never sleep at night
Cos I'd play you Big Ben on a loop
Then for breakfast I'd piss and shit in a bowl
And make you eat it for soup.
I'd brink back to life 'Mad' Frankie Frazer
Getting him to pull out your teeth
I'd tie you up naked hugging a tree
Deep into Hampstead Heath.
Sadly none of this will happen
They're just thoughts in my head
You'll go home oblivious tonight
Rather than maimed and dead.
In truth I just pity you
And the way you apply your role
When all I simply wanted to do
Was stand behind either goal.

Dulwich Poet 1st November 2017

(A steward at a Hungarian third division match didn't particularly enamour himself to me...this is for him!)

"Going Home"

The train's a bit of a boneshaker
But that's how I like it best
On the so-called Hungarian Inter-City
To Szeged from Budapest.
A relic from the Eighties
Maybe even older
Windows that pull halfway down
Sunny but bracingly colder.
Half an hour until I arrive
Don't know what the day holds for me
Being met my 'mystery' relatives
Just have to wait and see.
My old man left here in Fifty Six
Never to return
Now I'm on my way 'in his place'
It took so long to return.
I've never felt Hungarian
I'm English through and through
But I'm also proudly European
This is something I always wanted to do.
Not sure if it's 'spiritual'
In truth I'm shit scared
A family pilgrimage I need to make
No idea why I've never dared.
Scared of the unknown
I think they'll love me being here
Totally irrational
That I hold so much fear.
Even though I'm from London
Being Hungarian is in my DNA
And that's the genuine reason
Why I got up at six o'clock today.

Dulwich Poet 1st November 2017

(I wrote this on the train from Budapest to Szeged, when I was visiting relatives, who still live in the town where my old man came from)

"Shot to Pieces"

If this was America
I'm sure I'd be long dead
If this was America
I'd have taken a bullet to my head.
If this was America
It's so easy to commit suicide
If this was America
I'm sure I would have died.
If this was America
I'd have blown out my brain
If this was America
I wouldn't worry about trying again.
If this was America
I'm sure I would have gone on a killing spree
If this was America
Guns would have been the end of me.
Fortunately This is England
And my thoughts stay in my head
I'm too scared of the pain of not succeeding
When I occasionally think of being dead.
I've said it before I'm not normal
But not crazy enough to be mad
I don't have a life but an existence
Which you might think rather sad.
But fortunately This IS England
And I've no guns to blow away my brain
My weapon of choice is poetry
Which I use to keep me sane.

Dulwich Poet 30th October 2017

(This one is about the ease of obtaining guns in America, and how easy it is to kill others or yourself over there as a result..)

"Magyar Boy on the Bus"

Sat on the seat across from me
You're holding her hand
But before she got on this bus
I had it mentally planned.
Six foot tall and sexy
Almost my dream Magyar boy
Tonight in the darkness of my hostel dorm
You'll give secret five-knuckle joy.
I'll be quietly imagining
It was me not her you gave a kiss
I'll be dreaming of you giving me
Unimaginable holiday bliss!
How can you not realise
What a porn star you could be
You'd sell DVDs by the million
Thanks to lonely old men like me.
You're totally wasted with her
I can see the boredom in your eyes
I know you'll love it once you try it
Go on try me for size!

Dulwich Poet 30th October 2017

[There was a young Hungarian lad sat opposite me. 'Ruined' when his girlfriend got on! But nice to look at him while it lasted! ;-) ]

"Budofoki Fucker"

This is Hungarian Third Division
Does it matter where I sit?
For this game I'm forced in the corner
Stuck in the away bit.
How am I supposed to know
Which ticket booth is home or away
All I've really done
Is come to watch football today.
I was here early
A nice steward let me through
Realised I wasn't an away fan
But a football tourist
So he knew the right thing to do.
I tried to do a circuit
Got three quarters of the way round
Then the stroppy security gorilla spotted me
And forced me back to the away part of the ground.
I tried to explain I was a neutral
But language got in the way
Pushed toward the visitors bit
It's where I would have to stay.
To be honest I'm not complaining
Though he was miles rougher than Champion Hill
Those who moan about our stewards at home
Really need to chill.
So it's strictly segregated
At a ground ruled by fear
The intimidation factor's less than zero
Less than three hundred here.
Still I managed to get my photos
So I won't make a fuss
All I've to worry about now
Is how long I'll wait for my bus.

Dulwich Poet 29th October 2017

(On Sunday 29th October I went to a Hungarian third division match, there were probably no more than 300 people there, and I accidentally got a ticket for the away bit. One steward made me go to the away bit, when I tried to walk round the ground, and when in the away pen, other stewards let me through to the away bit. When I got to the other side of the ground the same earlier steward, was pushing me round to the away bit, giving it large in Hungarian, he was what the word 'muggy cunt' was invented for, but built like the proverbial brick shit house, I did as he said!)

"Aimless in Budapest"

It's eight o'clock Sunday morning
I'm travelling on a tram
No idea where it's going
Couldn't give a damn.
I'm a  poor tourist
No plan for when it starts to pour
Other than riding public transport
Too wet to really explore.
Trying to look out of the window
Steamed up and covered with rain
I'm supposed to be normal
Surely there's something wrong with my brain!
I'll sit here til we reach the 'mystery destination'
See what's the last stop on the line
Once this blasted rain stops
Everything will be fine.
All I really want to do
Is wander aimlessly round the streets
To be honest ending up at Szell Kalmon Ter
Wasn't going to be one of my treats.
Not much here to snap
It's just far too wet
Fortunately there's a Metro station
So underground I'm going to get.
There's a stop I've been eyeing
Captivated by them name
'Puskas Ferenc Stadion' it's called
After the greatest in the game.
How can I resist that
Pissing down or not
My only regret now is the weather
Wishing it was sunny and hot.
Except...riding up the escalator
My cheap brolly blown apart
Turn toward the stadium
I'm such a stupid fart.
For it's long since flattened
Just a building site
There'd still be nothing to see
If it was dry and bright.
I really should have known this
But a least it's my 'secret' mistake
Pretending to be a football grounds expert
No-one will know I'm a fake!

Dulwich Poet 29th October 2017

(On holiday in Budapest, there was heavy rain, and I was just sitting on buses and train going round the city. I got off at the stadiom named after Ferenc Puskas, hoping there might be a statue or something outside. Instead there was nothing...it's been demolished..and isn't sue to be completed until 2019 at the least! D'oh!)

"Who's Judging?"

Some thing really annoy me
Even though I don't know the law
And that's when some discriminates
By only punishing the poor.
You've got to think of her future
Never mind the crime
She's Oxford University don't you know
Too talented to do time.
high on drink and drugs
All she did was stab her bloke
If you want to avoid jail
Maybe stick to Diet Coke.
Never mind the youngster
Who's got a different colour skin
Dropped out of school at fifteen
Consigning their future to the bin.
If this was a black working class youngster
Would you have been spared a prison cell
I know nothing about applying the law
But know the answer well.
I'm not one of these 'do-good softies'
Who plead a twentieth 'second chance'
Whether it's a wannabe gangster or clever student
It should be jail without a glance.
Middle class and privileged
Shouldn't be a 'get out of jail' card
When being sentenced by an old duffer
Is based on how posh your yard.
All I want is fairness
When you do your sentencing task
Basing punishment on deed not upbringing
Is that really too much to ask?

Dulwich Poet 4th October 2017

(Oxford University student was recently spared jailed as it might harm her future prospects after stabbing her boyfriend while high on drink and drugs)

"Can't Be Arsed"

Despite what everyone's expecting
I can't think of a piece to write
No seriously, I'm struggling
Try as hard as I might.
Why should I churn out something
Just 'cos it's National Poetry Day
Expected to scribble a piece
A poet having his say.
I could conjure up some sort of rhyme
Decided to give it a miss
I don't make up words to order
Are you taking the piss?
Just like a dog's not just for Christmas
But a companion for all-year round play
Me making up run-of-the-mill shit poem
Ain't just for National Poetry Day.

Dulwich Poet 28th September 2017

(Today is National Poetry Day. This was my 'contribution'...)

"Silly Billy Pilley"

I've always believed in honesty
Say something to my face
But don't do that and not explain
You fucking basket case.
Whisper it gently
I 'secretly' like the 'poetry scene'
Not just my fellow working class poets
Even the middle class and all shapes inbetween.
Some of the hipster cunts I can't stand
But in the main I'm polite
It's all part and parcel
Of a spoken word poetry night.
As I said, whisper it gently
Some of those 'weird ones' are OK
I really can't get angry with them
So tempers never fray.
That almost changed
After I tried to be polite
Having enjoying being part of an event
I went to shake someone's hand goodnight.
It was someone I hadn't seen for a while
Not so much a friend but someone I knew 
Holding my hand out to say hello
That's when I nearly blew!
Trying to ignore me
He went to turn away
I was bemused to say the least
Didn't know what to say.
"Turncoat and a traitor"
That is what he sneered
Did I really hear that right
This is fucking weird.
It tool a moment to register
Is that what he said
What's the cunt on about
Trying to mess with my head.
Like I'm really bothered
I'm not playing to your tune
Spouting a load of drivel
You're just fucking loon!
You've tried to wind up the wrong person
As you'll find next time we meet
When I ask you next for an explanation
You'll be in for a treat.
If you want to play silly Pilley
Two can play at this game
And it's not one that I'll lose
For you more's the shame.
I'm not one of those you can bully
In your poncy luvvie style
I thought it best to tell you
This might go on for a while.
That's until you make an apology
Say you made a mistake
Cos you can't intimidate me
You muggy cunt hard man fake.
A middle class no-mark tosser
Who hails from Southend-on-Sea
Do you really think little Essex boy
You're going to intimidate me?
I wouldn't meekly take what you said
At football from one of my own
To a traitor and a turncoat who I used to like
Can you reap what you have sown?

Dulwich Poet 29th August 2017

(Last Saturday, after reading at a poetry event, one of the 'performers' refused to shake my hand, and called me a 'traitor and a turncoat', then refused to explain...)

"All Poets Are Cunts"

This was the name of someone else's poem
Down the years I've pulled off some stunts
But can I knock up a rhyme
That basically calls all poets cunts?
Would that therefore include me
Yes, I suppose it should
If you think I qualify as a cunt
All well and good.
So who are the ones who are
The ones who get my goat
The ones that annoy me
Who get my poetry cunt vote?
First of all it's called Spoken Word
The clue is in the name
Don't give me your failed comedian routine
It's not the fucking same.
Polite applause if you like me
If not please mutter and tut
But none of that clicking your fingers
It really does my nut.
Headliners and features
You should have your set planned
"I was going to do this but now might to that.."
Is what I really can't stand.
You've had a month of planning
You're here to entertain
All your indecisiveness
Starts to drive me insane.
Don't get me started on floor spots
The ones who over-run
If only this were America
I'd shoot you with a gun.
You might not like my poetry
Think I'm a bit of a cock
Fair play I can cope with that
At least I stick to the clock.
Then there's the talkative hosts
Who I don't really wish ill
But if you want to be centre of attention
Put yourself on your features bill.
As for the ones who turn up
And fuck off after they've read
Now matter how good they are
Total cunts it must be said!
It's like going to a football match
And pissing off at half-time
I can't understand your reason
Never mind your rhyme.
As if poetry cunts aren't enough
There's Poetry Wankers as well
I give you Shoreditch and Dalston
Those middle class tossers from hell.
I'm talking about those hipsters
Who I take the piss out of when I write
Laughing at themselves as I do
Too dumb to even bite.
Despite the title of this poem
Poetry I really like
You can't all be total cunts
Or I wouldn't come to Open Mic.
There's 'Diamond Geezers' Like Ernie
Who has nights like Platform 1
A weird and wonderful variety
That makes it such fun.
Not forgetting the headliners
That keep it weird and fresh
None more so than tonight
A talented lad called Spesh!


Dulwich Poet 19th August 2017


( After going to the August 'Platform 1 Poetry' at the Poetry Café, I went over to the pub for a drink after, with the host, and a few of the poets. In the random conversations Ernie, the host mentioned that he one wrote one called 'All Poets Are Cunts'. Also there was Spesh, who is one of the feature poets next month. I took the title as a 'challenge' and am going to 'surprise' them by reading this at the upcoming September event, in a few weeks, as part of my five minute Open Mic slot)

"Walk On"

I've never learned to drive
So don't own a car
Train ,bus or Shanks' Pony
Travelling near or far.
I'm not getting any younger
Body falling apart
Soon I'll be on my way to the cemetery
Coffin chucked on a horse and cart.
But before that happens
I'm scared of a living hell
Not being able to walk anywhere
I'd rather be in a padded cell.
Happy to stroll all over
Whether it's one mile or ten
But my tootsies are playing up
Frightened I won't walk again.
Paranoia creeping in
Scared they'll chop off my big toe
If that ever happened
It would be the final blow.
I don't think I'd manage
Certain I'd never cope
If I couldn't stroll about town
I'd give up all hope.
That's the way my mind works
Even though I'm 'sane'
If they chopped my toes off
I'd hop in front of a train.
I went to the Foot Clinic early
Shitting myself nervous as fuck
Certain they'd send me to hospital
Which would just be my luck.
Instead the nurse scalpeled the crap
Checked out my bruised infected toe
It certainly wasn't perfect
But it had some way to go.
It needs a bit of resting
Me to take more care
My big toe may be a little mashed up
But at least it's still there.


Dulwich Poet 15th August 2017


( I have an on-going problem with my foot. It's mainly the big toe, and recently it was badly bruised, so I went to my local Foot Clinic earlier than my scheduled appointment. Unsurprisingly it's not as bad as I feared...my on-going nightmare is amputation, which HAS happened to a few mates of mine, who have had toes chopped off!)

"Not Quite The Extra Mile"

So much for the 'Magic of the Cup'
This was really dire
To describe it as anything else
You'd have to call me a liar.
ballooning over the bar
Or wide of the post
I never thought they'd score
Practically given up the ghost.
Second half only 'enlivened'
By a bout of 'handbags' not skill
A bit of a brawl and shoving
Was the only thrill.
Until deep in stoppage
Tower Hamlets got the only goal
With extra-time and penalties looming
It got us out of a midnight finish hole!
Not a contest I will savour
But it still beat staying at home
Judging by the big attendance
I certainly wasn't alone.
A bit of 'dodgy accounting'
I heard it was officially 68
Maybe if you doubled that
You might be close to the gate.
There were some of those groundhopping types
Who did a count of their own
Someone said 147
Official figure well blown.
The home side were delighted
Celebrating at the end
Totally shameless after that 'performance'
clearly round the bend.
Maybe they're just 'unwell'
With that 'Cup Fever' disease
Bottom line is they're in the next round
Cavorting as they please.
The football might not have been the greatest
Should've given Mile End a wide berth
But I didn't have the benefit of hindsight
And this is still the greatest competition on earth.


Dulwich Poet 7th August 2017 


(I went to an FA Cup extra-preliminary round replay tonight, at Mile End Stadium: Towers Hamlets versus Broxbourne Borough...not the greatest of games I've seen!)

"Cup Magic"

Today I went to an FA Cup tie
In the extra-preliminary round
In truth I've got to be honest
It was to 'tick' another ground.
Despite what the Big Boys believe
The Cup doesn't start in the New Year
It's right now in early August
With clubs that are small beer.
Their 'Cup Final' would be
Drawing a club like my own
Dreaming of a giant-killing
When all my hopes would be blown.
Today's not about Dulwich Hamlet
Just the two teams on the pitch
St. Margaretsbury against Burnham Ramblers
Hoping to strike it rich.
Not compared to Neymar
For who two hundred million was found
Whoever wins this tie today
Will pick up just over a thousand pound.
But for me this is real football
Traditional 'kick, bollock and bite'
Granted not as skilful
But not a prima donna in sight.
The only WAGs in the ground
Are four legged with a tail
A billion light years away
From the likes of Gareth Bale.
The 'Hoppers' might be annoyed
Programmes gone long before the start
But does that really matter
 When this is football's beating heart?
Contrary to what we're told every year
The magic of the Cup's still alive
I'm experiencing it here at Station Road
Despite both side being only Step Five.

Dulwich Poet 6th August 2017

(A cup tie on a Sunday, switched from the day before due to the cricket club playing at the same venue. New ground for me, so why not?)

"Down by the Riverside"

It's been such a long day
On my way from a game
I decided to go walkies
Only myself to blame.
I could've been back at the station
For the five nineteen
But at one stage this evening...
Well I've got to come clean.
I thought I wouldn't get home
If it started to get dark
I envisaged dossing
In a local park.
Rather than jump on that train
I strolled along the River Lea
I thought I knew where I was going
Same old stupid me.
The path took some sort of diversion
No signs around
Right there in front of me
Was a caravan and camping ground.
I tried to get back on course
Checking left and right
I knew I wasn't far from Broxbourne
But no markers in sight.
Heading down an overgrown footpath
Hoping it was approximately going my way
And now my plates were hurting
For this walk I'd start to pay.
I crossed over a railway line
But no path by the train
I seriously considered turning back
Despite my growing pain.
I came to a smaller river
Thankfully a local walked past
He pointed me in the right direction
I'm heading home at last!
I kept to the path by the water
And there it was like he said
I really couldn't believe
Tonight I'll sleep in my bed.
I never thought I'd say this
But there's no more beautiful sight
Than spying Broxbourne station
Just as dusk turns into night!

Dulwich Poet 6th August 2017

(Yesterday I was in Hertfordshire, to watch a game of football. Instead of getting a train straight back I thought it would be nice to walk along a bit of the River Lea & pick up a train a couple of stops down the line...thankfully I made it, but got a little lost on the way...)

"Playing In The Garden"

It wouldn't have been my first choice
Going to Chatham Town
But it's the price I pay
For seeing a mate when he's down.
Football's our anti-depressant
Where we go to chill
A greasy half-time burger
Acting as our happy pill.
'Enticed' by Erith and Belvedere
In their traditional quartered kit
I pretend I'd rather be elsewhere
But I'm still liking it.
A mix of old and new
Ancient stand hanging on
Harking back to better days
Lots of seas now gone.
Relegated last year
Back down to Step five
A handful of volunteers
Keeping them alive.
Spanking new floodlights
Officially opened in the week
Conceding twelve against Gillingham
The future must seem bleak.
There's this bubbly old boy
Don't think he knows how to frown
Turns out he's one of their officials
Losing today won't get him down.
Epitomising non league
Enthusiasm overflowing
A three one defeat today
He knows it'll be hard going.
didn't know him from Adam
But he stopped for a word
Even though we were strangers
Could've been a groundhopping nerd.
The football wasn't top notch
Plus it poured down with rain
But it was a down to earth friendly
No doubt we'll be back again.

Dulwich Poet 27th July 2017

(I wrote this after I'd been to Chatham Town v. Erith & Belvedere in a pre-season friendly on Saturday, with a mate of mine, who chose the game. Kent is commonly referred to as the 'Garden of England'.)

"Football for a Fiver"

The billboards say "Twenty's Plenty"
Do they know the value of a score
For tonight at Holmesdale
It would have paid for four.
Sitting in the ramshackle stand
That would fail a health & safety test
I couldn't be more comfortable
That's why I love non-league best.
Before kick-off I speak to their chairman
Catching up chewing the fat
Sharing snippets of gossip
How can you argue with that.
The only thing that stinks
Is the wafting of manure
This might be South London suburbia
But there's horses in fields next door.
A few miles from what I'm used to
And three levels below
But beggars can't be choosers
Where else is there to go.
In truth I'm happy to be here
It's the way I chill
Pre-season v. a Bromley XI
Certainly fits the bill.
No pretence of a programme
Not a groundhopper in sight
Less than a hundred locals
Here for football tonight.
We're not here to tick a box
Or touch a corner flag
Not bothered there's no bit of paper
To place in our plastic bag.
Simply here foe the match
That's what makes me tick
If you want to laugh at me
Go on take the mick.
This might not be Dulwich Hamlet
But I'm easy to please
Contented here at Oakley Road
No "Twenty's Plenty" Premiership sleaze.

Dulwich Poet 26th July 2017

(I wrote this sat in the stand at a pre-season friendly between Holmesdale & Bromley)

"Martin"

I know I'll never be like
Nor want to end up like you
You may think you're 'Mr. Dulwich'
But have the respect of few.
Only caring about number one
Rather than the Club
You're actually the sort of bloke
No-one would buy a drink in a pub.
I'm not denying you did your bit
But it was YOU that came first
Anyone who comes after you
They must do their worst.
Constant sniping and moaning
It wears everyone else down
When you should be treated with dignity
You're laughed at like a clown.
No idea of decorum
Which is why you lack respect
Even though you're three score and ten
I can't believe you've not been decked.
Now your photo's been smashed
As you sully our Boardroom wall
I genuinely resent the fact
You come to games at all.
I can't really hate you
You're not even worth that
To be honest I pity you
When in the corner you're sat.
Slagging off your replacement
Before his foot's even in the door
Sadly it's what I'd expect from you
Attitude so poor.
Out of touch with reality
Your cronies have had their day
If only you'd do the decent thing
And simply stay away.
So desperate to be important
Now so out of touch
Skin so thick you won't grasp
Why hardly anyone likes you much.
Now you live in the West Country
Go find somewhere local
That's if you can pull the wool over
Some stupid sheep-shagging local.
You've always had your own agenda
Looking after your good self
Oh how much I like it
That you're not in perfect health!
Even though we're stuck with you
And you'll be a around for quite a while
I'm comforted that when you die
You'll finally make me smile.


Dulwich Poet 26th July 2017


(This one is NOT one I'm going to publish on Facebook, as the person it's about is a FB friend with me, just not worth the hassle! )