Sir_Nigel

You asked me one day whether

we’d always be together.

You talked of this a lot

and so I thought - Why not?

So I had this awesome notion 

to show my true devotion -

I’d get myself some glue

and glue myself to you

to be always by your side -

my perma-fastened bride.

As one through thick and thin,

stuck firmly by the skin, 

like a pod with two peas,

like…. Bostik Siamese.

 

I couldn’t wait to share

my plans to be a pair.

But then some practicalities,

some day to day realities

and worries of that kind

crept in to my mind.

 

Like how we’d get through doors,

potential chafing sores,

to earn an honest bob

we could only have one job,

despite our romance thriving

we couldn’t share the driving,

and might some people mock

our single roomy smock?

 

And things that I won’t mention

could add a strange dimension.

Lets just say I feared

it might get a little bit weird.

 

And how would we unfetter

if I met someone better?

Not only would I break your heart,

we’d literally be torn apart.

We’d have to be anesthetised

as doctors grimly ripped and prised.

Then what a pickle we’d be in

requiring major grafts of skin

and possibly some sinew

before we could continue.

 

But then when I revealed to you

my qualms concerning superglue

you seemed perplexed,

and a little bit vexed

with a strange undercurrent of violence

beneath that inscrutable silence.

 

And needless to say

we split up that day.

 

 

 

 

 

I contravene the Highway Code

and stroll down the middle of a four lane road.

With no other soul nor a car to be seen

it feels like a Hollywood opening scene,

like something disastrous happened today -

an asteroid struck but it seems I’m OK.

The scientists said that no man could survive

yet I am uninjured – The Last Man Alive.

Our lonesome dude

must hunt for food,

build a shelter, wield a knife

beware emboldened wildlife,

defend himself, evaluate,

find an Eve - re-populate.

 

Or maybe it’s more of an end credit scene

and I’m an unstoppable killing machine,

sent to vanquish humankind

and this is what I’ve left behind.

My mission – Man’s annihilation  

….plus all his forms of transportation.

Oh what will threatened humans do?

You’ll have to wait for DeathDroid 2

 

In truth

there is sun and a temperate breeze

and birds twitter sweetly in whispering trees.

I’m strolling alone on a tranquil street

to the comforting sound of my own two feet

and not entertaining the niggling fear

the world has now ended but I didn’t hear.

Although the forlorn desolation is sad,

this new-fangled quietness isn’t so bad.

 

 

My pace has now slowed,

I meander in the road.

 

Gone are the days

when you’d look both ways.

Now when I do

I see something new -

neglected old buildings, historical plaques,

obstinate undergrowth struggling through cracks

and up in a tree where a trainer was flung

a couple of blackbirds are feeding their young. 

 

 

Then, at last

a taxi speeds past

and not so far off

I hear someone cough,

on the building site there

two scaffolders swear.

 

 

Life in a lull

is a little bit dull

but I’m not quite alone

in this lock down zone.

 

 

Go for it.

You may be a sad poet loner

but you don’t want to die of Corrona

so look out for yellowy glands

and constantly scour your hands,

ensure you’ve a hanky close by

and your alcohol content is high.

And if you are writing then please

take a bath before touching the keys -

a germ on your fat sweaty fingers

can carry a virus that lingers -

a sentence is all it requires

then it seeps down the internet wires

and then you’ll unwittingly spread it

to every poor sod who has read it.

Use a pencil instead of a pen

and …..don’t talk to any strange men.

 

And if you do have to endure it

then toilet paper can cure it.

 

I hope this is useful to you

and clarified what you must do

 

 

If you’re feeling a little bit low

why not purchase my poems below?

diverting and cheap

with nothing too deep

you carry them round as you go.

 

When going by bus or by train

you can read ‘em again and again

just put up your feet

on the opposite seat

and ignore all the jerks who complain.

 

By keeping the volume close by

you can use it for swatting a fly

it is lethal and keen

and will quickly wipe clean

- another good reason to buy.

 

It can also be placed on the floor

to firmly prop open a door

Or by cracking the loaf

of an indolent oaf

you could gain more respect than before.

 

You’ll notice how carefully I’m

promoting my writing in rhyme

which works a lot better

than sending a letter

or trying to say it in mime.

Or strolling around with a bell -

Proclaiming! - to help the thing sell

or hawking my wares

at small village fairs

with a talented lady named Nell

(who’s pretending to die of TB

so they stop and take pity you see)

‘Please purchase my book,

for my daughter’s sake look’

- disgraceful I’m sure you’ll agree.

 

So this is a much better way -

Now I‘ve said what I wanted to say.

Just a quick cheeky note

to briefly promote

my volume of poems today.

 

Rescued from Oblivion – all my poems now in one fat book. Available now at https://www.feedaread.com/profiles/10661/

 

Today like every other day
he sings in that annoying way-
a nasal adolescent whine
and songs you cannot quite define,
or voices incoherent rap
in a jaunty backwards baseball cap.
Rap I know sod all about,
his singing though is miles out –
his limitations magnified
by being loudly amplified.

With coins collecting at his feet
in a busy lunchtime city street,
he’s on a fervent quest, it seems,
to live his tuneless fat kid dreams.

 

With self-belief and passion strong
he bares his feelings, lost in song,
the soulful ballads  mainly those
that no-one over thirty knows.

 

His eyes are closed, he knows some moves
and fleetingly his act improves
but nothing really compensates
for all the notes he desecrates.

 

What’s needed here
is a word in his ear,
to make him aware
that life is unfair
and what he enjoys
is really just noise,
To crush his dreams,
spoil his schemes,
tell him he’s flat,
then hand him his hat.

 

Such a terrible task
is a really big ask-
the gloom it would place
on that great moon face
and I just cannot see
that falling to me.

 

But if somebody bold,
forthright and cold
told him to stop
the penny might drop
and spare us all
his caterwaul.

 

I’m trying to eat

but so tough is this meat

that I’m wondering whether

it’s actually leather.

 

But as I’m a guest

I know that its best

to chew for a while,

swallow, then smile.

To leave all this food

would simply be rude.

 

I can’t even cut it

but where can I put it?

A deft little toss to a slumbering dog?

smuggle it out to be flushed down the bog?

Could it be wrapped in a tissue or two

then slipped surreptitiously into a shoe?

If only the windows were open for air

with one little flick I could fling it out there.

 

My mind wanders back to the dinners at school

where battle-axe ladies, insistent and cruel

would force you to eat all the gristle and fat.

No meat could be wasted - that firmly was that.

So you’d bury it furtively under your mash

then off to the bin you would anxiously dash.

And with these accomplishments daring but shady

you’d fool the intransigent fat dinner lady.

 

But though I have tried it

there’s nowhere to hide it.

No chance to use

the old schoolboy ruse.

It looks like I’m beaten

this has to be eaten.

So all I can do

is sit here and chew,

 

But chew as I might

there’s no end in sight.

 

The meal drags on.

All hope is gone.

This dutiful  chore

is hurting my jaw.

 

You may ask, my friend,

just when this might end.

The answer is never.

I’ll be here for ever.

I’ve blunted my knife now,

this is my life now.

 

 

 

If someone you see

asks what happened to me -

wondering why

I no longer drop by,

tell them I perished

saving someone I cherished

as we sought and destroyed

a rogue asteroid.

Or I couldn’t restrain  

a runaway train.

Or fires were braved,

orphans were saved -

I dragged ‘em outside

and then alas, died.

 

 

Not met a sad end

trying not to offend,

trapped in a room

in a permanent gloom,

day after day

just fading away

attempting to eat

some inedible meat.

 

 

He sports a manly torso

like Rambo only more so,

has weightlifters shoulders,

hands like boulders,

he’s bull necked,

as you’d expect

and proudly etched

in letters stretched

across his chest

on a sleeveless vest

the name of the gym

which created him.

 

A shaven head is perched atop

this keenly muscled outcrop -

a head of great immensity

of an unsurprising density.

 

He’s very keen to say

you must sign up today.

By toiling in the gym

you too could look like him!

 

He’s proud of his physique,

but scornful of the weak,

anyone not pumped

ignored or quickly dumped -

an inferior being

to his way of seeing.

 

But he chooses to ignore

one large apparent flaw:

 

After starting this way

he just… dwindles away.

He doesn’t continue

the muscle and sinew

but tapers from burly

into eight year old girly -

his legs being short

and the spindly sort

with improbably petite

twinkle toe feet.

 

So you stifle a snigger

‘cos he should be much bigger.

 

He’s tried to put right

his absence of height -

repeatedly tried ways

but grew only sideways.

 

But his mirror doesn’t reach the floor

so, in his head, he’s six foot four,

a superman, a demi-god,

nothing even slightly odd.

Convinced that he is blessed

not merely self obsessed.

 

So even though he’s crass and dim

you still might even pity him

-a narcissistic man

with a wood preserver tan

whose upper half is in effect

the measure of his self respect,

caught between contempt for you

and the image he aspires to.

Homewards they go

with faces aglow,

a picture of happiness

aged, content -

him in a billowing holiday shirt

her in a frock like a flowery tent,

well fed and watered, revelries done,

waddling home in the evening sun.

 

No strangers I think

to good food and drink.

Relaxed and unhurried,

fat and unworried,

they do love their grub

and a boisterous pub

especially today

when its Bank Holiday.

 

Officialdom cautions the old and the fat

to eat less of this, cut down on that

and points out the issues you ought to address

so you won’t be drain on the NHS.

 

But they don’t think twice

about meddling advice,

taking no measures

to cut down on Life’s pleasures,

they merrily choose

each other and booze

and care only whether

they’re happy together.

They demonstrate how

you should live for the now

-a worthy philosophy surely

until one of them dies prematurely.

Some people I know

start an answer with So…..

It’s a sort of refrain

when they’re asked to explain.

Perhaps on TV

as an interviewee

they’ll be asked for their views

on some item of news

and they start off with So…

and then tell what they know.

 

Or perhaps they’ll address a

young trendy professor

in a new documentary meant to explain

how the Spanish defeated the Moors in Spain.

And what do you know -

he starts with a So…

 

I don’t hear what comes next

‘cos I’m so flipping vexed.

It serves as an irritant,

and I get a bit militant.

My views are displayed

in a modest tirade -

That’s not the right function

It’s an effing conjunction!

you and your snowflake millennial friends

with your smug veggie liberal media trends,

coolly, offhandedly trying to show

you’re a hip metropolitan user of So…

 

 

 

Oh for the days

of conventional ways

where some stern tweedy type

took a pull on his pipe,

thought for a spell,

then began with a Well….

I’ve written a poetry book -

there’s a link if you fancy a look.

Then you can see

if it’s your cup of tea

and make a transaction with luck.

 

If you’re feeling a little bit low

there are poems - maybe 50 or so.

You just put up your feet

on the bus or train seat

(a bit anti-social I know).

 

Though WH Smith may not stock it,

it will fit in a roomy coat pocket

you can soon whip it out

when you’re out and about.

That’s a good selling point - so don’t knock it.

 

In addition, there’s no reason why

you can’t use it for swatting a fly

it is lethal and keen

and will quickly wipe clean

- another good reason to buy.

 

You’ll notice how carefully I’m

promoting my writing in rhyme

which works a lot better

than a stiff formal letter

or trying to say it with mime

 

or hiring a man with a bell -

a Town Crier - to help the thing sell.

or hawking my wares

at markets and fairs

with a versatile actress named Nell

(who is feigning to die of TB

so they stop and take pity you see)

‘Please purchase my book,

for my daughter’s sake look’

- disgraceful I’m sure you’ll agree.

 

So this is a much nicer way -

Now I‘ve said what I wanted to say.

Just a quick cheeky note

to briefly promote

my volume of poems today.

 

 

 

thank you

 

Sweepings from the Factory Floor

attracted by books

and convivial looks

I cheerfully stop

at a trendy new shop

where pricey books lay

on arty display

 

the shelves, almost bare

uncluttered and spare

have a notice which states

they’re reclaimed from old crates

though miniature cacti

mystify

lined up like ducks

between the sparse books

 

business is thin

there’s no-one else in

 

I very soon see

this isn’t for me

nothing to read

nothing you’d need

just puzzling selections

of photo collections

niche little volumes of not very much

black and white pictures of nothing as such

no landscapes, no faces

no people, no places

nebulous titles give nothing away

nothing to hint what they’re trying to say

whose ideal gift would

be photos of driftwood?

 

a hipster, role unknown

lounges with his phone

idly typing

jadedly swiping

straight outta Hoxton

no effing socks on

not there to assist

he pretends I don’t exist

 

 

what is this place?

this vast waste of space

who even looks

at these fathomless books?

what do they do

when they’re done leafing through?

 

the hipster no doubt

knows what it’s about

one glance can tell

if I’m hip clientele

but his face says forget it

he knows I don’t get it

 

but I still make a show

of pretending I know

making quite plain

my lofty disdain

sorry my friend

this is way behind trend

too hackneyed and worn

I am stifling a yawn

I came to be thrilled

and I leave unfulfilled

 

but I haven’t a clue

just who’s fooling who

Bit late for that, it's just a pile of rubble now!

A sizeable crowd has gathered in town

to watch as an obsolete building comes down,

Just the lonely and elderly looking for ways

to fill up the hours of their long empty days,

gazing in wonder, flinching in shock

at the crash of plummeting concrete block.

Watching the destruction,

causing an obstruction.

It’s something to do

‘til the next bus is due.

 

A notable landmark, I know the place well -

it once was an upmarket stylish hotel

with a fine reputation for serious nosh

back in the days when prawn cocktails were posh.

But over the years it faded, grew dated,

to a new generation - old hat, overrated.

 

Now monster machinery chomps at the walls,

dust clouds erupt as the edifice falls

reducing a tower of seventeen floors

to a pitiful tangle of rubble and doors.

 

Now I’m pretty busy - got things to do

but awed by the spectacle, I stop too.

Idly watching slack-jawed for a spell

as a mechanoid dinosaur eats a hotel,

enjoying each thunderous, sickening crunch,

I just need a bucket of popcorn to munch.

 

It’s a sociable crowd,

the buzz is quite loud

but it’s soon clear to me

they don’t see what I see.

 

They have fond reminisces, stories to share -

they had dates and romantic proposals in there,

21st birthdays, the odd Christmas do,

wedding receptions were held here too.

They’re peering through the dusty haze

to misty fond-remembered days

to a happier time,

to a place in its prime

recounting how it was back then,

recalling shining moments when

they were, on joyous afternoons,

waved off to seaside honeymoons.

Saying goodbye to what survives

of fading pages of their lives.

In the bustle of daily commuting I find

I increasingly seem to be falling behind

its puzzling and rather depressing to see

just how many people walk faster than me.

I know that it’s not a pedestrian race

but there’s still competition to stay with the pace.

I’m still in a hurry, my pace isn’t slow

but they’re making me look like I’ve nowhere to go.

They bustle and weave to the head of the line

like their job is much more important than mine.

Trying to pretend that as swift over-takers

they’re vigorous, go-getting movers and shakers.

 

I used to take pride

in my spirited stride

and would gleefully wonder how long it would take

for the slow and unfit to be left in my wake.

I really don’t know when the slowdown began

but I’m starting to look like an ambling man.

 

Now I have to accept that a healthy young lad

might, in a fair race, beat a something-ish dad

But that round little fat girl half my size

with an audible rasp from her corduroy thighs

whose short chubby arms seem to scoot her along

will also dart past in the hurrying throng.

And did I imagine or actually see

her teddy bear rucksack waving at me?

Although she is young and undoubtedly keen

she isn’t athletic or sporty or lean,

her arse is the oversize waddling kind,

so how does she constantly leave me behind?

How can I challenge her? what can be done -

an undignified trot, a desperate run?

 

Options are few

but I know what I’ll do

to get back in control -

…..I’ll affect a cool stroll.

 

You hurry past baby, I really don’t mind,

I’m a man unconcerned with the day to day grind.

Fly to your workplace, fast as you can

but me, I’m a loose livin’, slow-walkin’ man,

just takin’ my time and enjoyin’ the day,

not rushin’ around in that hot-headed way.

And wherever I go you can safely assume

that nothin’ goes down until I’m in the room.

I’m takin’ a stroll so the folks gotta wait.

And no mother**cker tells me that I’m late.

 

 

There’ll be envious glances, questioning talk

‘bout the self-possessed guy with nonchalant walk.

Brows will be wrinkled, goals re-appraised,

serious questions on life could be raised.

And I’ll draw on a cigarette cool as can be

as they slow to a casual saunter like me.

Shining with triumphant glow

I gaze upon my vanquished foe

reflecting on the sweat and pain

that left him there so soundly slain.

 

I’d stood aside for far too long

and watched the beast grow broad and strong

but sometimes when the cause is right

a man must take up arms and fight,

reject the weak defeatist talk

and wield the mighty garden fork

to slay the brute that I shall dub

The All Engulfing Monster Shrub.

 

Unchallenged now for years unknown

and menacingly overgrown,

it triumphed here for half an age -

the Ghengis Khan of foliage.

 

And so I launched my vengeful raid

with loppers, fork and trusty spade.

With branches slashed much ground was gained,

but still the knotted trunk remained.

I plunged into the sturdy brute

dismembering its tangled root.

My anger rage and hate released

I sliced and hacked the stubborn beast

but even with its guts revealed

this creature simply would not yield.

 

Hour on dogged hour we fought

but all my efforts came to nought.

Weary and frustrated now,

a sheen of sweat upon my brow,

I briefly thought of sweet retreat

but spurned ignoble vile defeat

and summoned one last killer blow

to finish off my stubborn foe.

I heaved and heard a mighty crack

then turned the b****** on its back.

 

 

 

Disinterred and dying there

its roots now reach for nought but air

like creepy crawly feelers stilled

as if some monstrous bug I’d killed.

 

I lean upon my blade and rest

my foot upon its conquered chest.

I doubt that you will ever see

a man as brave and strong as me.

 

I may erect upon this plot

a stone to venerate this spot

to mark that noble day I slew

the shrub that simply grew and grew.

Sometimes on the news they’ll say

This fella got sent down today.

They show a picture, black and white,

a nasty piece of work alright.

The face is chilling, darkly grim,

no wonder they arrested him.

 

Of course he’s a criminal, everyone cries,

you can tell that he is from the look in his eyes.

It is plain from his face that he’s broken the law

Why didn’t anyone spot it before?

The man is a dangerous weasel-faced rat.

You don’t need no Hercule Poirot to see that.

 

And you wonder why, with that in mind, the trial was such a long ‘un

when you only have to look at him to see that he’s a wrong ‘un.

Why bother with the evidence, the witnesses, the law?

they shouldn’t have to go through all that rubbish any more.

And as it’s plainly obvious his face so clearly fitted

why then even wait…… until a crime has been committed?

 

They ought to send the coppers out so people with such faces

are rounded up and put away in tightly guarded places.

We all could help the bobbies on their scrutinizing beats

by pointing out the miscreants who wander through our streets:

 

Just check the blank expression on this unassuming geezer -

I bet he’s chopped his girlfriend up and stored her in the freezer.

 

And this one with the starey eyes - it’s written in his face -

he’s plainly plotting slaughter in a crowded public place.

 

and don’t believe this sorry lowlife’s mitigating tale

his face says I’m a Reprobate so pack him off to jail.

 

You also might prognosticate from sallow, wan complexions

which sad pathetic specimens have nasty predilections.

 

And surely that man’s sunny joviality must hide

a dark and dirty secretive, disreputable side?

 

 

So when you see some shady type you think is maladjusted

- something in his halting gait that shows he can’t be trusted

or an ordinary businessman whose strangely muddy boots

might hint at lonely wayside graves for missing prostitutes,

become a crime stopper

and tell a passing copper.

Just one little nod

and the shifty or odd

will be taken away.

Much simpler I’d say.

I have done up many houses

in my decorating trousers -

commodious and wide

with large pockets on the side

they promise easy movement

and are quite beyond improvement.

 

Though stained and splished and sploshed

they are steadfastly unwashed,

with feint emulsion smell

they’ve served me very well.

I’ve increased the price of houses

in my deep and spacious trousers.

 

They once were worn with pleasure

for daily wear and leisure

both stylish and voluminous,

I revelled in their roominess.

A casual and modish phase

and those were very happy days

but sadly they grew dated

and so were relegated.

 

For paintin’ now and groutin’

and not fit to go out in

this much diminished pair I drag

be-crumpled from their carrier bag

accepting as I put them on

that now those heady days are gone.

 

But though I’ve waved a sad goodbye,

now and then I’ll see this guy,

who, boldly of his own free will

wears this dated style still -

swanning past with flowing stride

with giant pockets on the side,

apparently uncaring

of what trousers he is wearing.

 

Has no-one thought to stop and say

those trousers are bit passé,

no friend to question or condemn,

no wife to firmly veto them?

 

And then with condescension I’ll

allow myself a mocking smile -

and scorn that poor deluded fool

whose fashion sense is so uncool.

Does he really think he wows us

in his buff outmoded trousers?

 

And yet I know that deep inside

I too would like to freely stride

through public places free of care

resplendent in a pristine pair

and not to give a hoot who sees

my trousers flapping in the breeze

the pockets stuffed with all I need,

a free and happy man indeed.

Yet bound by pride and self-esteem

this image must remain a dream.

 

If only on that fateful day

I’d reverently stored away

my trousers ‘til the moment when

they’re hip and happening once again

or even just preserved the pair

‘til I’m too old to <Removed> care.

Surely it can’t be that hard

to find an appropriate card

but why in this shop do I see

so little for little old me?

This limitless choice is terrific

but some are just too damn specific.

 

You can find in these wide-ranging aisles:

To my Step Brother Over the Miles,

To my Grand Nephew over the Sea,

You’re Just Like a Mother to Me,

So Happy to Hear That You’re Wed!

but Sorry Your Dog is now Dead.

 

If your dad has begun a new life

and run off with your trashy ex-wife,

there’s a card for the tough moment when

you decide that you’re talking again.

 

If your Grandpa is banged up inside

‘cos he strangled his mail order bride,

there’s a verse that can neatly convey

what you think you are trying to say.

 

If someone you once knew as Jack

who had changed to a Jill but switched back

has a baby with someone called Butch,

there’s a message that covers that much.

 

If someone you didn’t expect

joins a infamous middle east sect

there’s a leaving card here on the shelf

saying Good Riddance, Go **** Yourself.

 

Why can’t people just be

Normal like me?

My life is not

an Eastenders’ plot.

I just want to pop

into a shop

for a card to say

Happy Birthday

without soppiness or sloppiness

without over-sensitivity

or laboured inclusivity.

No post-modern funnies

or cutesy effing bunnies.

 

I don’t want to browse

like some big girl’s blouse,

just leaf through one or two

then mutter… That’ll do.

That’s Bouncy Castle man

in his Bouncy Castle van.

His face I vaguely know

from children’s parties years ago,

expecting geniality

I found a grim reality

of stale booze

and neck tattoos.

 

No castle in the back-

business must be slack,

maybe someone’s stolen it,

perhaps it’s got a hole in it.

He chauffeured it from door to door

and this perhaps became a chore,

increasingly dissatisfied and sick of all the hassle

he thought there must be more to life than pimping out his castle.

 

Now it seems he’s combing streets

collecting broken garden seats,

here an old bike wheel,

there a jagged bit of steel,

rusted kiddie’s swings,

twisted, stark, abandoned things

some I think forsaken,

others slyly taken.

Flogged for cash - he’ll know a bloke -

some dodgy dealer up the smoke.

 

But are his urban salvage schemes

crushing children’s tiny dreams?

His van promotes but does not bring

the big exciting bouncy thing.

‘Oh Mummy’, they cry

as his van clatters by,

a death trap

of old scrap,

‘Why does that man

have a misleading van?‘

Excited hopes are trampled flat -

they won’t be jumping round on that.

 

And now they’re nonplussed

full of doubt and mistrust,

with misgivings growing

about the way things are going.

Could Santa drive past on a cash-in-hand job -

a sleigh full of rubbish, a fag in his gob?

And if he’s now earning a crust in this way,

might stockings be empty on Christmas day?

 

And they might start to feel

that he’s not even real.

Mummy has lied,

their childhood just died

and the world they now face

is a mean horrid place.

 

 

 

See what you did?

for a few measly quid,

Scrap Metal man

in your Bouncy Castle van.

An old friend rang me up to say

come celebrate on Saturday,

we haven’t met since God knows when

we’ll round the old gang up again.

 

As usual he’d choose a

proper back street boozer

with sticky carpets, 60’s bogs,

where old guys sit with dozing dogs,

a no-frills pub for no-frills men

- a proper old school drinking den.

Not for us a poncey bar

with girlies sipping Pinot Noir,

or out with those whose afternoons

are one long hazy Wetherspoons

or shouting in some sweaty place

to endless booming Drum n Bass

with braying students thinking

they’ve just invented drinking.

 

So come the day the lads arrived,

amazed this grotty dump survived,

the mood nostalgic, light and merry,

the banter flowed like hen night perry.

Though largely past our youthful prime,

still having such a jolly time.

 

But later when I paid a call

whilst pointing percy at the wall

I heard an inauspicious slosh

and found the toilet floor awash.

A recent client, ham of fist,

had aimed perhaps but…largely missed.

 

Emerging from that fetid place

I still maintained a cheery face

but now I faced a dampened night

for one shoe wasn’t watertight.

 

This episode imbued

a slow decline in mood,

my ribaldry had ended,

a cloud of gloom descended.

This inattentive urination

now prompted wider rumination,

a taking stock of what I’ve got,

reflecting on my current lot –

questioning the paths I choose,

the friends I keep, my choice of shoes.

Boozing in a back street slum,

ponging like a wino bum,

however did I sink to this?

my sock is soaked in someone’s p**s.

 

I could not shrug or simply scoff

my foot too wet to laugh it off.

 

But now I might suggest that when

we get together once again

perhaps we could identify

somewhere nicer, somewhere dry.

Though poncey bars are not our scene

there must be something in between

with modern chic facilities

and freshly cleaned utilities -

a Local run efficiently

where punters point proficiently.

 

The sock, as soon as I got in,

was dropped into the outside bin,

then after gravely mulling through

the future of that bloody shoe

I judged its fate to be the same –

the shoe must shoulder all the blame.

I chucked it out and set to rights

my post traumatic sleepless nights.

 

But sympathisers shouldn’t fret -

my foot just got a little wet,

I paddled in a warmish tide.

Now it’s over. No-one died.

And now with time and quiet rest

I’m almost wholly convalesced.

Rushing, waiting, strolling by, they go the way I go,

the daily cast of characters I see but do not know.

 

A ginger girl who takes her dog to do what doggies do

and on her pudgy finger swings a little bag of poo,

 

a crumpled, beige, deflated man so crushingly alone,

perhaps a sad librarian or lowly office drone,

 

that dapper, pigeon-chested gent so elegant and grand,

at four foot two a ringer for the mayor of Munchkin land,

 

the gloomy Pole who sometimes brings another Pole along,

his spirits clearly lifted by his murky mother tongue,

 

the beauty salon lady with the wood preserver tan

displaying all the beauty care a fifty-something can.

 

the careworn carer trudging off down grim suburban roads

another day of changing beds and emptying commodes,

 

 

Amongst this throng

I saunter along -

same faces,

same places,

same cogs in the machine,

shackled to routine.

All stick to the tradition

- no hint of recognition.

 

Don’t catch an eye.

just scurry by.

Walk,

don’t talk

or nod.

Thank God

 

Because smile, nod, nod, smile

would get pretty tiresome after a while

just to say Hey -

we go the same way

every day.

Yay.

 

 

Why pretend

you’re someone’s friend?

or risk an erroneous Hello

to some bloke you don’t know?

We seem to get on very well

in isolated parallel.

 

So there goes

Beardo,

Wierdo,

Boozer,

Loser,

the fella with the psycho eyes,

the lady with the thunderthighs

and lots of folks I’ll never know

but go the way I go.

And finally, the headlines say -

someone famous died today.

The highlights of their life are shown

- a leading actor, widely known.

You note the loss and carry on,

it’s not like someone close is gone.

 

But almost every other day

some public face will pass away -

 

a movie star with lasting fame,

some faded former household name,

a legend in the world of Rock

whose early death is such a shock

and those the daily papers choose

to tuck away with lesser news:

entertainers, sit com stars,

a character in Z Cars,

comedians now seen to be

spectacularly un-PC.

 

Some half-remembered name or face

can take you to another place

and deepening nostalgia grows

for long gone teatime kiddies shows,

classic dramas, shared delights,

and cosy gathered Christmas nights.

 

The passing of the famous lends

no mourning as with special friends

but still I feel they’ve grown to be

perhaps a little bit of me

as recollections left behind

in dusty corners of the mind.

And then with every passing day

I find these pieces swept away.

 

Yet still I’m in a healthy state,

I know I won’t disintegrate.

These memories are merely fluff

compared to stronger, deeper stuff

But still I’m more aware of how

a fading world seems further now.

It looks sound asleep

on the path, on its side

but no, its not dozing or resting

it died.

 

Recent I’d say,

it’s not rotting away.

Fresh off the tree

it looks like to me.

 

Its squirrel friends, weeping,

know its not sleeping,

their squirrel caps doffed

as they scurry aloft.

 

And there it will lie

with the world passing by

to furnish a feast

for some hungry wee beast

and myriad miniscule mites to enjoy,

or will it be nudged by a snotty small boy

with a stick

who will pick

and poke

‘til some bloke

in hi-vis, with official approval,

oversees its removal.

The go-to guy

when squirrels die.

 

It’s only a grey, you might say,

as he wheels it away

on a bed of old leaves

as its squirrel wife grieves.

It’s sad that it’s dead

but I’m glad it’s not red.

He’s a hulking great slab

of flubbery flab

whose doughy excesses and elbow and knee

spill over his seat and across onto me

so I’m caught in a rib-crushing weighty compression

like a medieval way of extracting confession.

 

And he’s brought along snacks

in large multipacks

to manfully munch

before he has lunch:

bite size

pork pies,

a cheap and nasty

corned beef pasty,

a tubful of mini rolls suitably dinky,

a large pack of party bites curried and stinky.

 

He also smells faintly of cheese,

he could do with a squirt of Febreze

 

Reason enough

to flounce off in a huff

but the train is too full so…

there’s nowhere to go.

And why should I let

the smelly fat get

take over my spot

like the Magic Porridge Pot?

 

There seems little chance

I could halt the advance.

Would the fat sod

even feel a sharp prod?

Complaints would be futile, I can’t put the boot in,

I’m like a small nation encroached on by Putin.

 

But I stubbornly cling to my slim half-a-seat,

feeling him wheezing, hearing him eat

and pray I don’t come to no permanent harm

as another spare tyre flows over the arm.