Uni Years

In the years of learning and city freedom

The breeze always seemed blue.

My feet sprang from the Victorian pavement

And my eye caught the beauty of buildings,

Fallen leaves, a car pausing to let a passer by

Cross the road. I walked through art

Like Van Goughs whirling night,

And left my thoughts to run with words,

Words to play in the paradises of my creation.

I had some to share it with, and some I wish were there.

But it was never more-easy than when I walked

Through the days when I knew I was part of the rhythm

Of everything.

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Good Morning

I’ve kept the curtains open

So as to rise with the sun.

It comes cold and golden into my room,

And grows as the Mersey River runs.

 

It is only just gone five

And the songs of morning birds arrive,

The roar of speeding trains

Has yet to break through the tired day.

 

I’m happy to know the world still sleeps

And I sit in bed awake,

Still too lazy, maybe, to leap up to my feet

But pleased to steal what there is of life to take.

High Society

Let me enter the stunning worlds

Of rich circles in high society nights

And let my clothes be torn

And my hair pulled by the wind

So as to invite looks of disgust…

And then I’d start to sing

Awful cackles of misshapen carols;

Then let security chase me

As I slam into tables,

Step on champagne glasses,

Break a window,

Headbutt an aristocrat,

Then leave without a fuss.

I Went to a Marvellous Party: A response to the Noel Coward song of the same name.

I went to a marvellous party

It really wasn’t so great,

For people from parliament

Came by in their garments

From the family tailors

I hate –

Ghastly golds and silvers and bows

With black coats covered in snow

And hats made from tropical birds,

But haven’t you heard?

Lord Arnold came in already drunk on gin

With a girl on his arm from some family farm

That he’d found in the local Inn;

And the state he was in my God I cried

I looked him up and down

Gave him a frown

‘You’re divine it’s true,’ I lied.

 

But it was a marvellous party,

For Beryl from the herald

Came by with a pen in her hair

And lipstick all smeared on her face;

Oh what a state! She’s seen Tenerife

In the spring, she’s seen India in the fall

But London at midnight

Was the single sight that

She loved that most of all –

I believed her barmy, totally mad

I chalked it up to the wine and the

Many pills that I’d had!

And the line that escaped me

That set the beast free

‘You’re an amalgamation,

A collected mass of some

Ghastly creature from the sea!

What with the colours from France

And the scandals from Rome

It’s a wonder you had the dignity

To walk out of your home!’

And thus the blood was boiling

Several centigrades high;

Such an explosion or exquisite implosion

Would surely make the night.

 

It was marvellous though

Can’t remember nought

But I think that it went down

Better than I thought,

For I found my shoes on the roof

And Alfred asleep at my door

And several pictures

Predicting the ruin

Of some men from the House of Lords.

It’s clear from sparse recollection

That I was the belle of the ball!

And I couldn’t have liked it more.

This is a Thing

The parrot women with their pails

In the middle ages all have ale

To waste away the Friday after next,

The voted in the ex-president

Of somewhere without precedent

Cus he was the only one to read the text.

 

The rebel man with his masonry

Did something out at sea

That no priest in any case would dare to do,

But it was Roman in religion

And English in tradition

Trying to find the drug to get over you

 

Na-na-na’s come from the radio

Like Spain or Mexico

With the water wobbling like the pigs

In the restaurant with the concert

Concertina player happy with his dollar

And change.

 

Night life, fireflies, somewhere in Greece

Ruined by my being overly obese,

The horn player compliments my choice in dress

But like an envious romance

We argue when we dance

And then find ourselves in needless distress.

 

I’m cautiously optimistic, hyper realistic

Happy with the walking stick

To travel over mountain and monument alike,

But I know how it feels

When you’re in heels

And you get out on the third strike.

The Graduate

All these contemplative melodies

Can soothe obsessive maladies

That tremble and shake me to my bones,

But all the words of vagabonds

Burn so bright and then they’re gone

And I’m back to being fearful and alone.

 

Twisted rhythms, crooked rhymes

Help me through the trying times

When my head is spinning like a moving wheel,

Cold nights fall to dawning days

They throw their jewels then fade away

And I’m left wondering how I really feel.

 

I envy Ahab and his whale

Even one so doomed to fail

A prisoner determined to succeed,

At least he had a goal to chase

I’m sitting in a silent place

Waiting for a call to come to me.

 

I’ve got confusion coming from my eyes

Towards the charming cloudy skies

About which road I should follow all the way,

Like anyone thrown out to the world

Left to voice their own concerns

I’m struggling to find a thing to say.

Ideal Party

The parties I want to attend

Throw champagne in your face in disgust

Then scratch your car; and

They play something smooth like honey

On the speakers. You talk to a narcissist

Until you’re ready to beat them with the bottle.

No matter your turn of phrase you somehow manage

to demean and offend the artistic upstart

who you’ve been listening to for the last hour.

You fall into the pool

And the ripples make the moon light dance

All around You. Then you stand in a dripping

Blue suit, smile, and walk out.

Motel Blues

False cowboys take up motel rooms.

You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases

Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”

And you want to wave goodbye

To the ugly landscape. The person at reception

Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool

But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.

 

A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light

Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.

You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had

When he was seven and his father came home early.

 

Motel rooms scream secrets

But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,

The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207

Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,

The orange heat of the dawn sun

Coming through the blinds in the desert morn

Is as welcoming as any waterfall.