Selected poems

Artist’s Impression

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Channel-flicking on the television,
a sudden flicker of recognition,

and there you are, lighting up the screen.
You’ve not changed much, it seems.

The selfsame eyes of grey flint,
those touchpaper lips,

that shocking blaze
of hair. It’s as if the days

lit by time’s slow-burnt passage
are reduced to ashes.

An old flame, charcoaled
back to life by the controlled

hand of a police sketch artist.
I see you’re still up to your old tricks,

wanted, as you are, for questioning
in connection with

a spate of arson attacks
in the vicinity of Matlock Bath.

On Spending National Poetry Day Waiting for the Dishwasher to be Fixed

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

It is on days like these
that I wonder if other poets
are just better at covering up
the daily drudgery of life,

domesticity’s endless tugging
upon unironed shirt-sleeves,
as the unwashed mugs
gather sadly in the sink.

Yes, I can imagine Larkin
in some grim launderette,
his specs reflecting back
in a washing machine door

but the others? Hard to think
of Auden elbow-deep in soap suds
or Betjeman wrestling
with bin bags. But I could be wrong.

Maybe the person from Porlock
disturbed poor Coleridge
as he was going hard at it
with a sink plunger.

Perhaps Plath was a dab hand
with a Black and Decker.
Likewise, Heaney with his hoover.
Eliot and his mop.

More likely they just swept
it all under the carpet.
Took up their squat pens
to escape from the squalid,

not drag themselves
further down. But enough
of such melancholic reveries,
I must go now

for the dishwasher repair man is here.

New Research Suggests

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

New research suggests that eighty people hold half the world’s wealth.
New research suggests that death may be harmful to your health.
New research suggests that 9 in 10 people will suffer from suffering.
New research suggests that the greatest cause of stress is buffering.
New research suggests that there is no link between Shostakovich and bleach.
New research suggests that the average life expectancy is one life each.
New research suggests that poetry may be harmless.
New research suggests that tank tops may be armless.
New research suggests that Donald Trump may lead to complications in the bile duct.
New research suggests that happiness is an artificial construct.
New research suggests that artificial constructs can make you happy.
New research suggests that the ancient Egyptians invented acne.
New research suggests that Van Gogh’s cat painted Starry Night.
New research suggests that there may be life on Marmite.
New research suggests that hobnobs are better than digestives.
New research suggests that new research can be suggestive.
New research suggests that Elvis is dead.
New research suggests that I should stay in bed.

Pigs

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Truth had it coming, if you ask me.
All those drab facts,
that dull insistence upon
looking at things as they really are,

shoulder-barging
the stories we would like to hear
out of the way like that.
It’s a surprise it lasted so long.

Far better now
that we can wrap ourselves
in untruth, and emote our way
through the days.

I like to tell one untruth
before breakfast,
then three more by lunch,
with a further seven by bedtime.

No, I never said that.
Yes, I did declare all my income.
Yes, I know exactly how you feel.
No, I did not eat the biscuits that were in the tin.

And should any so-called ‘expert’
point at the crumbs
which nestle in the corners of my mouth,
my bottom lip shall tremble,

and I shall say, pity me –
for, since my neighbour moved in,
these crumbs represent
all I have left in the world.

Every night I hear him
sneaking into my home
and helping himself
to another handful of biscuits.

And I shall say these words
with such passion
and such conviction,
over and over and over,

until the pigs
begin to sing in the trees,
and my untruth
becomes a kind of truth itself.

I Would Like to Apologise for the Delay

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

I would like to apologise for the delay
in coming to work today.
This is due to a signaling failure
between my primary motor cortex
and pyramidal motor pathway.
I shall remain here instead,
sidelined in this bed,
until further notice.

I would like to apologise for the delay
in going for a run today.
This is due to leaves on the tracksuit
I wore last week,
during my unsuccessful attempt
to bury myself
in a coppiced wood.
I would be there still if I could.

I would like to apologise for the delay
in joining your skiing holiday.
This is due to the wrong kind of snow,
which, as far as I’m concerned,
is any kind of snow
that enables people
to hurtle down slopes, at speed,
on skis.

I would like to apologise for the delay
in taking part in life today.
This is due to delays.

Fifty Shades of Red

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Semi-colons I shall abuse for you.
Parentheses I shall lose for you.

Correct me like you know you want to.
Repossess my nouns.
Cover me with red ink.
Slap my words around.

Infinitives I shall split for you.
Apostrophes I shall omit for you.

The mistakes I make are just for you,
Each greased up grammar slip.
Let me feel the hardness of your edit,
Your disapproving nib.

Participles will be dangled,
Accents wrongly angled.

So lay me like a transitive verb.
Drip your ink upon my blotter.
Bore me rigid with your rules.
Fix me good and proper.

Blitzkrieg Top

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

When I put on my Ramones tee-shirt,
with its presidential seal of rebellion,
I can almost smell the revolution

in the air.

I like to wear it everywhere:
down the match or shopping mall,
on the golf course, in the gym, or

in Costa

where I sometimes sit and watch the
protest marches go past the window,
whilst sipping on my frappuccino.

All roads lead

to Ramones; you will see our breed
on every street, pushing strollers,
iPhoned jogging rock n’ rollers,

defiant

in cottoned nonconformity, a giant
army of tee-shirted mayhem makers
(once we’ve read the Sunday papers).

Hey ho, let’s go.