Primal tempos of match day routines
are missing – tension between games
have slacked [to monotony] as soccer
offers nothing – a doldrum – no crucial
ties & needed points to pray for [every
89th minute of watching] – no Bovrils
or beers in our rumble-guts to absorb
on top of other football match results
& tabled machinations [can we dodge
relegation?]/ & Falmer has reverted to
fields of bird song – no stadium ones –
no trudge of sopped trainers on paths
back home [quick pint – eh?]/ No result
Tag: football
@BHAFC
We are feral troops off to our
home ground [trudging on a
route levelled by worn boots
on almost every other match
day’s summoning to paid-sat
places] They don’t adore cars
so we make our own footway
Such a commitment [of never
really knowing how it will play
out] is not appreciated – ‘Sad’
when eyed by non-believers &
feeble snoots [f#cking snobs!]
who’ll never speak our prayers
or sing in our choir – It will be
another afternoon of elevated
expectations not-possibly-met
[football’s a game of 2 halves]
We are halfway back to my car
BHAFC 1 – Burnley 3
There is a beer-and-pie feast
in the bar-fed anticipation
in the echoing East Stand –
high on the Upper Level
with the buzz of line ups
and incoming league results
in other parts of the land –
but by half time the sense
of dread has resurfaced
and is not pissed away
by one more pint and bogs –
instead we then succumb
to the gnaw of raw nerves
as the clocks stop at ninety
and extra time is not enough
to pull us up a place above
where we were the last time
we were here and hungry
At Anfield
The scouser outside
the pub gave a stare
at our unashamed
blue and white colours
from behind
his circular eye glass –
with it’s stretched froth
and shallow backwash –
he spied our short cut
through the car park
and called out –
Six-Nil !
before he dragged
his fag into his lungs
to chase his beer
into that strain
of shirt and buttons
On our return
to the parked car
the only difference
was his demeanour –
that and the fresh pint
and a virgin cigarette –
Ey! One-nil –
Not bad –
Good on yer!
His beer was held high
above his thinned hair
as he tipped a glass
to the Albion’s lost game
Jürgen
How many teeth
has Jürgen got?
His smile exposes
quite a glut
of bright-white incisors
lined up like a squad –
His grin illuminates
the depths of The Kop –
They lighten the lives
of Scousers enough
to maintain a belief
in Salah’s own God –
and maintain their faith
in Klopp’s wide gob
Into the Season
We have yet to see
our exhaled breaths
as we avoid the burn
of the cold handrails
on our expectant ascent
of fifty-odd concrete steps
to our fixed tipped seats
We have yet to inhale
that repeated wide view
of our floodlit pitch –
re-lined in the week
into a restart of hope
against eleven men
in an unloved strip
We have yet to sip
the bitter hot drinks
that we will queue for
in the muted half-time
of slight disappointments
as old rivals are set to win –
according to media streams
We will fear the descent
which others will take
before the hard blast
of whistle and biting winds –
to then exit The Amex
for seats on misted-up buses
which will take us home.
Brighton 1 – Watford 0
This concrete and steel
oozes last week’s freeze
where I sit with my pint
high in the East Stand
having travelled with my boys
but they are already perched
on the folding seats
as I wait for my beer to push
me there via the toilets
where scarfed men shuffle
and queue in silence for urinals
there they unwrap and rezip
after pissing a few quid
before the match
on to others’ left pubes
these gents hope beyond hope
for a home result
as they wash down those hairs
Brighton 0 – Man City 2
Alan-the-postie
predicted a big loss,
so two against,
not so badly off:
Had we won 3-0
we’d be top,
instead we sit equal
to Chelsea’s flop.
Claudio, No! by Gary W. Lineker
You came to Leicester,
a silver fox to our pack,
the grey Tinker Man,
whom we’ve now sacked:
Claudio! Claudio!
You got me to strip
down to my shorts
– my crispiest bits.
To get me there
you proved me wrong,
you took my team,
at five thousand to one,
up to the top
of the Premiership,
but then you got dumped
for tinkering with it.
Alas you are gone,
no more punditry pokes,
I’ll live with the title,
and ignore Shearer’s jokes.
My pants are pressed,
my abs are tight,
I am now ready for
the relegation fight.
Park Football Parents
Sunlight momentarily exploded
from behind fleet clouds –
then was gone [sleet-showered] &
a return to mourn-shift-shrouds
Seven days before [without dropped ice]
our team was crushed
in a one-sided match –
so in training our stick-kids are bellowed at –
– On to the ball
– Off the ball
– Down the line
– Mark-him – mark-him
Their coach never mellows/
Bunched fathers & mothers
[now soaked] are hardly talking
as long minutes dribble
to that longed end-of-session
Murmurs in our wet-stood section –
– Is it ten, does he know?
Eventually – after extra time
their coach lets them go
We parents are first in the cars –
door-slammed – venting at nature/
Our dripping-kids stare at the sky
& wish for release from failure
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 