Tuesday, 31 January 2012

The Vice of Vices

I take my dope with breakfast every day:
A little fix to help me on my way.
Elevenses, I’ll have another hit,
But just enough to perk me up a bit.
My dealer’s on the High Street over lunch:
He’s got the good shit, so I buy a bunch,
And dose myself throughout the afternoon,
With little grains of heaven on a spoon.
The gear I take is pretty pure and strong,
And psychoactive – but for not that long.
I know that it could kill me, but so what?
I’d have to take an awful fucking lot!
As to dependence, I’m not “hooked on drugs”:
It’s not addiction if it comes in mugs.

Tuesday, 24 January 2012

À la Recherche de Boissons ont Perdu

 A massive in-joke and a heartfealt cry of anguish.

Some years ago, I was honoured to know
                A motley crew of patches,
Who after rehearsal, would sit in a circle,
                Indulging in drinking matches.

We’d sit there and glug in the old Labour Club,
                With Rosie and Ronnie & Panda,
And the money we spent could easily rent
                A country the size of Rwanda.

The Welsh one was there, and the guy with no hair,
                And Russell, asleep in the sand;
Tho’ Gromore’s laughs could shake seismographs,
                And smash every glass in the land.

There were others there, that, I’ll declare,
                But their names – well, I’m just not tellin’
Cos I don’t have the time, and they’re too hard to rhyme,
                So let’s call them all Cunobelin.

We’d drink and we’d shout until Dave threw us out,
                And I’d float home, happy and hoarse;
And when I asked them if we’d do it again,
                The answer would be “But of course!”

But now…

Now it’s hard to locate just one of those mates
                Who wants to get drunk when I do;
And those who drank flagons are all on the wagon –
                Yes, Turner, I’m looking at you!

They’re all getting choosy ‘bout when they get boozy,
                And the ‘Yes’s are turning to ‘Maybe’s.
‘Cos they’ve all got jobs, the credulous knobs,
                Or worse than that – fucking babies!

But since it’s a party, I’ll be hale and hearty,
                And look back with joy at those times;
And wave a “Hello” to Panda and Jo,
                And give them the gift of this rhyme.

Thursday, 19 January 2012

Fun With Eye-Rhymes

What the title says. Blame Adam Warne.

I love a poet who is prone to laughter,
For mirth can cover most of Poesy's slight crimes -
But happily I'll put to death and slaughter
A poet who just overuses sight rhymes.
'Cos while the eye-rhyme's often fun to read,
It jars a bit when actually it's said -
They only really work when in your head.
So visual-rhyming poets, please take heed:
I want no guilt at my own doorstep laid -
It's not my fault if you end up puréed.
Or maybe, better yet - I'll go and comb
The internet for ways to make a bomb,
To send you wanton wordsmiths to your tomb.
But worry not, O poets, don't you frown:
Don't run and hide, a-trembling in your fear.
This poem mostly proves the fault's my own -
That fitting cap is one that I should wear.

The Saga Of Performing Asvald, or S.O.P.A.

So the Viking was sat on the beach by the surf,
He was singing a saga as old as the Earth.
With his audience rapt and not likely to tire,
He recited his tale by the warmth of the fire:

Of the Gods and of mortals so brave and so bold,
Of Valhalla and Valkyries, gleaming in gold,
In the tale that he told, in a voice that was mighty,
All the heroes were strong, all the heroines flighty.

Though the sailors that listened had heard it before,
They would happily sit and enjoy it once more –
For the tale’s in the telling, as I’ve always said,
And the skill of the artist who’s earning his bread.

Yet no agent had he, nor no management suits
Who would leech off this bard, off his fame and repute,
And no laws to protect them were written in stone,
For the oral tradition looked after its own.

And the song wasn’t his, and yet nobody cared:
In the time of the Vikings, all music was shared –
And performed, not for profit, but just for the glow
That both singer and crowd get from passionate shows.

When the epic was over, the embers were cold,
And when all had done praising the skill of the skald,
Then they lay down to sleep in their camp by the sea,
And gave thanks for the fact that such speeches were free.