Time for cliché corner
"It's the hope I can't stand"
Bottom line is I should say
All optimism should be banned.
On the way to a play-off
Doing it Hamburg style
Round-robin in a group
So it's not such a trial.
No winner-takes-all
Repeat of Bognor pain
If we lose today
Wednesday's try again.
It may not be The Hamlet
But nerves still kick in
The coach gets near to Bremen
Desperate for an Altona win.
A victory up north today
Won't mean job done yet
But three points in the bag
Will make us more of a promotion bet.
The tedium of the bus
Staring at motorway for the trip
Boisterous drinking and songs
No peace for a kip!
Can't understand the chants
But soak up the buzz
Like a little kid inside
That's what football does.
Aside from that I'm lucky
I've got my dreams and hope
Is it really fifteen years since
Admitting I couldn't cope?
Today's the actual day
That I gave up the drink
There really wasn't much lower
That I realistically could sink.
A decade and a half of sobriety
Today with the Altona crowd
If anything's worth recovery
Fussball Freunschaft makes me proud.
Here today in Bremen
I'm desperate to win
But if we go and lose
I'll hide a modest grin.
For today's still special
If we lose the game
I'll still be celebrating the moment
I kicked my alcohol shame.
Here they accept me
For who I am
Not hiding behind a bottle
Life was a total sham.
Today I'm going for a 'double, double'
And I don't mean pie & mash
I can now live a life
Without going on the lash.
Add to that a play-off win
Hopefully the first of three
And life may not be perfect
But where I am suits me.
Dulwich Poet 28th May 2017
( I wrote this on the coach to Bremen, for the first of my German side Altona 93's play-off matches...we won 1-0! Today is fifteen years to the day since I gave up drinking. What a wonderful 'birthday' present this game was!)
Sunday 28 May 2017
Friday 19 May 2017
"Life Sentence"
Don't get me wrong he was evil
But fifty years inside
When I thought of that stretch
I really could have cried.
No matter how nasty
Regardless of the crime
Whatever happened to compassion
Forcing one man to serve that time.
Di you stop as low as him
With your anger and rage
Was there NO forgiveness in your heart
To release him from his cage?
"Gotcha'!
As 'The Sun'
Once said...
More than happy
He's dead!
If there is such a place
Rot in hell
Brady you cunt!
Dulwich Poet 19th May 2017
(A bit of a 'tongue in cheek' wind-up poem about when Moors Murderer Ian Brady died)
But fifty years inside
When I thought of that stretch
I really could have cried.
No matter how nasty
Regardless of the crime
Whatever happened to compassion
Forcing one man to serve that time.
Di you stop as low as him
With your anger and rage
Was there NO forgiveness in your heart
To release him from his cage?
"Gotcha'!
As 'The Sun'
Once said...
More than happy
He's dead!
If there is such a place
Rot in hell
Brady you cunt!
Dulwich Poet 19th May 2017
(A bit of a 'tongue in cheek' wind-up poem about when Moors Murderer Ian Brady died)
"The Brady Bunch"
You're speaking for the nation
With your mock indignation
So angry were you
There was ONLY one thing to do.
Ian Brady's dead!
You can take it as read
In the Currant Bun's
Eight page special feature
On the Moors murdering creature.
Read all about it!
Nothing like
The scum of the earth
For boosting your profits
All the way to the bank
Wank total wank!
Fuck off Murdoch!
Dulwich Poet 19th May 2017
( Earlier in the week 'The Sun' ran an eight page special on the death of the Moors Murderer I an Brady)
With your mock indignation
So angry were you
There was ONLY one thing to do.
Ian Brady's dead!
You can take it as read
In the Currant Bun's
Eight page special feature
On the Moors murdering creature.
Read all about it!
Nothing like
The scum of the earth
For boosting your profits
All the way to the bank
Wank total wank!
Fuck off Murdoch!
Dulwich Poet 19th May 2017
( Earlier in the week 'The Sun' ran an eight page special on the death of the Moors Murderer I an Brady)
Thursday 18 May 2017
"I'm Sorry"
We call it English humour
Don't mention the War!
Making you apologise for it
I think you know the score.
Now it's my time to apologise
I'm sorry though I voted YES
I'm not one of those Brexiteers
Who put us in this mess!
That bastard Nigel Farage
As posh and rich as they come
Pretending he was Mr. Ordinary
While banging his racist drum.
Gullible people taken in
"I'm not racist but..."
Conned by the mantra of reversing
Every National Health Service cut.
Still, it could be worse
At least we're taking our country back
There's far too many foreigners
We're under attack!
We need to stand up for the British
Charity begins at home
Who cares about everyone else
It's time to stand alone.
I'm so proud to be British
As I drive my German car
And sit in my English pub
Drinking Belgian beer at the bar.
Served by a Polish barmaid
Then throw up on the floor
Mopped up by a Hungarian cleaner
As I stagger out the door.
Then I'll have a punch up
When I'm in a drunken state
Patched up by doctors and nurses
Who are all foreigners I hate.
Go home and eat Italian pizza
Maybe a bottle of French wine
Or washed down with a Bavarian beer
Drunk from a tourist stein.
Perhaps I'll make a sandwich
Filled with delicious Dutch cheese
Or some spicy salami from Spain
If that's what I please.
You see...we don't want you
But we'll take what you've got
Now you're being awkward
Putting us in a spot.
We want to leave your 'club'
How dare you not want to trade
And then you want to charge us
Expecting to get paid!
We shall sing 'Rule Britannia'
God bless Her Majesty the Queen
Don't you realise we're the greatest little island
The world has ever seen?
In truth I'm scared of the future
Who cares about the War?
Although when it comes to 1966
I'm happy to mention the score.
I shouldn't really be sorry
For I'm not the one to blame
But my country voted for Brexit
And I hold my head in shame.
Dulwich Poet 18th May 2017
(I wrote this in case I find a poetry Open Mic type night during my forthcoming trip to Hamburg, also to put into the first issue of a new small, free fanzine I am thinking of starting...)
Don't mention the War!
Making you apologise for it
I think you know the score.
Now it's my time to apologise
I'm sorry though I voted YES
I'm not one of those Brexiteers
Who put us in this mess!
That bastard Nigel Farage
As posh and rich as they come
Pretending he was Mr. Ordinary
While banging his racist drum.
Gullible people taken in
"I'm not racist but..."
Conned by the mantra of reversing
Every National Health Service cut.
Still, it could be worse
At least we're taking our country back
There's far too many foreigners
We're under attack!
We need to stand up for the British
Charity begins at home
Who cares about everyone else
It's time to stand alone.
I'm so proud to be British
As I drive my German car
And sit in my English pub
Drinking Belgian beer at the bar.
Served by a Polish barmaid
Then throw up on the floor
Mopped up by a Hungarian cleaner
As I stagger out the door.
Then I'll have a punch up
When I'm in a drunken state
Patched up by doctors and nurses
Who are all foreigners I hate.
Go home and eat Italian pizza
Maybe a bottle of French wine
Or washed down with a Bavarian beer
Drunk from a tourist stein.
Perhaps I'll make a sandwich
Filled with delicious Dutch cheese
Or some spicy salami from Spain
If that's what I please.
You see...we don't want you
But we'll take what you've got
Now you're being awkward
Putting us in a spot.
We want to leave your 'club'
How dare you not want to trade
And then you want to charge us
Expecting to get paid!
We shall sing 'Rule Britannia'
God bless Her Majesty the Queen
Don't you realise we're the greatest little island
The world has ever seen?
In truth I'm scared of the future
Who cares about the War?
Although when it comes to 1966
I'm happy to mention the score.
I shouldn't really be sorry
For I'm not the one to blame
But my country voted for Brexit
And I hold my head in shame.
Dulwich Poet 18th May 2017
(I wrote this in case I find a poetry Open Mic type night during my forthcoming trip to Hamburg, also to put into the first issue of a new small, free fanzine I am thinking of starting...)
Sunday 14 May 2017
"Play-off" haiku
Out of misery
Altona reach the play-offs
Hamburg here I come.
Dulwich Poet 14th May 2017
(My German side, Altona 93 looked like missing out on the promotion play-offs, but Concordia unexpectedly lost!)
Altona reach the play-offs
Hamburg here I come.
Dulwich Poet 14th May 2017
(My German side, Altona 93 looked like missing out on the promotion play-offs, but Concordia unexpectedly lost!)
Saturday 13 May 2017
"Take A Pew"
Doors are open
In I go.
Wandering around
To be nosy
And killing time.
Usually I look
For a guidebook
Never paying
The full price.
Two bob in the box
At most
Cos 'the church'
Whatever the brand
Can afford it.
I pop back
Inbetween poets
More time to kill.
Echoey and empty.
Just as well-
As I let rip
A half-decent fart
As I sit down on
A rather uncomfortable
Old wooden chair
It's almost as if
They don't really want
My sort in here.
The chair acts as a pew
Rather than my fart
Acting as a poo.
Here I am
Wafting farty smell
Overpowered by
The stench of incense.
Tiles chipped
And missing
On the floor
Paint flaking
And plaster gaps caking
The dirty old wall.
It's almost as if
They left the door open
As an afterthought
And they've got
Nothing to sell.
Come on in
But got to hell.
So to speak.
The only reason
I am here again
Is because
It's not quite a breezy
As the park
With the drunks
Round the back.
Clearly no spare
Communion wine here.
But I am still here.
Sat in a so-called
House of God.
I've yet to see the light
Or shout 'Hallelujah!'
And to be honest
I don't think I will
In the near future.
But who knows?
As they say...
The Lord works in mysterious ways.
Dulwich Poet 13th May 2017
(I was at a poetry magazine event, held in a church hall in Clerkenwell, Yesterday. I went to have a look in the church, the Holy Redeemer. It was quiet, with one or two people popping in. I sat down to rest, and this is what I randomly wrote...)
In I go.
Wandering around
To be nosy
And killing time.
Usually I look
For a guidebook
Never paying
The full price.
Two bob in the box
At most
Cos 'the church'
Whatever the brand
Can afford it.
I pop back
Inbetween poets
More time to kill.
Echoey and empty.
Just as well-
As I let rip
A half-decent fart
As I sit down on
A rather uncomfortable
Old wooden chair
It's almost as if
They don't really want
My sort in here.
The chair acts as a pew
Rather than my fart
Acting as a poo.
Here I am
Wafting farty smell
Overpowered by
The stench of incense.
Tiles chipped
And missing
On the floor
Paint flaking
And plaster gaps caking
The dirty old wall.
It's almost as if
They left the door open
As an afterthought
And they've got
Nothing to sell.
Come on in
But got to hell.
So to speak.
The only reason
I am here again
Is because
It's not quite a breezy
As the park
With the drunks
Round the back.
Clearly no spare
Communion wine here.
But I am still here.
Sat in a so-called
House of God.
I've yet to see the light
Or shout 'Hallelujah!'
And to be honest
I don't think I will
In the near future.
But who knows?
As they say...
The Lord works in mysterious ways.
Dulwich Poet 13th May 2017
(I was at a poetry magazine event, held in a church hall in Clerkenwell, Yesterday. I went to have a look in the church, the Holy Redeemer. It was quiet, with one or two people popping in. I sat down to rest, and this is what I randomly wrote...)
"Normality"
Sometimes...
I want to be 'normal'
As in...
Being a lonely middle-aged bloke
Who can walk into
A Wetherspoons
And order my
Cheap pint of lager
Sit in the corner alone
Pretend to be happy enough
Reading my paper
Minding my own business
Lost to the world
Drinking pint
After pint
After pint
Ad nauseam.
Pretending to be happy.
But if I did that
I would be dead by now.
So instead
I am content
To exist as I do
Still a lonely
Middle-aged man
Sitting in a Wetherspoons
But supping
Orange and lemonade
NO ICE
Perusing a poetry magazine
And happy just to be
Sober and alive.
Dulwich Poet 13th May 2017
(I jotted this down earlier today while having a pint of orange and lemonade in a Wetherspoons in Farringdon, I have been sober since 2002, yet still look wistfully at 'ordinary drinkers'...)
I want to be 'normal'
As in...
Being a lonely middle-aged bloke
Who can walk into
A Wetherspoons
And order my
Cheap pint of lager
Sit in the corner alone
Pretend to be happy enough
Reading my paper
Minding my own business
Lost to the world
Drinking pint
After pint
After pint
Ad nauseam.
Pretending to be happy.
But if I did that
I would be dead by now.
So instead
I am content
To exist as I do
Still a lonely
Middle-aged man
Sitting in a Wetherspoons
But supping
Orange and lemonade
NO ICE
Perusing a poetry magazine
And happy just to be
Sober and alive.
Dulwich Poet 13th May 2017
(I jotted this down earlier today while having a pint of orange and lemonade in a Wetherspoons in Farringdon, I have been sober since 2002, yet still look wistfully at 'ordinary drinkers'...)
"Changing World"
Every shop
Is 'poncified'
Not my manor
Or I would have cried.
Where's the pie & mash shop
Or the greasy spoon?
How London's changing
Dancing the gentrified tune.
A fancy pizza
Sour dough base
Or your ciabatta bread
Totally ace.
Fancy burgers a tenner or more
Organic and free-range
Surely worth paying a score!
I'm pining for a good old Wimpy
That's for sure...
When if you were still hungry
You could afford to buy more.
Hardly a bookies
Where you can have a bet
And right at the end of the road
A bar's named like a laundrette!
Where's your greengrocers
Normal shops and more
Exmouth Market's so posh
They've eradicated the poor.
My sort don't belong here
Just passing through
Feel like a freak show exhibit
In a Victorian zoo!
Bye bye working class posties
Factories galore
Tightly packed populations
Made up of us poor.
Been here for generations
Forced out at a price
But my oh my
That burger tastes nice.
Long gone are the days
When we could afford to rent
All forced out further
To Essex and Kent.
Social cleansing
Well on the way
Hardly any from the old days
Can afford to stay.
As time goes on
It's going to get worse
There's nothing I can do
Except get angry in verse.
'Fortunately' I'm now fifty
Heading for my twilight years
I'll just about cope
Despite my fears.
I'm not scared of dying
Just of getting old
Being forced out on the street
And dying of cold.
Is it too much to ask for
An affordable roof over my head
In those parts of London
Where I was born and bred?
The gentrifiers are CUNTS
I don't mean to be rude
All I want to be able to afford
Is a bed, football and food.
I may still live in South London
In that I take pride
But I don't feel it's my city
And part of me's died.
Dulwich Poet 13th May 2017
(Today I was at a poetry event in Clerkenwell, along Exmouth Market. The market was closed, but the street itself....I don't know the area, but I'm guessing it's changed a lot over the last couple of decades...and tragically this is happening all over our once great city.)
Is 'poncified'
Not my manor
Or I would have cried.
Where's the pie & mash shop
Or the greasy spoon?
How London's changing
Dancing the gentrified tune.
A fancy pizza
Sour dough base
Or your ciabatta bread
Totally ace.
Fancy burgers a tenner or more
Organic and free-range
Surely worth paying a score!
I'm pining for a good old Wimpy
That's for sure...
When if you were still hungry
You could afford to buy more.
Hardly a bookies
Where you can have a bet
And right at the end of the road
A bar's named like a laundrette!
Where's your greengrocers
Normal shops and more
Exmouth Market's so posh
They've eradicated the poor.
My sort don't belong here
Just passing through
Feel like a freak show exhibit
In a Victorian zoo!
Bye bye working class posties
Factories galore
Tightly packed populations
Made up of us poor.
Been here for generations
Forced out at a price
But my oh my
That burger tastes nice.
Long gone are the days
When we could afford to rent
All forced out further
To Essex and Kent.
Social cleansing
Well on the way
Hardly any from the old days
Can afford to stay.
As time goes on
It's going to get worse
There's nothing I can do
Except get angry in verse.
'Fortunately' I'm now fifty
Heading for my twilight years
I'll just about cope
Despite my fears.
I'm not scared of dying
Just of getting old
Being forced out on the street
And dying of cold.
Is it too much to ask for
An affordable roof over my head
In those parts of London
Where I was born and bred?
The gentrifiers are CUNTS
I don't mean to be rude
All I want to be able to afford
Is a bed, football and food.
I may still live in South London
In that I take pride
But I don't feel it's my city
And part of me's died.
Dulwich Poet 13th May 2017
(Today I was at a poetry event in Clerkenwell, along Exmouth Market. The market was closed, but the street itself....I don't know the area, but I'm guessing it's changed a lot over the last couple of decades...and tragically this is happening all over our once great city.)
"Curse the Free Verse"
To think I could have been
At Punjab United versus Stansfeld
In the Kent County League...
Premier Division, no less!
Instead I have chosen
As if to PROVE
I am NOT a 'groundhopper'
A poetry magazine festival instead.
And therein lies my dilemma.
For does that mean
You can take it as read
That I am finally admitting
To being a poet?
Possibly, probably...
In all truth
Hand on heart
Who gives a fuck about me
Or what I am?
Do you give a damn?
Unless...
You are sat
In this church hall
Giving your all
Behind your trestle table stall.
I'll have the cheaper ones
That you can't sell
I'm not made of money
Can't you tell.
Two for a fiver
Maybe three for six
I don't care what's in them
Just a mix.
You ask me
To pick and choose
I say any will do
I can't really lose.
I don't know if
They're good or shit
Calm down, dear
Don't have a fit.
Truth is most of of you
Are up your middle class arse
I'm just not in the mood
To call you a cunt
So I'll let it pass.
You say this issue
Is particularly good
As the publisher
So you fucking should.
As I'm the buyer
I'll judge if it's crap
Patronise me again and...
You'll get a verbal slap.
I've seen your sort of stuff
With your poetry rules
Looking down on working class poets
As if we're uneducated fools.
Snooty toffee nosed twats
With your airs and graces
What you put in print you
Won't say to our faces.
Highlight of my day
Back issues of 'Rising' were nice
And a 'Poetry on the Picket Line' t-shirt
Didn't need to think twice.
Bottom line is
It's all fucking words
And the majority in here
Are just total turds.
Poetry is just poetry
But somehow I think
That you think
Your words are somehow
Better than mine.
Which they may be
But do I care?
I just get my pleasure
From writing
And loving to share.
Much as I like reading
And find poetry fun
I've little in common with this lot
When all's said and done.
Fuck sake!
Someone ANYONE
Take me back
To South London!
Dulwich Poet 13th May 2017
(Earlier today I went to the Free Verse poetry magazine festival in Clerkenwell. It was, shall we say, rather middle class, in my view...There were several poets who read a poem on the hour, every hour, introduced by various different magazine editors, who had their wares on sale. I simply could not 'connect' with any of them, if that's the right word. Though I did happily go home with a lighter wallet & lots of stuff to read!)
At Punjab United versus Stansfeld
In the Kent County League...
Premier Division, no less!
Instead I have chosen
As if to PROVE
I am NOT a 'groundhopper'
A poetry magazine festival instead.
And therein lies my dilemma.
For does that mean
You can take it as read
That I am finally admitting
To being a poet?
Possibly, probably...
In all truth
Hand on heart
Who gives a fuck about me
Or what I am?
Do you give a damn?
Unless...
You are sat
In this church hall
Giving your all
Behind your trestle table stall.
I'll have the cheaper ones
That you can't sell
I'm not made of money
Can't you tell.
Two for a fiver
Maybe three for six
I don't care what's in them
Just a mix.
You ask me
To pick and choose
I say any will do
I can't really lose.
I don't know if
They're good or shit
Calm down, dear
Don't have a fit.
Truth is most of of you
Are up your middle class arse
I'm just not in the mood
To call you a cunt
So I'll let it pass.
You say this issue
Is particularly good
As the publisher
So you fucking should.
As I'm the buyer
I'll judge if it's crap
Patronise me again and...
You'll get a verbal slap.
I've seen your sort of stuff
With your poetry rules
Looking down on working class poets
As if we're uneducated fools.
Snooty toffee nosed twats
With your airs and graces
What you put in print you
Won't say to our faces.
Highlight of my day
Back issues of 'Rising' were nice
And a 'Poetry on the Picket Line' t-shirt
Didn't need to think twice.
Bottom line is
It's all fucking words
And the majority in here
Are just total turds.
Poetry is just poetry
But somehow I think
That you think
Your words are somehow
Better than mine.
Which they may be
But do I care?
I just get my pleasure
From writing
And loving to share.
Much as I like reading
And find poetry fun
I've little in common with this lot
When all's said and done.
Fuck sake!
Someone ANYONE
Take me back
To South London!
Dulwich Poet 13th May 2017
(Earlier today I went to the Free Verse poetry magazine festival in Clerkenwell. It was, shall we say, rather middle class, in my view...There were several poets who read a poem on the hour, every hour, introduced by various different magazine editors, who had their wares on sale. I simply could not 'connect' with any of them, if that's the right word. Though I did happily go home with a lighter wallet & lots of stuff to read!)
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