I own this hour of each day, (part of my family is settled above), and I tap-tap away, in the kitchen's dumb-hum. No pant and pad of dog, no mis-tuned song, this busy home in a sleep. With early ticks, the glassed darkness, leaves the weather outside, I am alone, circling the earth, it seems, … Continue reading Five AM
Yellow lines to be laid, in paralleled-pairs, Whilst striped-bright police cars patrol unawares. All being 'good', the badly-parked will be slapped, With a statutory fine: windscreens ticket-wrapped. The new parking zone will stretch from Uck to Ouse, Privatised wardens, wearing uniform blues, Pacing out side streets (in bounty-hunting mode), Leaping on the line-parked: 'I stopped to unload!' Our future is fine - thirty days to pay up, But don't park in Uckfield, it has just been shut.
Shale gas is seeping, it's 'sure' to give us wealth: Getting high on fracked-off fumes, improves the National Health .....
Poetry is good for us, It makes us happy, Our babies loved hearing it, Wrapped in a nappy. Poetry's our underwear, We don't like to flash: We know if it gets dirty, We think it quite rash. "Poetry should rhyme!", "Follow the written-down rules!" Life doesn't, So why bother? No, that is too cruel.
Me and Morrissey, we wear our shirts undone: my family berates me, a louche of a man: No wonder Mozza lives a 'celibate life', still, I don't mind living with my buttoned-up wife.
A blue moon: I won't rise From my unsettled-bed: This Parkinson's 'thing' on me, Wishing me dead..
The new Uckfield car park, laid out carefully, Too many lined spaces, commuter-empty..
Poets sits stiffly along the backbench ...