Month: January 2017


While I applaud your ardour,
there’s just one thing I would say:
When you pull the trigger,
could you face the other way?



Nothing personal

Let’s see if Lefty Lomax
can take a jolly jape:
Let’s seal his lips together
with elastic binding tape,
then tie his hands and feet
and cast him to the deep,
with a friendly rock to keep him company.

I’m sure he’ll see the lighter side,
and join in all the fun.
It’s just  piece of business
that we’d do to anyone.


School poetry remembered

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
the forests of the night.
As yet the early rising sun’s
not really burning bright.

Gazing where the lilies blow,
athwart the surging tide,
the music in my heart I bore
— the dog it was that died.

I listened, motionless and still,
and when I counted up the till,
the money in a cart I bore
to Alfie’s place beside the shore.

And still they gazed
and still the wonder grew,
how one small flower could blossom
on the grave of mad Carew.

What immortal hand or eye
can frame the sylvan cot?
Some kinds of education
are better left forgot.

— ‘What’s the poet’s  theme, young man?
Why is he disturbed?’

— ‘The poet’s feeling sad, Sir,
cos he wants to be a bird.’


Action plan

I’d be better off back inside. Three meals a day, warm bed every night, company. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to eat.

The thing about jail is… you get used to it. Most people don’t understand that. Am I supposed to get used to living under the bridge, getting kicked by teenagers and fucked by everyone else? Perish the thought, old bean!

So… action plan: hammer, crowbar, balaclava (one likes to look the part), nip round to C Block and effect a seamless entry. The prodigal son returns! Big hug from the warden (‘My boy! you’ve come back!’), welcoming smiles from all and sundry, welcoming smell of bleach from the laundry. Home.


Lovers’ Chase

Let’s see if Gilbert Ormeau
has the balls to show his face
after spurning Wilma Cresslaw
in the yearly Lovers’ Chase.

Wilma is a dog, of course,
but that’s no earthly reason,
to treat her like a carthorse
or a mule that’s out of season.

Poor Wilma’s heart is broken
— a pox on you, Ormeau! —
she has taken to her box
with a bottle of Bordeaux.


The standoff

— Stick with us, Bukowski,
don’t wander off the path.
There’s bears and ‘coons and all sorts
that’ll bite ye in the ass.

— I smoaked your plot a ways back,
I know your cunning game.
Don’t try to stop me, Tandy,
or this day will end in shame.

— Stop right there, Bukowski,
don’t move another foot.
So help me, I’ll shoot ye down,
if ye shift yer spineless butt.

And so the standoff started,
Bukowski and the goy.
They’ve been glaring at each other
since Adam was a boy.