It is not my place to say
You silver-tongued snake charmers
Whether war is right or wrong,
Good or bad,
Off or on.
Whether I should or shouldn't be
Pro or con.
Should I be vegan? Gorgeous? Skinny?
You've lost weight, well done.
What books to read, what skin to wear
This season's latest look
A magazine or a nice fat book
What colour to paint my stairs.
That's got carbs! Don't you dare!
It is not up to me to choose
Which hair products to use.
What need have I to live my own life?
When I've got fashion to decide.
Hopeful.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Croydon on a Sunday evening
The coffee shops are slowly emptying
Under skies as grey as the water with which
Tired shopgirls mop their laminate floors.
As the light fades and the cool breeze draws in,
The lichen-covered weathervane on top of the Ship
Swings north to point to darker times.
The lego skyline is gradually lost in the gloom.
There is no darkness like that which
Gathers in shop doorways
And pools around street corners,
Making every alley a gaping mouth,
Ever pedestrian a wierd, looming demon.
The lonely and plaintive refrains of inebriated wanderers
Curl through the air like cigarette smoke
Preceeding the slow march of night's parade
Down the expectant streets;
And though you cannot hear them,
The spiders are coming out to play.
Hopeful.
Under skies as grey as the water with which
Tired shopgirls mop their laminate floors.
As the light fades and the cool breeze draws in,
The lichen-covered weathervane on top of the Ship
Swings north to point to darker times.
The lego skyline is gradually lost in the gloom.
There is no darkness like that which
Gathers in shop doorways
And pools around street corners,
Making every alley a gaping mouth,
Ever pedestrian a wierd, looming demon.
The lonely and plaintive refrains of inebriated wanderers
Curl through the air like cigarette smoke
Preceeding the slow march of night's parade
Down the expectant streets;
And though you cannot hear them,
The spiders are coming out to play.
Hopeful.
Croydon on a Sunday morning
The sky is cloudy - it's always either
Overcast or boiling -
In Croydon.
The old closk strikes ten as shopgirls
Open blinds and pull up iron safety-grids
Yawning in the watery sunlight
Comparing shoes and hair.
Outside the Ship of Fools they're sluicing
Last night's sodden sagas off the pavement,
Relieved to find nothing more than the gutters broken.
Street sellers stamp their feet and sip burnt coffee
Calling candyfloss! Penny sweets! merry-go-round!
Seagulls begging on Blackpool beach
Could not imagine such a sound.
Grizzled buskers strike up wailing classics
Hardened tones which seep deep into the consciousness of the scene
It peels the red-faced drunks off the
Disreputable sidewalks and into seedy taverns
Where for a while they might forget that
Real Life stinks of London and cheap cigarettes.
The girl in a hot pink coat, skinny jeans and boots
Strides along, fluting on her phone
Her french manicure fakes click-clicking
Against those Gucci knock-off sunglasses,
the famed Croydon facelift is clear under layers of powder.
I want to shout out how much she
Effortlessly epitomises Croydon
In all it's forced phantasmagorical hard glamour.
But in Croydon, you don't talk to strangers.
Last winter's old street precher is dead
His familiar face scorned coffee-shops
Relying on the warmth of the Lord instead
They come and go.
But this one - something special,
Maybe there was a spark of something divine in his smile
Though his teeth had long since turned black.
When he died we mourned like we did
The day that Snow White first discovered crack.
From behind my shop till I can see the world
In all it's glory.
The first few shoppers eagerly clacking along in cork heels,
Cahsing away lost city-grey pigeons,
The salesmen in their cheap suits
Blow blue smoke rings
Snatching surrepticious puffs of their Forbidden Fruit,
Picking at the back door's peeling paint
Inhaling urgently.
The monolithic grey-suited security guards
Usher along the one old man who,
Resplendent in his surgical sandals,
Refuses to leave the perfume shop
Or the lacquered Sunday girl behind the counter.
Croydon on a Sunday morning is dangerous, urbane
It will continue to be so for as long as the spiders
Scuttle back into the woodwork
To hide from the rising sun.
Hopeful.
Overcast or boiling -
In Croydon.
The old closk strikes ten as shopgirls
Open blinds and pull up iron safety-grids
Yawning in the watery sunlight
Comparing shoes and hair.
Outside the Ship of Fools they're sluicing
Last night's sodden sagas off the pavement,
Relieved to find nothing more than the gutters broken.
Street sellers stamp their feet and sip burnt coffee
Calling candyfloss! Penny sweets! merry-go-round!
Seagulls begging on Blackpool beach
Could not imagine such a sound.
Grizzled buskers strike up wailing classics
Hardened tones which seep deep into the consciousness of the scene
It peels the red-faced drunks off the
Disreputable sidewalks and into seedy taverns
Where for a while they might forget that
Real Life stinks of London and cheap cigarettes.
The girl in a hot pink coat, skinny jeans and boots
Strides along, fluting on her phone
Her french manicure fakes click-clicking
Against those Gucci knock-off sunglasses,
the famed Croydon facelift is clear under layers of powder.
I want to shout out how much she
Effortlessly epitomises Croydon
In all it's forced phantasmagorical hard glamour.
But in Croydon, you don't talk to strangers.
Last winter's old street precher is dead
His familiar face scorned coffee-shops
Relying on the warmth of the Lord instead
They come and go.
But this one - something special,
Maybe there was a spark of something divine in his smile
Though his teeth had long since turned black.
When he died we mourned like we did
The day that Snow White first discovered crack.
From behind my shop till I can see the world
In all it's glory.
The first few shoppers eagerly clacking along in cork heels,
Cahsing away lost city-grey pigeons,
The salesmen in their cheap suits
Blow blue smoke rings
Snatching surrepticious puffs of their Forbidden Fruit,
Picking at the back door's peeling paint
Inhaling urgently.
The monolithic grey-suited security guards
Usher along the one old man who,
Resplendent in his surgical sandals,
Refuses to leave the perfume shop
Or the lacquered Sunday girl behind the counter.
Croydon on a Sunday morning is dangerous, urbane
It will continue to be so for as long as the spiders
Scuttle back into the woodwork
To hide from the rising sun.
Hopeful.
Secret Identity
I don't have a secret identity
There's no way to escape
I can't fly over a floodlit city
Safe in my superhero cape
Because the problems just won't go away
Though I worry 'til I am spent
I don't ahve the power to save the day
With my superhero strength.
Superhero, numb the pain
Soar down and save the day
I get bogged down in the mundane
My wings are clipped so I can't fly.
There's no one else that I can be
I don't have a little black mask
I am my own dark nemesis
When the punches come too hard.
There's no catchphrase that I can chant
To make things go alright
I've tried to fly but I know I can't
As I fall into the night.
Hopeful.
There's no way to escape
I can't fly over a floodlit city
Safe in my superhero cape
Because the problems just won't go away
Though I worry 'til I am spent
I don't ahve the power to save the day
With my superhero strength.
Superhero, numb the pain
Soar down and save the day
I get bogged down in the mundane
My wings are clipped so I can't fly.
There's no one else that I can be
I don't have a little black mask
I am my own dark nemesis
When the punches come too hard.
There's no catchphrase that I can chant
To make things go alright
I've tried to fly but I know I can't
As I fall into the night.
Hopeful.
Lines written after hearing the Last Post Ceremony at the Menin Gate, Ypres
I can't see, but that doesn't matter to me
Because here in this marble microcosm, we
Are joined as one.
One memory growing and branching
Holding these Lost Boys in our mind
The Last Post staggers on, overarching
The crowd, one song for all mankind.
Pale buds of the dead have seeded the walls
I read them looking for one I know
So many names that have ceased to appall
By some forlorn lines, brave poppies show.
The old Boys totter on by, backs bowed by age
Their blue coats pressed and well-maintained
Still marching after all these years
Though their medals may be sour blood-stained.
At Paschendaele or old Tyne Cot
They lie, bone on bone, untouched by sun or rain
In the morning and when the sun goes down
They live again.
Hopeful.
Because here in this marble microcosm, we
Are joined as one.
One memory growing and branching
Holding these Lost Boys in our mind
The Last Post staggers on, overarching
The crowd, one song for all mankind.
Pale buds of the dead have seeded the walls
I read them looking for one I know
So many names that have ceased to appall
By some forlorn lines, brave poppies show.
The old Boys totter on by, backs bowed by age
Their blue coats pressed and well-maintained
Still marching after all these years
Though their medals may be sour blood-stained.
At Paschendaele or old Tyne Cot
They lie, bone on bone, untouched by sun or rain
In the morning and when the sun goes down
They live again.
Hopeful.
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