The return walk, hobbled together,
From the speech therapist’s advice,
Should encourage me to avoid The Alma,
And other throat-burn-delights.
A short climb up Framfield Road,
Past Old Ale’s 4% call;
My dignity would still remain,
If I had just the one pint pulled ?
Breathing the roadside fumes,
Will surely do for me before a pint?
Or am I pouring distractions,
from the assure of medical advice ?
I am reduced by Austerity’s ardour,
Having lent a fiver to the wife;
There is no cash-point en-route,
So I will forgo that poisonous pint.
then add lightness”*,
a code we could
when bringing up
now their innocence
[*Colin Chapman: Anthony Colin Bruce Chapman CBE (19 May 1928– 16 December 1982) was an influential English design engineer, inventor, and builder in the automotive industry, and founder of Lotus Cars.
Full Wikipedia here ]
The gun’s stock, lifted, too long,
Putting the cold trigger beyond;
Still, he adjusted, feet, hands, gait;
Finding the gun’s balanced weight.
Targets – a propped-tile in white,
Two tossed bottles, and a down pipe;
Easily in range, he shot, low-missed;
Long-sight dropped by trigger-pull twist.
February’s dull flatness, a planing-wind,
Lifted my past, and Dad, again;
Reluctant to share lone-hunt-time away,
With a cold-chattered boy, as I did today.
I lifted Dad’s shotgun, with safety flicked,
To my shoulder’s larger, better fit:
Over-under, aimed at the silent-drey;
I, too, missed my target that day.
I sit still,
asked of you:
Be my crime?
is that enough?
Now? I have no need for sleep!
I kid myself: struggling to reap
Sunlight’s low-wan humour;
avoiding then, dark room suture.
You asked me to stop reading (in bed):
‘Monologue’ would be better said;
The subject, not my voice, too trying:
So to myself, in well-spoken silence.
Twelve hours lain, three of sleep,
My long standby, a low power cheat;
I wake to re-design, across my life,
You may struggle to be the same wife.
Present is passed over,
on gloss-cloth prints;
like manners, poured,
tabled and staffed,
attention to these fittings,
dragged from our past.
under knitted hats,
to be tipped, loose-leafed,
by the tea-bagged class.
1. Gents should always do up their ties.
2. We’ll answer you back with our lineage lies.
3. Put down the poorly, along with the dog.
4. My birth is perfect, yours is not.
Seamus and Stefan,
Britons braced to run,
10k for me,
A lesson in Brexit’s
Brits are found
in more than one race.
Seamus Murphy & Stefan Aleksandrowicz are #fundraising for @cureparkinsonsT.
Donate to Seamus Murphy &’s @JustGiving page
Today, it finally hit me as I headed home, ache-lagged.
But, as a child I was called ‘Bell-fast’:
A short-lived nickname on the long walk to school,
because my stride got me there in record time:
One ‘The Guinness Book of..’ never cared about.
There was a hedge-thatched ditch,
a slow shallow run of ore-orange silt,
along part of that route to and from school,
(‘before the motorway was built’)
I would not get sucked in, I was walking too fast.
Except one day, rare-slowed, I pulled a fossil from the stream:
A heavy stone, shaped as if a pear, but halved, sliced clean,
stamped with an ancient leaf, it seemed.
Lifted from that school-route ditch,
I wondered then, ‘why me’, with that find;
as I shuffle now, I wonder ‘why me’, again.
The call is made to
‘Clean for the Queen’,
in celebration of
her majestic gleam:
I think I’ll rinse
floss my teeth,
then spit royally out.
My disease-tease game of sorts,
I muster, as written-down thoughts,
Composed crude lines,
Re-versed at night,
Sometimes cry, truly, in delight.
Such stretched out, screen-tapped,
Knocked off, quick-crossed,
I can do piss-poor-poetry,
I also scan badly:
as you can see.
as far as the south;
His voice is old-posh,
ruling real work out.
his politics opportunistic,
Seeking the leadership,
of a euro-kicked dog,
the raisin d’etre
of Johnson’s fog.
He will sit ready
to lead vacuum-bores;
No longer a mayor
or bankers’ whore.
Let go of London,
Boris will bike,
the Right will whinny,
A week gone, with only texts
to connect with you:
along the Indian Ganges.
I chose your shampoo,
lathered before your arrival;
shower-boxed, you returned,
in my touch:
Foam-smell, brought you back,
on my fingers, off that longed-trip,
I was no longer alone.
Fat expats recline
on Spain’s sunny coast,
oiled up on olives,
pre-paid for Dignitas:
shell suits half-zipped,
these aren’t the Brits
who will force ‘Brexit’:
They never left Blighty,
EC rules on Spain’s shores,
with their exported, off-shored,
fatty food glad,
their life sun-stroked,
now a leathery blag,
every beached gran,
toasting to a darkened hide,
soon to be repatriated,
in Brexit’s genocide.
Facebook, overnight, post-bagged snarl:
She, swimsuit-sat, on dolphin, ‘so cruel’:
Held it from water, until it drowned;
we sucked-dry its soul, re-tweeted around.
More concerned cries, over the death of a thing:
As kids ‘cross la Manche, wait, suffocating.
Jungle slow-cleared, raked-over soil,
lost, infected youth, truth’s grey voile.
Les enfants want lives, to make it across,
but may drown in the camps, more un-figured loss.
When war-blown minors are once given hope,
they too will suck life, from freedom’s throat.
This day: not one child will be dragged from hell,
instead we will shame ‘the fish-riding girl’.
Once sleep, mitigated,
under lax-lain flow,
relief in night-noosed dreams;
where no fixed stiffness,
or crumbling fatigue:
Dreams, what vagary,
Last night, more vivid,
I filmed delusion’s play,
but, for the first time,
that being, slept away;
Ill-drugged and screams,
now robbed dreams-eased,
with slumber’s infection,
twilight, day-tripped, diseased:
In my sleep, inanimate,
free-frame falsely engaged:
Now in dreams, shuffled,
Is not a foul device:
Accept its place,
And live a deeper life:
he’ll cease being so cruel:
Absorbs every effort:
Return its fear,
give much more back to it.
It comes to you,
When all else is long-lost.
Beware West Park’s
It sits half-burrowed,
seemingly in vain:
Only last week
it swallowed a whole toddler,
The child was rescued,
by a kagouled dog-walker.
Why return, look back,
At that Gulag hut?
Where my sixth form time
On the clock’s face, hands-free, writ:
‘Time is a bourgeois concept’.
The sneer-reduced tutor,
With his flat-footed red boots:
An intellectual bully,
Who brought nothing – to us,
‘The Brains Trust’:
His sarcastic, re-parried, thrusts.
My parents asked him:
‘What’s the use of politics,
as a subject choice?’
He joked (unread): ‘Michael could be
a trade unionist, or Labour MP’:
He took them in: so for that act,
this, my decades-reply to
For his staff-room laugh, at simple folk,
Stabbing my parents, slipped cruel joke,
Brief writ now, in my late bourgeois-times,
Look-back, exhale, my knifed-rhyme.
‘Rigidity’, no comforting,
a stiff-backed word:
To be strapped thickly,
under pain’s tight cord.
against Newton’s guess,
Lifting my heel,
is a fight against.
Gravity and time:
Could be Einstein wrong?
There are dark matters