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.

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.

An Alcoholic's Resolution

Some fun in Ottava Rima for New Year's. Apologies to George.

I want a beer: oh, an uncommon want,

  When every New Year’s Eve sends forth a slew,

Which I demolish in some favourite haunt,

   To bid the last twelve months a fond adieu;

But when I wake up, wracked with pain, and gaunt,

   I swear I’ll never sup another brew — 

So pounding is my headache New Year’s Day,

That only beer can make it go away...

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.

The Masque Of Apathy

For Matt Panesh, with apologies to Percy.

As I splumped upon my couch,

Scrabbling through tobacco pouch,

There came a voice upon the air

That told a vision of “Out There”.

I saw Greed upon the run,

He had a mask like Cameron.

Very smooth he looked, yet spastic -

With his forehead made of plastic.

From his smile, so fixed and fickle,

There escaped an oily trickle

As with his fist, so fast and hard,

He crammed his pudgy cheeks with lard.

Next came Falsehood, and his eyes

Were yellow, like Vince Cable's ties.

In his arms, a white lamb trembled -

He wrung its neck as he dissembled.

Thronged with lackeys and fat cats

Wearing Artful Dodger hats,

With Osborne's gleam upon his eye,

Cronyism next rode by.

And many more Infractions played

This pleonectic masquerade-

Dressed in suits like brazen gangsters;

Or Lawyers, Priests, and Merchant Bankers.

Last, Apathy, with empty sockets,

iPod on, and hands in pockets,

Slouching like some languid goth,

Arrived upon a Three-Toed Sloth,

And scrawled upon his sullen head,

A faded tattoo could be read:

In childish handwriting, it said

“I'D RATHER BE AT HOME IN BED”.

A crowd arrived in Sta-Prest trousers,

Nike shoes and Primark blouses,

Gathered there, all al fresco,

Laden down with bags from Tesco.

With cringing cheers and servile scrapes -

Like backward kids, or maybe apes -

They hailed their monarch, Apathy,

With sycophantic flattery:

“Mighty Lord, the day is Thine!

To you we give our Life and Time!

Since we don't want to use our brains,

We paved the way for you to reign!

“Tell us of the latest fashions!

Give us Wants instead of Passions!

Turn us into passive clones,

With credit cards and payday loans,

PS3s and mobile phones!

“We, the people, now rejoice!

Exulting you with single voice:

Apathy, to Thee we bow!

Can we go watch Big Brother now?”

Then Apathy, like one who's drugged,

Could barely move, so simply shrugged -

And with a flick of weary digit,

Dismissed the crowd, the pageant with it.

Those foul personifications went

To London, to the Parliament,

Where with careless, strident whistles

They swapped the schools for Trident missiles.

They flogged the forests, bought the press,

Raised a tax to line their nests,

And then one final sickly jest:

Dismantled all the NHS.

The crowd cared not when they were told

The hospitals had all been sold:

“It seems like effort, starting fights -

Midsomer Murder's on tonight!

“Oh, let it lie. Yes, leave it be,

Too complex for the likes of me!

I'm sure those politicians know

What they're doing. Or I hope so.

“I voted for that nice man, Clegg:

He'd never let me starve or beg!

He swore to fight for liberty!

Now let's just have a cup of tea,

“Forget the politics and worry -

I'll microwave us all a curry!”

With processed food inside their bellies,

(Such paltry fare, like on their tellies,)

They chained themselves to hollow screens,

Were hypnotised by hollow dreams.

Sedated on that couch from Sweden,

They sat and snoozed away their freedoms

And while they died in living rooms,

Two remained out in the gloom.

One was Hope – she looked forlorn,

As if somehow her heart were torn,

The other, Wisdom, shook his head,

And in a weary voice, he said:

“I really don't know what to do-

They are many, we are few.

“At times like this, one might get jaded,”

And with that, 
                                 the vision faded...

The War On Gangs

If a 'gang' is "a group of people with compatible tastes or mutual interests who gather together for social reasons" (Dictionary.com), then David Cameron wants to declare war on:

Hip-Hop, Gary Glitter,
     Brady Bunches, Football Fans,
Famous Fives, Secret Sevens,
     Harry's Hogwarts, Boy Bands,
All-American Airborne Armies,
     Custer's Clusters, Mongol Masses,
Soccer Squads, Tennis Teams,
     Golfing Gangs, Kung-Fu Classes,
Hippie Herds, Fantastic Fours,
     Cabin Crews, Ku-Klux-Klans,
Chess Cliques, Party Posses,
     Gaming Geeks and fucking France.
Cub Clubs, Crochet Circles,
     Travelling Troupes, Demolition Derbies,
Tory Tribes, Right-wing Rings,
     Shady Sets and Political Parties.

...and who could possibly argue with him?

OK, So I'm Quoting Blake

Another speed poem from The Poetry Takeaway, this time written for a lovely girl called Erin, who loves Tigers so much, she sponsored one.

Bengal Tiger, shot by King George V in Nepal, 1911--Norwich Castle Museum

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
Stalking through the museum at night, 
Roaring loudly as he paces
Through the dusty display cases.
No amount of stuffing can sap
The life from Erin's favourite cat:
He lives, he breathes, with all the vigour
Of his cartoon namesake, Tigger.
Endangered he may be, but still,
His beauty lasts beyond the kill.
In his eyes, a noble light -
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright.
 

Cage Fighting With John Sell Cotman

A speed poem from the Poetry Takeaway, written for Laurence, for whom this is somewhat of an obsession...

The gallery was rammed that day
With Norwich's great and good:
Periwigged and buckles shined,
And an artistic thirst for blood.

"Painting's just too tame, these days - 
It's not been fun for ages.
If only these artistic wimps
Were made to fight in cages!"

So Cotman stripped, and John Crome whipped
His face off with barbed wire,
While Cotman pounded  Johnny's head
'Til he began to tire.

The rounds went on, and neither John
Had the strength to win 'em,
And neither painter could foresee
The dropkick from Henry Ninham.

Ninham raised his arms and yelled
"You fuckers know I'm well hard!",
But he was felled as his pride swelled:
Hamstrung by Emily Stannard.

The Norwich School was cunting cruel,
With broken teeth and collars,
But all the crowd agreed out loud
That it was better than watercolours.

[I really hope a researching History of Art student finds this...]

Summarising Suetonius

Ottava Rima is not conducive to speed poetry.

Some years ago, when Hadrian first thought of building walls,

Suetonius (who worked for him) began a mighty tome

That listed all the emperors who'd had the luck or balls

To sit and rule, quite unopposed, from the Imperial throne.

Like Julius, who made his name by conquering the Gauls,

But then earned just opprobrium by marching into Rome.

      Yet won his place in history as first of all the Caesars,

      That's quite a feat, given his propensity to seizures.

Augustus was the next in line – he took his uncle's name -

And kicked the ships of Antony right back across the Med.

He beat all opposition down until, such was his fame,

The Senate had no choice: they put the laurels on his head.

And, all in all, you'd say he had a quite successful reign,

Though one thing always plagued him, right up to his deathbed:

      When Varus lost his legions, ambushed across the Rhine,

      Yet still the Romans went and tried to deify him.

Tiberius, the little shit, was next to take control,

And nobody could stop his evil, no-one even tried, so

Capricious was his nature, and so murderous his soul,

That there was cheering in the streets when finally he died.

Caligula was little better: crazy, mad arsehole,

Who only lasted long because the army took his side,

      And when of 'Little Boots' the troops could stand just no more,

      He's stabbed by some Praetorians, right in the corridor.

Now Claudius, the stutterer, arrives to take his turn:

Some say he was a simpleton, some say he was a saint,

And history records that he was always taciturn,

That prob'ly made him easier to just assassinate.

Then Nero came along, and played, and watched his city burn,

But no man trusted food when it was served upon his plate,

      Cuz Nero poisoned both his brothers, and his uncle too,

      Then finally his mother, which we've all once tried to do.

The next three emperors don't hang around for very long,

A few, frustrating months is all old Galba seems to last,

And who remembers Otho's name in any play or song?

There was no time to write such works, his reign went by so fast.

Vitellius thought he'd last longer, boy, was he sure wrong:

No sooner did he start his reign, he blinked and it was past.

      So, though when his turn comes, he's way across the sea,

      Vespasian comes along, and starts the Flavian dynasty.

He calmed the Empire down a bit, the Colosseum built,

And passed a stable legacy to Titus, his first son.

How so much Jewish blood across the temple floor was spilt

We'll never know – six months it took to take Jerusalem.

But take it Titus did, then later, possibly from guilt,

He left it to his brother, Emperor Domitian.

      Though these last three were seemingly by power uncorrupted,

      They still got blamed by all Pompeii, when Vesuvius erupted.

So there you have it, that completes Suetonius's twelve,

The men who turned a great Republic to a Principate.

Some did it for the power, and some did it for the wealth,

Some simply just believed that they were born to tragic fate.

So when we look at history to learn about ourselves,

The Caesars are a crazy bunch who'll always fascinate.

      I'm recommending that you give Suetonius a look-

      It really is beyond a doubt a damn hilarious book.

Militarihews or A History Of Warfare In Seven Comic Poems

1. Hegemony
Philip the Second of Macedon
Had many skills, and passed them on,
Which did his son a favour
As he went to conquer Asia.

2. The Gallic Wars
Julius Caesar
At the Siege of Alesia
Used dirty Roman tricks
To capture Vercingetorix.

3. 1066 and All That
William of Normandy,
When the wind turned Northerly,
Ended his inaction,
And sailed to whup the Saxons.

4. Chivalry
Edward of Woodstock,
Though of impeccably good stock,
Was barred from the aristocracy 'til
He'd won his spurs on Crecy hill.

5. The Iron Duke
Field Marshal Wellesley,
Or so my research tells me,
Had few friends at Eton
Before Napoleon was beaten.

6. Crimea River
The 7th Earl of Cardigan
Never rode that hard again,
Since charging had put paid
To his beloved Light Brigade.

7. Home By Christmas
Alfred von Schlieffen
Died before completion
Of his plan to capture Paris,
So he never got embarrassed.

Earl Grey, Please!

A Villanelle about the man who passed the Great Reform Act of 1832, and who ended slavery in the British Empire in 1833. He's somewhat of a hero of mine...

Who celebrates the life of Charles, Earl Grey?
There's more to it than just inventing tea - 
We need a man like him to save the day.
When Tories cut, and Lib Dems just obey,
And opposition's lost in vain ennui, 
Who celebrates the life of Charles, Earl Grey?
Who fought against corruption's powerplay,
Who spoke 'til dawn with sweeping oratory,
We need a man like him to save the day.
When leaders lie to make us vote their way,
And private prisons prompt new slavery, 
Who celebrates the life of Charles, Earl Grey?
When taking teachings from our yesterdays,
If ever we could learn from history,
We need a man like him to save the day.
When England tries to ape the USA,
When freedom's just a distant memory,
Who celebrates the life of Charles, Earl Grey?  
We need a man like him to save the day.

The Judgement of Paris

By 'Paris', I mean the colleague, not the city. Or the Trojan bloke played so woefully by that Bloom feller in the movie.

In Ancient Greece, with its Golden Fleece,
And its tales of brave Odysseus,
They celebrated conquests with physical contests
Like throwing a hammer or discus.
When they won a battle, they'd slaughter the cattle,
And sacrifice blood from their veins,
Then run round in circles, jumping over hurdles,
And so began Olympic Games.

Now they are tradition more than superstition,
They run every four years or so;
And if a politician says we want this competition,
Then we all have to cough up the dough.
But the hundred metre dash is a fucking waste of cash -
Just one of many frivolous expenses.
And why's it us that pays for events that last three days
And solely involve horses and fences?

In the days of old, it wasn't about gold -
Friendly competition was enough.
Plus the Ancient Greeks used to show off their physiques
By doing the whole thing in the buff.
So if we're spending money, let's make the whole thing funny,
Remembering the spirit of the Games,
And sit inside the stadia, watching genitalia,
Especially the ladies' beach volleyball.

Dirty Protest

Anyone who's ever shared a house will understand.

"If it's yellow, let it mellow,"
My housemate quipped today,
"If it's brown, flush it down - 
That's always been the way!"

"Do you think your piss don't stink?"
I remonstrated thus:
"Don't use rhymes to justify crimes,
And learn to use the fucking flush." 

Ten Speed Poems: #10

Poems written in 10 minutes or less for The Poetry Takeaway.

Ancient Verbosity (for Colo)

Long ago, when time was young,
An epoch, an era, an age,
Words would grow at fearsome rate,
And synonyms were all the rage,
Savage mobs of lexemes would
Roam free, unfettered, uncaged.

They'd frolic, gambol, gad about,
And lark in meadows gay;
They'd stalk, and hunt, and track, and trail,
Their blithe, unsuspecting prey;
Until they were coralled, kept, and compiled,
In a book by Mr Roget.

And nowadays, in present time,
Of words there is no dearth,
And poets choose and pick their terms,
To show their skill and worth,
They fondly, wistfully, recall
When Thesauruses ruled the Earth.

 

Ten Speed Poems: #9

Poems written in 10 minutes or less for The Poetry Takeaway.

Black Gold - Two Sugars (for Smalls Murray)

Black as darkest hell, but sweet like the sun,
With swirls like the clouds and steam like a sauna,
Perky like a puppy, a pick-me-up bar none,
Coffee: noble king of Guatemalan fauna.* 
Perfect with a cigarette, first thing in the morn,
It gets you through the day when you need a little crutch,
But addiction is an awful thing - I'm really rather torn:
The problem with coffee is I like it too much.

* it was only two hours later that I realised I meant 'flora', but by then it was too late to change it. Also, it wouldn't rhyme, now would it?

Ten Speed Poems: #8

Poems written in 10 minutes or less for The Poetry Takeaway.

Walking Off Mountains High (for Mountain Girl)

High up in the Andes
The Ayahuasca grows
Sacred shaman vine
Straining towards a sky
Pierced by peak upon peak

Higher and higher I climb
Clutching the sinuous branches
Wrapping them tight around my fist

Gasping breathing hard in the sparse air
Inhaling the heady fragrance of the vines all around me
The sweet smoke makes my head spin
As I burst through to the balding sunlit summit

Feeling that with every step upwards
I might wander off into the sky
And never come down

Which in retrospect
Is not a wholly unpleasant prospect
 

Ten Speed Poems: #7

Poems written in 10 minutes or less for The Poetry Takeaway.

Louis' Plea (for Louis, his mum, and his gran)

Whenever I'm sad, whenever I'm lonely,
I love to munch on pizza with loads of pepperoni.
No wimpy stonebaked crust for me - I like 'em nice and thick,
With lots of herbs and mozarella: lovely, just the trick!
I'm never really happy 'less I'm munching on a slice,
And if I don't get my pizza, I tend to be less nice.
So grant me this request, mother dear, I pray:
Feed me deep crust pizza, every single day!