Midnight

Something, anything
The dark void waiting, waiting
Longing in the night

Vision in White and Blue

The eyes, the blue, the smile
The skin, the hair
Those socks, prim, upright
Spectacularly beautiful; the blue, the pink

The breath, the ripples, the heart pounding
The arm, protective, the nibbling kisses
That short sleeved shirt; white
Spectacularly beautiful; the almost transparent, the so light brown

The mouth, the saliva, the other's mouth
The exchange, the lips
The spit; dripping down
Spectacularly beautiful; the red, the pink

The white, the hand, shy, the delicate nod
The revelation, the shiver
Sleek; strokes as satin
Spectacularly beautiful; the pure white, the pink

The rhythm, the fingers, the dance
The music, the twisted lip
Faster, relentless, the smile
Spectacularly beautiful; the blue, the pink

The Sound of Grey

They slash your pension,
cut your wages,
pass massive handouts to the rich.
The contemporary poet's response:
sit at home, cogitate,
meditate, reminisce, contemplate,
celebrate the good in life.
This poet is so thankful,
bowing, scraping,
so grateful to authority.

Voluntary redundancies they call it
as they devour your livelihood, sack you,
deprive you of the means to life.
The poet then provides a solitary prayer;
of an individual alone and weak;
his godless prayer, comforting and pathetic.
Instructing you to rot in your miserable abode
contemplating a greater,
non-existent, experience.
All along inviting you to personify your misery.

They cut your social services,
slash your benefits,
condemn millions to the scrap heap before their time.
Then the poet is so safely defiant, so lofty,
all within such contrite bounds.
The mildest of a demure that challenges nothing.
Hoping both torturer and victim will both find comfort,
such solace in those useless words.
No matter, says the poet,
sit at home, read these lines of doggerel,
all jarring, phony,
overflowing with comfortless rhymes.

Don't personify:
rebel, resist, protest, organise,
above all organise – organise.

River

Stirring high above
The transient flow; trickling down
Streaming, in the sun

A Royal Day Out

Today has been the highlight of the royal jubilee. So let us, for a moment, pause and consider some of today's activities. The actions that are supposed to prove how much superior those royals are to us common drones. How intellectually topnotch royals are and how rightfully they administer the herd.

First off there was a religious service. We, the commoners, the ordinary folk watched someone watching a church service. It's not even as if they are involved in performing the service, that presumably would be to intellectually demanding even for the royals, no it's watching someone suppressing another yawn, seeing if the boredom shows. To cope with these strenuous demands involves some special breeding. If you headed down to your local church and did something similar, say stood down one side admiring the congregation, then they, the congregation, would probably be very polite: but they'd think you were insane. But royals can achieve this exploit without appearing loopy.

After the service it was grubs up. It's a dinner and a very special meal at that. You see us common mortals cannot eat alone, not unsupervised at any rate, we need someone in charge to guide us. But royals, you know what they can do, they can perform this monumental task all on their own. They can pick up both the knife and the fork, unaided by courtiers, cut their fodder and shove it into their gobs all unaided. And no mess spilt all over the floor and landing on the cat. So on this jubilee day we are allowed a prize demonstration of their superiority we, the dregs, get to see a demonstration of eating. And all unaided by any safety net.

Two

Lovely smiles; so sweet
Angora sweaters; purple, white
Tender exchange

The Deceit of Grandeur

The festering corruption of deception
Seeps through every pore
Stinking, contaminating the regime
Stifling creativity, freedom, comradeship
Luxuriating in the surrounding poverty

The pestilence lives on us
Feeds on us
Devours us
It becomes satiated to a sicking blubber
Still demanding more
Ever demanding etiquette
Turning all it excretes upon infectious

The obsequious blabbers scurrying
Followers of the counterfeit magnificence
Gorging themselves
On yet more human flesh
On our very minds
Occasionally the vermin look upwards
All fawning, sycophantic, toadying
Towards the self serving avarice of formality

Black Rose

A single thorn
A single spindly stem
Thrusting upward
A single bud
Flowering, displaying its small delicate petals
A small act of defence, of beauty
A single black rose

Viewed across the barbed wire
Caught between the footpath and the motorway
Submerged within the unobtainable
Its brief desperate joy
The tantalising vision
Of a black rose

Battered bruised
In the sudden summer rain
It fades, bedraggled
Waiting to emerge again
All too briefly
Next year, perhaps
Possibly another black rose

The Estrangement

I need
To be needed.

Nevermore
Floating with you.

I want
To be wanted.

Dying
That's what all we seem good at.

Maple of Shame

Standing, once standing
On the corner
Tall, thrusting, proud
The new spring growth
Of vibrant purple leaves
Three fingers glinting in the sunshine

One day of violence
Savaged with a chainsaw
Branches falling
Living limbs crashing on the grass
Then crammed in the back of a car
And taken to the dump

All that remains
A solid trunk
Deformed
Splattered, mauled
With bright white scars
Where once there was forgivingness

Thirty years of growth
All lamentation