We finish up and there’s, say, six of us In symphony, washing next to the sink. We swipe our hands under the taps and - whoosh! Men don’t do such closeness; except to drink. Then again, we find this part is much less fuss Than when guessing what the next guy would think Were he to catch a glimpse of what we hide, With tilted shoulder and averted gaze, As we...
The Ballad of the Hitch
We gather round to hear the tale Of Christopher the wise: The voice who drank and smoked a life That others never tried. This tale, far from infallible, Still stirs the hearts and minds Of audiences young and old: Thinkers of every kind. A Balliol, Oxford Socialist (His curse – ‘Hitch-22’) Bohemian? Contrarian? No clumsy noun would do. Young ‘Chris’ incited liberty, A lefty,...
In Defence of Onions
Despite appearances, I do not do illegal drugs. However, I have a very good friend who, at any suitable opportunity, will vehemently defend cannabis, and exhume at length on its medical benefits and lack of risk as evidence in favour of its legalization. I love him dearly, but with all due respect - fuck that. The weight or otherwise of medical, philosophical or psychological evidence in favour of...
Purple and gold wall hangings; Cigarettes, proffered, freely lit; Princely fur coats, shrugged at the door And thus left, graceless, on the floor. Resplendent bohemian Lord Of Language strides the neat threshold. Now (is he glad?) he’s talked about; Birthday banner, melding “Oscar’s Out!” One hundred and fifty seven! His youth, as yearned, has held its course: Immortal poster boy...
This officer is filled with glee as he Snaps on my wrists the cuffs of custody. I have explained, on my ‘arrest’ that I Was not at all to blame, and told him why, When found on the toilet with this man’s wife I had picked up my clothes, and run for my life. Dragging me back to him from the front door I notice our lady’s underwear drawer: Her closet’s resplendent with satin, tight; I...
Patient. Fishes swish fast. Silver meals. Legs made for this water. Orange shields. Stand quiet, beak’s ever poised. Their flesh peels Thin, into strips. Eat what still pond yields. Nothing comes here, go further. Make fresh steals. Clever boy, more places. Over fields- Lift high, slow, spread wide. Up in sky, wind feels Light and fresh. Grand, tumbling upwards, wields Glinting beak....
The Circles of Hull
Municipal grave. Writer. He stirs. This town should be familiar to him. Yes, he is the fitting guide, no doubt, For he knew the manner of its sin. Through the gravel he comes, which is cold And wet - to match his quiet miser’s voice. His spectacles are cracked; he looks old. Yet he could have left, this was his choice. “First is Limbo,” says the poet, wryly, Dusting...