West Pier

It may have been the 1970s

it may have been Brighton

but no one can confirm
when my father saved a pier

I was railing high
navigating the gaps in the planks
with a slender fear

a cheap thrill
as you walked above the sea

and below

under the bolted timber

waves hypnotised the iron work

the tang of salt over candyfloss
was taken up like Friars Balm
through your head

As we passed the rides Dad saw smoke

a daft smoulder rising up from the deck
and we stopped

bent

to look
for timbers

for them burning

but it was just a cigarette butt
still curling

PC883

as he was at work

called out to an attendant
and the fag was drowned
with a red bucket marked ‘FIRE’

St. Catherine’s Sniff

I do not need to
Travel to California
To be struck by the low reek
From skunks,

Those striped creatures
Condemned by Jesuits as:
‘Not worthy to be the dogs of Pluto.’*

Here that crepuscular
Scavenger of the dusk
Lifts its too-proud tail
To squeeze

A malodorous attack
Upon us both:
‘The sin smelled by Saint Catherine
Must have had the same vile odor’**.

‘Hold your nose,’
I suggest to my wife,
But the foulness
Is already there,
Inside.


* **Thwaites, Reuben Gold, ed. (1633–1634). The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents. Travels and Explorations of the Jesuit Missionaries in New France 1610—1791. VI. Quebec.

Trust Nobody

All politicians are liars,
the priests are hypocrites,
those estate agents sell boxes
to meet their sales targets.

Some doctors can’t be trusted,
as your dentist drills for gold,
the copper’s lot is valuable,
cells ready to be sold.

Kick the state-aid scroungers,
the devious thieves of pounds,
rip those leeches from the books
and claim the moral ground.

Austerity and denial
are the liars’ superior sneer,
as our kids fare worse than us
with their future full of fear.

Take on the Tory values
of reduction and rebuke,
give those holders of our fate
a grip they’ll not reduce:

And in a year we will hear
the sound of ten years gone,
the birthing screams of Austerity
will be the loudest ones.

As our kids reboot this island,
set adrift by Brexiteers,
they may ask of us, the voters,
how did it come to this?

London

I looked up
and suddenly it was London,
the one of terraces
showing their scabby arses
to us,

the London of bent sheds
and blown clothes horses,
of propped bikes and kids’ toys,
and down in the ballast
the litter of a thousand takeaways,

whilst in the distance,
above the patchwork of tiles,
sit the erect spires and dreams
of the ever-dead empire architects,
when God and the trains ran on time.

The Hunt

Hunt down the ragged fox,
reduce our long-earned rights,
set dogs upon the immigrants,
claimants should be denied‘:

Praise The Mail’s honesty,
share their Photoshop of lies,
become a born-again Christian,
to fight off Islamic cries.

Bitch about striking workers,
and ‘those sponging socialists‘,
stand up for the landed wankers
whose shined brogues you long to kiss:

Now you are a Conservative,
voting for returning to the past,
you will fight them on the beaches
once our borders return to France.

And as your vast shares in disaster
push tides and break up skies,
your pension fund will collapse,
and your children will ask you: ‘Why?’

On Duke St.

As I left the car park
men hunkered down,
in stain-greyed sleeping bags
they bartered their pains:

I passed a young bride
outside a loud bar,
she was laughing
unaware of the rain:

I found Duke Street,
there for a book launch,
a drink in a record store,
to tip my glass to his.

On my way to the bank
the black sky collapsed,
and on my return
I gave the bride a soft kiss.

Belief

I do not believe
in anything I read,
apart from the stutters
of rhymed poetry:
I will kneel down
to fix the any-things,

I know kneeling’s best done
beneath un-wed kings,
under His patronage,
under His state,
because Royalty commands
us plebs to wait:

Ladies, crowns, patronage
and the fine arts,
we queue in His corridor
to win His blue heart:
I will piss up my shed,
the oak-clad exterior,
and wish to piss
on the Royal posterior:

Believe nothing, son,
instead recall,
your grandfather died,
and your father was a fool:
Dig deep into ancestry,
for a small fee,
there you will find
no royalty.

Cross

I will now deny the rich
their pleasured agenda
by switching off the media

by restoring my memories,
to recall how secure
our future once felt

I make these my choices –

I will stand up for the NHS,
I will support state education,
I will seek dignity for the elderly,
I will not let sickness profit,
and I will respect those with less
because I will never be
the one percent, not us,
the freelancers,
the fireman,
the coppers,
the nurses,
the teachers,
the shop-keepers,
the factory
and the office workers
we,
the unelected,
the kept-at-bay,
the once state-maintained,
the f*cking Hard Working
tax payers

will be screwed, lustrum-long,
by policies born of private pickings,
whelped by Bullingdon boys

and when I wake to them, again,
wearing sneers they call smiles,
with drubbings for the losers,

I’ll know that my cross was counted,
piled, not as high as the winner’s cards,
but, briefly, in that mark, my minority won.

By Windover Hill

No rich patron for St Andrew’s Church,
unmoved by digging at historical facts,
dropped, slumped, almost marooned,
leaving it off-centred on Alfriston’s Tye,

a cross set high on a rough mound,
above the bezier-curves of The Ouse,
of her flood-carved meanders,
kept from the village by a low flint wall,

this house sits, quiet, above the tide,
that moon’s claim upon timed rises,
which shift according to typed charts,
there is more than one God working here.

This low Cathedral of the Downs
will always be half-framed by the slope
of that grazed slant of Windover Hill,
unsure of the Long Man’s presence.

Inspired by – Keith Pettit

The Inheritor

I let my grey hair over-grow,
wear out dead man donated clothes,

I occasionally tap paths with my worn-down stick,
missing the beat of my off-time limp.

I’ve been re-set by a strangle, unseen,
I am less of a man, a reduction in mien,

offended by nature not playing it straight?
I eye the barrel of pain’s aimed complaints.

‘Life’s unfair,’ she spat out the words,
a line which I’ll refuse to rehearse.

But forty years later my recall has grown
of my mother’s bile rising, I swallow my own..

Life is fair, it is in agreement,
until we are held up by our parents,

then their bias, that family axiom:
We make our own lives by not repeating them.

I let my grey hairs over-grow,
wearing out dead man donated clothes.

Walk Back, Writing

I am wobbly, walking home, some late o’clock,
a trespassed short-cut over dampened grass

through this estate of town-planned care:
No roads, paths only to lamp-lit porches

as cars sit, misted, braked on verges.
The street light’s spill, a dry amber pool,

me, sense-struck by the waft of cuttings;
I am re-routed, indirect, by a solitary tree,

it’s stillness shocked, split, by a pigeon’s clap,
it disturbed by my standing, or my breathing?

The momentary effect, combined, then leading
to my old flight to Israel – picked fruits, sun-browned,

lawn-fronted homes, of sprinkler’s ticker-sound:
Same lives parked, people air-conditioned,

sat lamp-lit, the sole indication
of life struck by us, flighted, but never leaving.

Sayings, Hearings


Sayings, Hearings
You say the things you say,
to protect the ones you love,
but those hardened words
go beyond ‘just enough’.

The person being put down,
a low-targeted heart,
hits him ‘specially hard,
when already blown apart.

Breathe in, before you speak,
breathe out honest lies,
such simple Buddhist tricks
would simplify your life.

 

Making Hay

Making Hay

I headed down
the High Street,
sloped to the river,
baked, dust-blown,

everything diverted,
almost deserted;
the traders forgiven
for early closing.

My small-change
pet shop purchase,
fed an empty-rung,
receipt-rolled, till,

But,
an exchange of value:
We talked about skydiving,
John Noakes,
and column-climbing.

Those shaded contractors
blasted sand off pavements,
and I headed home,
only hay-weighted.

 

The Wild Atlantic Wanderer, for JV


 

Why walk such distances,
with only the weather
measuring your steps,
over The Downs,
as breaths are taken
in exertion and sights?

Why walk without
a destination,
but the next stride,
on loosened chalk paths,
side-stepping puddles.

Why walk from your fixed place,
packed-up, back-turned,
to be rained-on, blown,
to find loneliness,
to be met by hearth
and hearty places?
 
*Jane Volker’s blog:
http://wildatlanticwanderer.blogspot.co.uk

Radio Too

Waved off sounds,
our wireless re-casts,
‘Uckfield FM’,
over transmission masts,

from studios atop
Bird-in-Eye’s view,
back to this town,
washed by the Uck’s abuse;

whilst the voices, radio,
and on-line, exude
their playlist of music,
a light interlude,

of features, information,
a local voice,
this station tuned-in,
to Hobson’s Choice;

requests, interviews,
and warm chat too,
Uckfield FM –
who needs Radio 2?

Capture the Clock

 

Capture the clock,
we’ve this time to lose,
speak with the old,
mute now the news:

Listen to aged-voice,
life-burr, soft-breath;
rhetoric worn-down,
senior voice attests:

Summon hoar-views,
lifted, in grey;
embrace explanation,
off soft-mumbled rage.

Sit in the chair,
in which they tremble,
embrace their time,
do not pass them,
dissembled.

Look in rheum eyes,
read drowned-years passed,
absorb their life,
because this is your last.

URL: http://freemusicarchive.org/music/Severin/Severin/Suicide_1316
Comments: http://freemusicarchive.org/
Curator:
Copyright: Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 International: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0/

 

 

The Kingfisher’s Capture – for @DavidAPlummer

 

The dart, sit,
then flit, of a
kingfisher’s reign,
David sat focused,
fixed by royal flame:

No luxury of procrastination,
this artist,
nature-trapped,
within his
condition.

The tremor of nature’s
tree-shaken
empire,
sits in his soul
feeding
his fire.

Programme:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p03szdr7