Friday, 29 March 2013

Clerihew for The Left

The Left
Is intellectually bereft:
They still whine about The Tories making things less fair,
Then, with wanton disregard for irony, elect for their leader yet another 
   privileged multi-millionaire.

Wednesday, 27 March 2013

Eleven in the Morning

The thing I find about serenity:
It isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
For sometimes hush must cede to brave hurrahs,
And I must start the day with loud guitars.

Sunday, 24 March 2013

Boo? Yay!

Alas the day! Alack the day!
Alas! Alack the day!
Alas the day in ev’ry way!
Alas! Alack! I say!

I boo the day! I rue the day!
I boo! I rue the day!
I boo the day so far from gay!
I boo! I rue! I pay!

Hurrah the day! Huzzah the day!
Hurrah! Huzzah the day!
Hurrah the day with “Yay!” not, “Nay!”
Hurrah! Huzzah! Olé!


Replace him with a Lawnmower (1)

Who is this wanton dunce of Mistress Foul,
so vile of manner, face and speech? Malign
as boots with twenty holes and blood-soaked laces,
this brute with brows as lumpish as his thoughts
would fain your money steal, then place it on
a blazing fire, and laugh and dance and point
in pointless envy at the flames and smoke
and ash, proclaiming, “Now, we all are equal!
And all is fair! And none are rich! For wealth,
success and aspiration: all are killed!”
With socialism’s spade, he bids a hole
be dug by those who still would work, and when
the hollow pit is made, inters the urn
of burnt remains, and buries all our children’s futures.

Wednesday, 20 March 2013


I cannot find my thoughts today; they’re playing
a game of hide-and-sleep. I shut my eyes
and search, but emptiness abounds. It’s dead
in here. The pathways which my neurons travel
along have taken evasive manoeuvres.

I lose my way inside my head…
                                                        … and crash.

Awaiting Discovery

The poem hides. The shape’s already formed,
with every word in order, waiting. Waiting
to be discovered. Gradually, it’s found,
in jigsaw bits, and put in place by writing.

Sunday, 17 March 2013

Subject Matters Not

The subject of a poem doesn’t matter,
As long as craft or art are on display.
From lofty heights to incidental chatter:
It’s how you say it, never what you say.


November’s disinvigorating light
leaks thinly through the bloodless sky above;
it casts its feeble glow upon a grim
unwilling  young boy’s face. The battle’s nigh.
Today, a boy will be kicked in the head.
Aggression, tamed and caged through childhood’s progress,
will be released, awoken by the vile,
demented exhortations of the teachers
who coach this bloody code of violent conduct.
And soon, a boy will be kicked in the head.
Companions, friends-like-brothers, thrown together
by accident or fate, will face each other
in angry combat, fighting for the chance
to take possession of a ball, and charge.
Shortly, a boy will be kicked in the head.
A whistle blows. A ball is kicked. It starts.
Amidst the rush of nervous limbs, the ball
is fumbled by embarrassed hands and falls
upon the ground. Attack and ruck. Retrieve
the ball and form a maul and push towards
the twenty-two without success. Collapse.
And see? A boy is lying on the ground.
And now this boy will be kicked in the head,
the helpless victim of an unseen… boot.
Imagine being ten, at boarding school,
and lying helpless on the ground, surrounded
by angry boots belonging to a mob
of boys who’ve all been taught to “take his legs,”
to “bring him down,” and “get stuck in like men.”
It isn’t in the laws, this booting of
the skull, but what should we expect?

Wednesday, 13 March 2013


The sun will shine again, the clouds will clear,
the birds will sing, and flowers will appear.

Monday, 11 March 2013


I try and write a poem on the subject
of father, find I have no words to speak,
so leave the thing abandoned, incomplete.

An empty space, where thoughts and memories
might be, stares back. Another unread page.
Another unread page. Unwritten. Unread.

Sunday, 10 March 2013

Asleep at the Wheel

You fell asleep whilst driving. Two seats back,
I yelled at you to stop. You didn’t, though,
for you could no more stop that car than I
could stop time’s machinations. Then I woke.

And later, as I told you what had happened,
I realized you'd been sitting on the left.
The patterns shift when our subconscious minds
take charge then fall asleep at the wheel.

Friday, 8 March 2013

The Daily Moan

You’re not allowed to read The Daily Mail
or else you’ll be a Daily Mail Reader,
looked down upon by the smug, self-appointed
intelligentsia (Guardian Readers).

I wonder how these intellectuals
arrive at their conclusions, having never,
presumably, debased themselves enough
to read that wretched, tawdry little rag.

I read the Daily M to keep informed
about what all those Daily Mail Readers
think. I prefer to stick with poems, though;
they generally contain a bit more truth.

Saturday, 2 March 2013

Like Åtk!tløpzèyçænmniüé

There’s nothing left
Inside my head,
Except the words
Which can’t be said.