Sonnet For The Boys

It's Friday night, and all my mates are high,
And supping lager from a can somewhere.
The dubstep's on, the speakers boom and blare -
The joints are passed around (but always by
The left-hand side - though no one quite knows why);
The wisps of smoke begin to choke the air,
As each man slumps into his comfy chair:
Their bodies sink as minds take off and fly.
But I'm sat here at work with freezing tits -
Because of hoggish poverty, I'm forced
To babysit some chef from off TV -
I hope his food gives everyone the shits.
As for my friends - I love them all, of course:
I only hope they spark one up for me.

Guy Fawkes' Night

November the 5th. Makes you think, dunnit?

Today, St Peter's School in York

Has little bonfire fun,

Because, of all the boys they taught,

That Guido Fawkes was one,

And you never burn an Old Boy,

No matter what he's done.

So even though he once was caught

With powder by the tun,

When tryin' to blow the king and court

All straight to Kingdom Come –

You never burn an Old Boy,

No matter what he's done.

Yes, even when the lies they talk

Come tripping off the tongue,

And plain to see, behind the thought,

They're shafting ev'ryone,

You never burn an Old Boy,

No matter what he's done.

So, when you face the cuts you fought,

When all the spin is spun;

When you're furious, distraught

At how the country's run:

You can't go burning Old Boys,

No matter what they’ve done.

And if, one day, you take a walk

And pass by Old E-Ton,

You'll never see them torch a doll

Of David Cameron,

'Cos you never burn an Old Boy –

So go and get a gun.

Lines From An Art Gallery In October Half Term

So I thought it was about time I tried a Sestina. This was supposed to be about lazy parents, but such is Formal Poetry...

The children never seem to see the Art.

Instead, they gravitate towards the screens

Like bees to flowers; pausing briefly by

The nudes, they giggle at each naked breast,

Then back to telly, that familiar friend,

Companion through their daily, waking life.

Presumably, not told there’s more to life –

That music, sculpture, poetry, and art,

Enrich existence like the warmth of friends,

Much more than cold and sterile TV screens,

That leave a chill inside each budding breast,

That kill young curiosity just by

Their very presence. Words and worlds slip by

Unnoticed: Advertising screaming “Life

Is Short! You must go buy yourself new breasts!

No time to stand admiring wanky art!

Instead, see our new range of plasma screens –

They’ll make you happier than all your friends!

“In fact, you’ll never need another friend –

Just go and get this DVD that’s by

That lovely Jordan, star of stage and screen,

A wonderful example for your life:

She “Dint no nuffin’ ‘bout no fackin’ art!”

And, on that subject: trust us on the breasts.

“And gentlemen, since we are talking breasts,

Look! Here’s a busty woman – tell your friends!

This isn’t using sex to sell, it’s art!

You, too, can have this woman, simply by

Just purchasing this car! So get a life!

(And please remember: always watch the screen).”

Because they’re everywhere now, aren’t they, screens?

Just making sure you’re always kept abreast

Of all the latest offers – as if life

Were better knowing that some actor “friend”

Says anything – if there is cash put by,

And, in the process, turns his back on Art.

If you live life beset by blaring screens,

If Art and Commerce battle in your breast,

A friendly tip: just switch off, don’t stand by.

Things To Do When You Arrive In Town

My friend and poetry hero Ross Sutherland, many moons ago, wrote a poem called Things To Do Before You Leave Town. This is the other side of the story.

Attempt to unpack everything

You've never used

And never will,

But you'll keep in a box anyway.

Spend four hours on hold

To Virgin Media, wishing you knew

Which bag your hands-free kit was in.

Check the toilet seat.

Read the mail of people

You will only ever know

By their first initial.

Divide local newsagents

Into those you will shop in,

And those you will use for porn.

Find something creepy

Behind the radiator:

A bloodstain, a map of Ancient Persia.

Stare out the window.

Give names to the cats on your avenue.

Walk the streets,

Taking special notice

Of the cracked paving stones,

For late-night celestial navigation.

Note the bookies, the offies,

The places that sell pizza,

The chippies that are open on Mondays.

As dusk falls, look nonchalantly

Into the living-rooms of neighbours.

Do not attempt to ring your mother.

Do not attempt to ring your ex.

Do not attempt to find a prostitute -

You cannot afford one.

You can still prop up a bar

Where somebody's playing guitar,

Get drunk for two hours

In the barman's flat,

On stolen brandy,

Before realising he's a little bit weird.

Come sunrise,

Go, and smoke a joint

At a point

                      That makes no sense at all.