Month: December 2013

The Great Rock n’ Roll Swindle Part Three

Late night BBC Four, I stumbled across you.
It must have been what, twenty years?
Since the two of us were intimate
Bedroom door closed, blocking out
The sound of mum calling me for tea.

I didn’t recognise you at first.
Trademark quiff long since swept
From the stylist’s floor.
Piercings abandoned, lip uncurled.
You could have been presenting
Countdown or Gardeners’ World.

You were talking about those heady days
When you could almost smell revolution in the air,
Unemployment levels rising,
Miners striking and being struck,
And how you stuck it up Thatcher,
Back in the days when the kids
Really did give a fuck.

Not like now, you say, and you shake your head
In crushing disappointment at modern-day ennui,
And settle back into your armchair.
On the bookshelves behind you,
I notice a well-thumbed edition
Of Hypnotic Gastric Band
By Paul McKenna.

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In the Boredroom

When bored,
Or driven berserk
By the toadish
Drudgery of work,
I like to play
Meeting room bingo
The word game
Of corporate lingo
For four players
Or more.

The more hackneyed
The saw,
The more
You score.
Anyone who dares
To be original
Move back
Three squares.

For in the kingdom of the bland
The blue-sky thinker is king.
And let’s not forget that
From the same hymn sheet
We all should sing.

Heaven forbid
That money should be left
On the table,
Although we should grab
The low-hanging fruit
If we’re able.

I like to picture them
As pendulous plums.

The Flowering of Morrissey

Steven Patrick Morrissey
Your back pocket
Used to be foresty
With the gladioli
You would buy
From the floristry.

morrissey

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flicking through

They lie there as if in state,
Green boxes transformed into tombs,
A taphephobiast’s fearful fate
A living nightmare looms.
A grave situation indeed.

Inside these curious coffins,
Your hymns
Will not stir the fallen
Nor mend their
Shattered, scattered
l i m b s.

All over the country,
In all of the attics,
Lie these atrocities
Of athletics, rovers
And cities fanatics.

Cup dreams of childhood
Gather dust
For the loft now holds
Only atrophy
When once a trophy
Was held aloft.

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