Sailors, snakes and dragons drag on
In this toilet I sit
With grunge and grime
Dirt and vomit
Pierce the skin with needles
And things.
Need it as a weapon
As a shield
To attack and defend
A cartoonist’s caricature
Scribble me in marker pen
Of “love” and “hate”
Over fighter’s knuckles
And weeper’s tears.
Another mask for another place
Too many places
Too many masks
Of martyr, of saviour
Of lover, of father
Of hated, of hater
Of demon, of God.
I no longer know this place
I no longer know this face
Or my true face.
Early morning fog sleepy eyes
North
Northwards
M6 not M1
Seaside autumnal sunshine
Kiss me quickly, hold me tightly
Ours slowly
Hours slowly.
Illuminations illuminate
But I can’t see
The point.
Crowded Rediffusion
Tandy and Comet
Radio-Rentals
Too late though
Five to five.
A cry of joy
Black and white magpie cry
Toon army; one-nil away
Buy a Pink
Stop and think
Blackpool today
Leeds away.
Shooter’s hair cut short
Who cannot get caught
Dial that telephone number
Awaken from your slumber
Bombs induce seduce
Pirates of the nation
Station of the airwaves
Collect and passes
Guns for the masses
Pierce the ears and the skin
God damn all; damn the rest
Automobiles freewheel, freebase
Fashion, style and propaganda
No space left on the veranda
Sip the methadone and drink the sherry
Storm the Palace tonight
Burn the curtains, steal the jewels
Organise the peasant army
Talk of dreams and go to prison
Leave me all there is to be
Old timers rattle on
Tittle-tattle rattle going strong
In northern tones and northern lines
To call the tunes
Jazz and poets flourish at will
In times to kill
To cash and carry, for Tom, Dick and Harry.
Death for a seal of approval
Of license renewal
Hackers hack into the night to respect the art
Where no streets were paved with gold
In Carlisle or Manchester, Huddersfield or Hull
Slow but warm
Back into the hotel
Damned to hell
Condemn at last
Mistrusts the safety net of lies
Fourteen nights to despise the
Stammer of grammar and the girl waits in the bed
Stations on the line
Underline the title page
I stand at the gap, the middle, the border
Division of the land
Celebrate the new England
Man and women, strong, stronger still
Colder but warm
Earn the wage in shillings and pence
Withhold the words in sham suspense
England. Punks. Honeymoon.
I am Mr X for the joy of x
I am a triple X, four X; expletive deleted
Lost between Z and C on the type face
And wedged by W and Y I take my place
Unknown, lonely and stationary
Just four words in the dictionary
Xenon
Xenophobe
Xylophone
X-ray
Not many chances to come out to play
Often cited as excited
But mainly as an ex, a has-been
Ex-lover, ex fighter; a remnant, excrement.
But I can offer hope and power
In the election, mark me in the box
The door of government I unlock
And the love-letter
Count me at the end
A message of affection that I send
The treasure trove I mark the spot
To the winner to grab the lot.
Perm me, birthdays and ages
Form and lists for pages
Put the pin in and let me win
Selections one to ten;
Bury and Droylsden
Leyton O and Crystal P
Will they be my destiny?
I take in turn
Wimbledon and Blackburn
Now the trouble really starts
And head off to exotic parts
Places with wonderous sounding names
And I try and rack my brains
Towns whose geographical existence I am unaware
Now whose existence is what I care…
Greenock Morton, Inverness Caledonians, Hamilton Academicals
Raith and Cowdenbeath
Will Brechin win? Or Stenhousmuir draw?
Do I go for Alloa?
In the end I go for Forfar.
7 jackpot draws and what’s more
1 high score draw!
Telephone claims for 23 or 231/2 points
Excitement bursts through my joints
And on the telephone I dialled
But a grimace replaced my smile
There it sat, still not gone
The still intact Pools coupon.
No publicity, mark with an X
I still remain Mr XXX.
I have watched him for years
I have known him for years
Sometimes laughing, sometimes smiling, sometimes hating
He’s a born leader; salt of the earth
“If there was a war, he’d be the first on the beaches”
They say.
I say, “No way.”
A bully pushing till he gets his own way
Others have opinion, others have views
But his
Are always right.
Telling jokes down the local
Never misses his shout
Never with his missus about
With his cigar, a short and designer jumper
His laugh is loud in the crowd
He always wins arguments because he is never wrong
And has the biggest mouth.
He has a heart of gold
Or so I’m told
Jack-of-all-trades; Jack the Lad not bad
A trickster, a fixer
Mr Fix-it, Jim’ll bloody fix it
He’s the man, honest and true.
Now locked in a single room
Behind the old courtroom
The two of us
Five other men, five women
For hours of debate
For hours of my simmering hate
Date rape?
More like rape date mate
We all agreed Mr X was guilty of unlawful sex
But he questioned “beyond all reasonable doubt”
And he beat the others down and out.
If I agreed would I complain
Moan with my whining distain
Now High Noon soon; me against him
Our opinions collided
I subsided
Without the courage of my convictions
My prediction I predict
A not guilty verdict
Yes I was weak
Yes I was meek
But are you good enough?
Are you strong enough?
To face the power of the mighty mouth?
Only
10% of all rapes are reported
Only
10% of those actually come to court
Is
it any wonder with men like these?
I am co-ordinated
I can
See, hear, touch, smell and taste
I am co-ordinated.
I am co-ordinated
I can talk with my mouth full
Whilst watching the television
And turn a blind eye
Turn a deaf ear
To the suffering on the news.
I have full co-ordination
I can make love to my wife
Whilst fantasising about someone else
And listen to the football on the radio
All at the same time
I am totally co-ordinated.
I have full co-ordination
I can change a tape
While driving the car
I drive better after a few beers
I am totally co-ordinated, he said
Smashing into the child
Pissed out of his head
Totally co-ordinated.
I’d like to wish you a happy new year
As you, young man dance round the Clock tower at midnight
In your fag burnt shirt and beer stained trousers
And to you young girl, dancing and singing
In your laddered stockings and smudged mascara
I’d like to wish you a happy new year
As you stagger and pass out in the gutter
Then wallow in the puke and piss.
I’d like to wish you a happy new year
As you swallow down your Alka Seltzer
And recover from the excesses of too much drink
And food from Christmas indulgences
I’d like to wish you a happy new year
As you battle with your resolutions
Sitting on the ceiling
After crawling up the wall.
I’d like to wish you a happy new year
On your first day back at work
After your holiday when you come face to face
With the boss or secretary that you screwed at the Christmas party
Just think of the wife or husband or kids.
I’d like to wish all the politicians a happy new year
But can’t
What I’d like is for them to see what it’s like to be unemployed
Because politics is only for people who don’t have to live by their decisions.
I’d like to wish all the old people a happy new year
And some warmth and comfort
Away from muggers and rapists
And sadistic care assistants who beat them
Don’t look so shocked; it’s true!
And some protection for abused kids
Who suffer at the hands of their own relatives
It does happen.
I’d like to wish the homeless a happy new year
Just some shelter, for a night at least
They’re out there, really they are.
I’d like to wish myself a happy new year
There were times when I’d wish my team would win the league and FA Cup
Now I set my sights lower
And just look to avoid relegation
I also used to wish that the New Year would bring about an end to suffering and war
But it doesn’t change; somethings don’t
Now I wish for the love of my family and friends
Because that is more realistic (I hope).
I’d like to wish you all a happy new year
I like to wish
I wish.
She stirs briefly as the alarm clock sounds
In the twilight zone she hears him dress
And make a cup of coffee
“I’ll phone you later honey” a voice far away drifts
And sleep comes and goes
Then several hours later she wakes with a start
A cold cup of coffee and stained sheets
Reminders to the passion
Of last night.
She showers and dresses and goes to work
The girls chatter and they talk. Just talk
Of sex and families. Just talk. Just fantasise
Mid afternoon he phones
“I’ll pop round later” he says.
Finishes work, cooks her Menu-master microwave meal
The phone rings, her Mum warns
Feeds the cat, watches television and reads
Her best friend phones and warns
Then the highlight of the day
He’s had a bad day; trouble with the car
The kids, the boss, the wife
She thinks: “I’m not a fucking social worker or a priest.”
But it’s so good to talk
“Better to shag” he laughs.
Back to bed again
As the day began
And they talk, just talk
Of sex and families
Just talk
Just fantasise. Just shag.
In the driving rain
Not another bloody Sunday again
DIY shoppers, deep seat divers, Sunday drivers.
Caught up in the traffic, carbon monoxide makes me sick
Jammed up nose to tail, head to bumper
Ferrets down her jumper
And I just want to go home
Feet up and watch the footie on telly
But I’m not there, I am here
A slow death in the slow lane
And all I do is complain
“Where are they going?” I ask without knowing
I watch from my panorama
I watch the family drama
Of Ma and Pa
In the car in front which I almost shunt
I watch them squabble and bicker
Behind the car stickers
That bear the legend “if you can read this then you’re driving too close.”
Well excuse me pal, but I’ve got no choice
And the ultimate symbol of the driver’s virility
“Baby on Board!” shows off their fertility
And as I contemplate my woes
The brat in the back sticks fingers up nose
And we’re still here and soon it’ll be night
The traffic ahead is queued up out of sight
And all I want to be knowing
Is where are they going?
And you state in alarm: “they’re going to the Baby Farm”
“The Baby Farm!” I exclaim with distain
With prospective parents and the doddering, ploddering grandparents
Willingly exchanging hard earned pence while I sit on the fence
For the free wheeling baby buggy buggers
The tiny tot cot terrors
At the happy nappy rash cash bash
Which I think so sad
For doting Mum and Dad
And Mums to be is all I see
Super stretch jogging bottoms
Pulled tight over the dart player belly
And all I want to do is watch telly
Bloody kids; who wants them?
Let’s get off and onto home
But there’s silence in the car
And I start to think that I’ve gone too far
And you start to mutter
And I start to shudder and stutter
What’s that you’re saying?
Why didn’t you say?
It’ such a thrill, oh isn’t it brill?
Isn’t it great? Let’s celebrate
Turn the car round let’s look round
It won’t do no harm
Let’s go to the Baby Farm!
Roy Stone is dead. He died the other night.
And if we’re honest it came as no surprise
They say his family were shocked by the timing of his demise
But he was prone to do that sort of thing just to despise.
Roy was good, Roy was kind. He cared.
He had a vision of the future he sought to describe
Through his words of he thought he could break the lies
Of what it was like to love, conquer and fall
He wanted things to be better
A better life for all
For people to open their eyes, to live in dignity
To acknowledge what they see and embrace humanity.
Roy was a liar; unfaithful and a bully
But now he’s gone we miss him dearly
He fought for other’s rights, for them to have their say
Although he wasn’t special, black or brown or gay.
He wrote with a passion
In a school book on his desk
Roy was a chancer, a dreamer, an idealist
He was a just average not a flawed genius.
It was no broken body that they dragged from the wreckage
A car crash or plane smash or a mechanical message.
He didn’t cry, whimper, whisper or wheeze
He didn’t have AIDS or an incurable disease
It was no beating in a riot or armed rebellion
It was no broken heart incarcerated in prison
There was no shotgun of a jealous lover’s revenge
There was no suicide note or letter to send.
Roy Stone is dead. We only saw him the other day
He looked all right to us; we didn’t know what to say
He was still gifted, an eccentric personality
We all just laughed the way it used to be
But the faces that he recognised belonged to the past
And although the love was there, we knew it wouldn’t last.
Roy Stone’s alive! He’s not really dead!
You see, aliens came along and took away his brain
Replaced it with blancmange, a tube and drip and drain.
He’s still in his body; sometimes you see him there
But most times he’s out to play and wanders round elsewhere.
Roy Stone is not alive. Roy Stone is dead
And these were the last words that he ever said; -
“Just remember the good times, remember them please….”
Roy is now dead, Roy’s got Alzheimer’s disease.
As Ian McClaskell tells
A bold cold front is moving in
In this winter hinterland.
Alone in a high pressure zone
A cold snap as blue on the map
Colder with the wind chill factor
Rumble and flash of the gritter tractor.
Highs and lows from the TV glow
In the living room gloom boom
Huddled by log fire, flicker times
Warmed muddled minds with mulled wine.
“Mind how you go Flo”
Slowly, slowly, deeply dippy, slippery, slippy.
Nothing more to get you down
Like scraping an iced car down
Minus ten tonight
Dark skies, stars stand bright
Such a beautiful sight with the coldest night
Of the year.
Icicled, skilled, silked webs hang in trees
Top up the motor with anti-freeze
Winter scenes of childhood dreams
Blue skies and sun
Careful as you go sunny son
It’s all so beautiful,
But the football might be off
But the racing might be off
The cost of frost.
Turn up the fire. Shiver.
Under the duvet. Shiver.
Soon warm up.
Under the covers. Cold comfort.
Under the sheets, not on the streets.
Cold comfort for the homeless and hopeless,
It’s just cold comfort.
Let’s just say that the world is flat
Or that gravity doesn’t exist
That there is no war
And everything will be just fine.
That we can cheat and deceive
Indulging ourselves in subterfuge
That others are ignorant and all are stupid
Who can’t see the wood for the trees.
To be normal than before
Act nonchalant in deceit
Create the falsehoods that they all fall for
And humour them in insincerity
And believe that we are immune.
But we just kid ourselves
That the world is oblivious
And even when they confront and cry
Still we deny
We still think we can get away with it
But no one ever does.
Dublin on a Wednesday night
After the missiles and the fight
It’s “Bastards this…” and “Bastards that…”
The pariahs of the world we’re told
And it’s obvious to unearth
That we are the scum of the earth.
“The English thug is back!” is the call
The knee-jerk reaction is to ban them all
More consternation with the shame of the nation
Because every skinhead is a nazi.
With the panic of the mind-control police
The filth and the fury is unleashed
Fascist salutes were seen
So they belong to Combat 18
Because every skinhead’s a nazi.
Press double standards hypocrisy complains
After years of hate towards to Sinn Fein
Right wing MPs have a field day
And then wonder why they sing
“No surrender to the IRA”
The xenophobic Sun says “Up yours Delores” and “The Time Is Now”
And find a crowd guilty with an out of date headline
Because every skinhead is a nazi.
Ok ban all football but ban animal rights too
Because the veal crate’s at Dachau and boxed inside’s a Jew
You see animal rights activists
Are just undercover anarchists
The one-dimensional stereotype view
Trouble follows trouble again on the news
Just remember every story has two sides
But with only one option, how can you decide?
The time has come to reclaim the flag
And get rid of the racist tag
England where patriotism is seen as extremism
And where every skinhead is a nazi.
The curry was too spicy, post jalfrezi telly
It sits heavily, acidity aggravates the ulcer
Take the aspirin in the bloodstream
Bless with gravel and whiskey
An unsettled stomach too rich as they die
In poverty, in colour, in the corner
Have I done everything I possibly could?
Have I forgotten to do anything?
Have I been pulling my weight? At home? At work?
Locked the door in security
The line went dead when he answered
Was it burglars?
Was it someone not wanting to speak to him?
His lover’s lover?
Paranoia, brain cuts sweat un-nerved
And swearing on the TV and the nudity
Trigger thoughts too scary
Too scared to step outside
To get a beating or gain a whipping
Conscience with the pains of pleasure
Bring out the deepest fears
To enjoy the unenjoyable
To be the priest withholding desires
An unnatural restraint of the unnatural
These feelings corrupt the psyche.
You taste of Jim
Feeling uncomfortable?