69: God On My Dock

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I was stacking a truck –
of dance-floored audio –
me – twenty-something
at Shepperton Studios …/

Two Princes – Part II

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Their prince was washed-up
blue-dead on a shore
Our prince was dressed in
quilt-coat against frore

67: You Will Know

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You will know you’re truly old
when all dear friends are dead

I am citing Clive James –
quoted –
often misread …/

66: Moving My Shed

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Plans made today, to move my shed:
turn, pull, place, via grease-sleeper sled.

Tirfors engaged, off discussed points:
Fears for the shed’s, and my stiff joints

The King’s Speech

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My old voice – fragmenting – along with my teeth –
speech patterns are broken – immutably creased –
pouring decay out my thought-cavities …/

61: Minor Injuries

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Home, to a greeting child, wrist-wrapped, dog-bit:
Then travel (fast) to an M.I. unit.
The waiting room, a car-crash, filled stiff chairs,
In charge: the triage nurse’s contused stares..

59: Moving Day

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Corrugated boxes:
brown-wound, tape-thread,
(but, still, our move,
is a whole
month ahead)..

58: Warming

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Our first frost this winter was late,
stealing every colour
long after Christmas –
ageing nature is Santa silver,
but too tardy for the kids’
seasonal wonder …/

57: Hard Working

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“Hard-working people”,
If uttered once more,
By any MP,
Turning facts athwart,

56: Anniversary

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This gone decade:
avowed, witnessed, signed;
Your white dress, my suit,
hung, long-aligned..

55: Tootles the Taxi

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I’m Tootles the Taxi,
I’ll give you a ride,
Just log on to Uber
Then jump inside

What’s Written

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So, did Corbyn bend far enough down,
as the ‘last stand’ bled into the ground?

How many of us tilted our heads,
with any intelligent reverence?

53: Cemetery of Souls

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We sip tea on Sunday,
Checking house prices,
Whilst off-shore
There is
A washed-up crisis

‘The Truth’

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The Sun: what a very
Dangerous thing,
A burning, cynical,
Reprint of spin

Another’s Spouse

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She has to plot for me
our re-measured half-life
Side-step a wish-flat world
Navigate every strife …/

47: Night Shifts

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I will sit kitchen-stooled,
until just before five,
having jolt-woken at two,
(eyes sleep-slump, too wide).

46: Do You Know Her Name?

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She stands, cold, at Waitrose’s door:
“An immigrant washed-up, on our shore!”
[Is an instantly-fired typed-up-rant:
quick-raged, sick, tuneless, descant]

45: Fix

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I’m no longer
easily fixed,
The Superglue drugs
do not hold.

When walking I’ll stumble,
But inside my head
I am not old.

43: Our Library

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Libraries’ hours will reduce,
their lending overdue:
Google will then charge us all
for e-book content view

42: River Ouse News

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So the slow-flow
Of the Sussex Ouse,
Is gently drowned
By our discharged loos

36: Theatre of Terror

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In moment-loaded, thumb-high trailers,
Promotion of hacked barbarity flicks..

33: First Place

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At school, a rough painting
of my father, in green:
His shotgun, an accurate detail,
hung arm-broke,
With empty breech, unloaded,
exposed, gun-oil-clean.
He shift-slept: even through
my demanding brush-stroke..

31: Teddington, Not Kingston

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I love the place name: ‘Teddington’,
It raps a tapping off my tongue.
Urban-suburbia resides,
Above the rises of river tides:
Just tidal bores in house prices.
So sits deed-rich: benefices*.

29: On Waking, Again.

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In this (revisited) moment my eyelids are caustic,
stung-rubbed corneas, awake, weighted-down,
by an utter exhaustion,
(which sleep, these days, fails to cure).

I, drug-succumbed, to such high views,
from unclouded dream-peaks:
then wading, unaided, each half-flooded
unmapped valley of sleep:

where such side-effected,
vast dreams, broadcast through the night,
to my disconnected self:
every time, more real, when I can move, like old.

But flat rigidity, offered, again, at 5am,
is a sluggard-waking, on misty un-rolled downs,
off the sleep-state – providing no more shelter,
from exposure, to my forever-reigning pain.

28: Easy Jets

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We are now committing six easy jets,
And many young souls to cold desert-deaths:
Then we’ll agree a bloodied bag-exchange:
More re-dress rehearsals (of flag-tagged pains).
Led by the strong-arm (of munitions’ squeeze),
Again lobbied “Ayes..”, said our lame MPs.
Did we bomb Ireland, strafe the terrorists?
No: we shook those Fenians’ angry fists.
For peace at home – send a tame diplomat:
But for offshore battles – we’ll bomb you flat.

Jean’s Pigeon Tree

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From a still, unpacked,
house you see,
The scruffy, leaf-free,
‘Pigeon Tree’

25: Lime Tree Avenue

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We both stood then,
storm-sheltered, unlashed,
under bent lime trees.

But then whipped,
and wind-weltered;
A roar of timber-roll seas.

green waves
almost crash:

A canopied
high-tide surged,
And a final,

blustered thrash:
this winded-walk,
washed and purged.

23: Double Trouble

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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.

22: Laughing Gas

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Shale gas is seeping,
it’s ‘sure’ to give us wealth:

Getting high on fracked-off fumes,
improves the National Health

21: Dr. Suess, I Guess.

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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.

19: Once a Month

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A blue moon: I won’t rise
From my unsettled-bed:
This Parkinson’s ‘thing’ on me,
Wishing me dead..

18: New Tricks

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The new Uckfield car park, laid out carefully,
Too many lined spaces, commuter-empty..

16: Two Princes

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Saudis are now
a ‘priority market’,
For our bowed state,
that’ll ne’er complain of it..

15: She Looks After Me

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With these circumstances comes the good life:
Now looked after by my beautiful wife.

14: Crap Poetry

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Why am I writing so much poetry?
Over half of it’s crap (I do agree)

13: Perfect Storms

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I read the metaphor
‘perfect storm’,
No sight of George Clooney,
instead it’s Osborne..

12: Papered Cracks

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The truth is unwritten, Fleet-leaked no more:
Paper-liars print facts, which we adore

11: A Path in Israel

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It was a path from another time,
Your enquiry made of an ant-marched line…

9: Written On Sunday

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We will now stand scared,
because of you:
Cursing Europe’s
unlocked sea-view.

8: Crack

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Sunrise not yet strained
over my unlit house;
under that roof sleeps
a large sweet percentage of my reason
to stand at my designs and effort..

7: Night Rain

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The summer showers,
(dried peas on the roof),
woke me to pre-dawn light.
A visit to the loo..

6: This Day

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This day is unsteady,
an earthquake,
instead of a tremor,
as I am walked
by the all-pull-dog ..

4: A Son

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A son: Thomas Howard,
Fourteen years old,
Was lain, hardly checked,
To enter the cold:

2: Park Football Parents

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Sunlight momentarily exploded
from behind fleet clouds –
then was gone [sleet-showered] &
a return to mourn-shift-shrouds

1: Rookies

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Friday, I think, I partied late in the night,
throwing rookies with kids, to their delight:

0: Michael, Not Me

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– Looking nice Michael, been somewhere special?
– Funeral. In the bloody rain.
Two pints of bitter, froth flat,
stand alongside the boozers,
as they then chat about the showers,
just passed, and bloody penguins… /