All Washed Up

hustings fun

 

smells of fairground food

doughnuts popcorn hot

dogs with onion bread

hamburgers fries

 

orangeade in beer

mugs you gotta try

knickerbocker cor

blimey the size

 

vomitoons aside

Savoy truffle hell

skelters far & wide

there goes the bell

 

now the gloves are off

Elon Musk has stuck

bubblegum in some

Wurlitzer cars

 

yeuch my party dress

ruined I’m concussed

out of pocket just

show me the bus

 

 

solidarity with soft fruit

 

2 bananas hiding in a pair of owl

socks while carrot-tops upturn their owner’s flat

make a solemn pact to fight for yellow fruit

rights with a blood oath

 

skinny suits which started out an olive hue

should they peel connections off to heritage

strings of sage & onion round their pretty necks

promising brave deeds

 

yet they cower while the vegan fascists pull

rifle through & smash the ticky-tacky drawers

toppling wardrobes then defenestrating all

down into Broad Street

 

who or what will rescue them the Food Police

that’s a laugh authority won’t intervene

barring human lifeforms on the line they’ll stand

tittering no joke

 

yes their only hope’s that folks believe in them

cross-bred greens like quasi-tropical legumes

refugees deserving empathy not words

converts to our side

 

 

time for bed Jed

 

half a mo

Jo next time

get a go-

go

 

take the wrong

stuff & back

down the left

track

 

Jack both feet

on the gas

radio

off

 

jumping Jeez

chalk’n’cheese

wars let’s get

home

 

stick your coat

Up Pompeii

dig the ref

Ref

 

 

trump trump trump

 

what’s your object not to rouse

national sentiments or love

but to shatter & fragment

music my nose

 

violins can never right

wrongs against this circus song

stifle trumpets muffle drums

strike down the band

 

fighting music on its own

terms won’t work you gotta like

deconstruct that mass appeal

starting with tunes

 

klaxons gunshots fall of bombs

lorries braking accidents

babies screeching arguments

amplified bums

 

then instead of counterpoint

play the bloody lot at once

don’t repeat at intervals

everything goes

 

 

guilty as hell

 

less than half this height

how a devil would

occupy my head

sorry for that

 

took me umpteen years

countless big mistakes

wrestling for control

still having fits

 

once I burped no words

stomach curdling air

right in someone’s face

what did she think

 

self forgiveness no

difference let the side

down a lifetime’s shame

just for the crack

 

talking grave misdeeds

here I’ve stamped on rats

vegetarian

hypocrite pest

 

 

comment ain’t free

 

lift your tail when letting go

said a horse to anyone

that’d listen but the truth

never came out

 

strict equestrians

smile because it’s true

laughing though’s taboo

actors say corpse

 

while your clever clogs

is the rider who

blinkered deaf & dumb

trots in reverse

 

universal shame

nosebags all they say

meet their Vindaloo

torching of barns

 

veni vidi vici Dick

nuff to make Tom Cobley cry

foul no bloody worries Cock

horses reply

 

 

summer horror

 

stench of rusty iron pipe

bloody come to nuzzle it

damp beneath my hands & knees

crawl to the hall

 

floorboard splinters aging wood

slanted shafts of daylight slit

through a haze of hanging dust

hot as you like

 

dirty broken leaded lights

smoking in the dazzling gloom

let this radiation in

god knows what for

 

try to turn the old brass door

knob it sticks a quarter way

round and so the grown-up way

won’t let me through

 

maybe just as well a loud

buzzing sound strikes up outside

fifty million insects all

sawing as one

Not if I Sawed You First!

Keep On Tracking!

election special

 

nude offence

ministers

sporting sore

bums

 

could be worse

President

Boomerang’s

back

 

moonlighting

seniors with

genial

warts

 

Mars Attack

victims rare

Civil War

cards

 

yep it’s show

one & all

how the West

charts

 

*

 

a peroration

 

I’ve already milked the Mosleys once*, but since Mr Michael was apparently no relation to Oswald & Sons, Max or Nick, so - for the love of Pete - here we go again...

The dry Hellenic hills like those of Western Türkiye, even when in sight & sound of the super marine, are downwrite merciless. Mocking breezes blow across their jutting stones and spiky shrubs. Beads of blood sprout from the shins & ankles, while sweat pours down the faces of trekkers as the scorched air extracts every trace of liquid from the quick, the slow, and even the dead. Rays of a nuclear sun penetrate to the bedrock, whilst above the blueblack heavens rage in awesome, silent fury. Put another way, these are not zones meant for casual visitation, least of all by the midday English, with or without their maddening dogs.

City folks who yearn for the ascetic independence of island life – from Ynys Môn to Mytilene, in my case – do so with such desert scopes always wire brushing ankles & toes or salt clawing at the shoulders. From the semi-barren sandhills of Niwbrwch Warren to the crags of South Stack, from the steep, emaciated slopes of Datça to the desertified forest of Sigri – impossible looking hardships challenge each lonesome, passing soul. The lure of walking, scrambling and climbing from one feat-defying feature to the next is an ever present danger. It is an inner treasure hunt, the goal to arrive at some welcome Ne’er-be-Ne’er land, torn & weary but somehow enhanced and therefore more intact. One rewarding return to civilisation might be the taste of a simple draught of cool water; another an ice-cold gasp of beer. More enduring will be the thud of achievement, the memory of heart-stopping moments, when even the invisible crickets desist, transfixed in the silent roar of existence.

I don’t know if Michael Mosley was a frequenter of such landscapes. I do know he was a explorer in his own mind & body, an experiencer of the limits. Indeed, he carved a whole career from them, and though one might comment nice work if you can get it, “Good for him!” is mine. On an otherwise unremarkable day he began, umbrella in hand, an impromptu task - one that ought to have lasted an hour or less, taking the path to a holiday settlement normally reached only by sea. Perhaps he saw himself arriving there from no-man’s land, sweaty & somewhat scratched but hardly the worse for wear, and being recognised (or not) offered a seat in the shade and politely accepting (or declining) the aforementioned refreshment (as against his religion, hic). Somehow, it appears, he lost his way, following a convoluted route that took much longer than it should. Until, eventually, within hailing distance of scoring seaside gold, his heart gave out. He stumbled, fell and died - I fear - a rather horrible death, painful and with no one & nothing to comfort him, apart from a faith, which I hope for his sake did not desert him at the end.

And there the poor man’s body lay desiccating for four days before being spotted – not on the ground by any of the search parties sent out, but - by a photographer examining a long distance shot taken from the sea. His own children in vain had searched within 150 metres of the very rocks where he came a cropper. I guess this was as much because of the blistering heat hampering their efforts as much as by the difficulty of the spot the blighter had got himself into. Actually, looking at the last CCTV images taken of him as he strutted out of the village, huddled under an umbrella, I don’t doubt he missed his path. You should have all your wits – and watts - about you in terrain and heat like that. An umbrella, which blinkers you from your bearings, can do more harm than good - which seems to have been the case here.

So, what do we make of his passing? He who had done so much to warn us of life’s complications: over-eating, inaction, obsession - to iterate but a few. ‘Just one thing, ’ he would say, when offering some new insight on fitness or health. Should his fate deter us from taking any of that advice? ‘Physician, heal thyself!’ the sceptic will snort. But who knows what drove him on that scorching day. Some private demon, perhaps? The Greek authorities say he died of natural causes, whatever that means. I wouldn’t know. But please let us not be put off the challenge. I guess most cats have at least nine lives. It doesn’t matter what did for him at that untimely age, we should still go where he led. He was a very gallant man, whose calm reassuring voice many will miss. And, as someone wrote on his remembrance page, who else is there to guide us through the seventies and eighties of this life?

*The character (Sir) Freddie Earlham, who features in the final part of “My Heart Forgets to Beat”, was inspired by Nicholas Mosley’s portrait of his father in “Rules of the Game”.

 

 *

 

great brutish bog off

 

shame about The Bogeymen

rummage under armour straw

sly their pilot went to plan

series a bore

 

dialogue was fun in parts

some location shots went well

but like Marilyn in warts

bound to appal

 

can’t ignore that je’n’sais quoi

smell of soap & facial squeeze

quote unquote a well worn path

cut to the cheese

 

anyone who votes for them

gets to take Marine LePenn

home for gentlemen prefer

dyed over fair

 

c’est la girl they would of said

Oban Putin Trump Farage

dodgy grammar in the end

turning the page

 

 

shallow truths

 

fe’ral judge in document

case has ruled themself a joint

stick it up your jumper ban

that’s how it works

 

Mr President your right

hand should never know what’s left

wave & smile we’re passing thru

Washington State

 

all the way to Florida

keep a beedy eye out for

somewhere on this road now turn

round one more shot

 

gee it’s hot I mean to say

she but pronouns tend to lie

down just when you need their Please

Please me or Help

 

oh another thing I tried

opening the window but

quite a lot of paperwork

blew the hell out

 

 

 

anthem for doomed oldsters

 

raise this Turkish coffee cup

scoop of blood & swear by messed

opportunities you know

nothing is good

 

no religion was at fault

burned the tie they gave your dad

damp the book of matches you

found in the vault

 

sneak along the corridor

hold your tongue & feel the power

even some who’ve come through war

fall at this hour

 

tell the king the rotten truth

leaving nothing out but in

stead of how’s-your-fathers let

Cate out the bag

 

then retire without a word

go & live your final years

plucking ticks from donkeys’ ears

that’s how absurd

Don't Not!

thru a stout glass

D Mockney

making ends meet

 

overpriced & not

fit for purpose our

solid granite launch

sank like a rock

 

that’s enough of hard

ships it’s like some Greek

geezer’s metonym

flew from their pen

 

Styrofoam for inst

never mind the paint

ain’t a patch on sand

stoning the crows

 

if we must attempt

ocean crossings trust

not in blood or steel

horsemen dismount

 

metaphors break step

what we need’s a bridge

built of blood & tears

bugger the rest

out now in paperback, the chapbook,

click to view

what the Dickens

 

beaten black & blue with selfie sticks

blind as Gloucester when he saw the truth

what’s the point of all these violins

hand me the flute

 

hold that note but ditch the thought it sucks

background music fades to traffic noise

now Sir Alec Guinness saunters on

pimping his boy

 

Fagin though he’s not so cut the marsh

gas begin again it’s London Fields

circa 1822 or 3

orphanage meals

 

fake Olivier awards abound

clutching Oscar Hammersteins they sing

sweet as guttersnipes & other jail

birds on the wing

 

yay Polanski done us proud it’s eel

pie & mash all round but spare the sauce

partial to parsley I’d sooner we’d

talked with the horse

parental guidance

 

who should run for president but Joe

Blob of all the worst offenders’ mugs

popping up on screen yet folks demand

his on the plugs

 

cite the constitution blame the state

populism’s mainstream Babe cos George

Washington himself was sometimes licked

blimeys of course

 

tantamount to treason votes for gloats

order lollipop on wholewheat bread

Stormy Daniels going what’s your game

off with his head

 

call the Weinsteins in they knows the drill

training overtakes the urge & cry

stop before things get too far you owl

reach for the sky

 

there that wasn’t such a song & dance

wipe your button counting forty winks

Babe shall put the kettle on for tea

lovely cufflinks

Rabbit Burroughs

 

stench of nothing salt

water purified

madman overboard

failed to drown

 

washing up a beach

café open it’s

egg & chips & get

back in line

 

horror me no more

purple trouser smoke

Woodbines Players Weights

choice between

 

straight & narrow cop

movie logic bad

guys all good to go

on for years

 

crunch of boring owl

shingle Hastings prom

Battle Abbey lost

war & won

bit o’ Irish

read Joyce in the Lord & stick Beckett on your bucket list for that extra difficult lark you gotta slip some context in or maybe stage a contest no think it’s easy Mush calling the shots on Gaelic lit between Swift & Wilde the pressure dropped somewhat then all hell broke fast & loose talking bout override the seventh gear of man no woman cry gobbledegook & source the germs of pure wit or not to whit that is one question here’s another nay enough of yer rhetoric youse charlatans must have something to say whereas I have nothing you dig wafting on for no particular reason to pass the time of day or is it night I forget which to coin a phrase never quite understood the line between like break the mold or is it mould who cares there’s always gonna be some soft get standing on the dung heap beating a pair of owl frying pans and hollering yes hollering how it’s completely out of order beaming Scotty not on your Fitzgerald note the switch from Irish some say the Japanese have got the lot licked I wouldn’t know a half of stout’s about as much as I can rush to these days cheers Partisan you see it’s only the way of the world wear froth on me top lip as a moustache ask the barperson what they’re having cos when in Rome gotta take a look at a Pope even if they’re not in & the Colosseum or the Pantheon biggest concrete hat now there is a place that & Ye Cracke in Rice St not Rice Lane no Sir that would have to be the daycare centre formerly known as The Plough watering hole of the Proddy ghetto for all is changed a fiendish beauty gone to town

no slops!

formal hysterics

courtesy New York State Faculty of Corrections

truth & justice take the plunge 

he will always thrive on washer-up

duty though the courts may confiscate

every hour of freedom watch his pride

scraping the slops

 

seasoned cons will never work him out

druggies mobsters child molesters owl

lady Joes & lesser-spotted grift

birds of the cage

 

how he gets that kitchen duty licked

not for him the cop-out laundry job

no librarian or sweep nor X

terminator

 

triumphs at the sink shall make his days

pardon him for whistling while he toils

seldom has his like been seen or heard

wielding the sponge

 

one more time give him the biggest hand

what a character to take his place

there with all the greats he waves & steps

up to the plates

OUT NOW on Kindle... click on chapbook cover to view page on Amazon:

chapbook cover

Excerpted from "formal hysterics"...

cut of their tales 

topguns ride

kerosene

horses they’re

champs

 

flatten schools

hospitals

refugee

camps

 

risk their lives

chasing six

million blind

mice

 

kitchen knives

out they run

rolling like

dice

 

then it’s roar

back feet up

calling kids

wives

No Intelligence Whatsoever!

Baltimore Connections

 

Baltimore Connections - a Pamphlet

Both sides having expressed mutual condolences for recent disasters, we segue into The Great Bear pointing to Uncle Sam with a smirk, “Behold the crumbling fortunes of a Rogue state.” Allies to the South and East prick their ears & tune in while The Bear continues, scratching at a scar, “Far from leading the so-called free world, Amerikar is now tumbling down the rabbit-hole of her own lies and self-deceptions.” Like most inveterate mendicants, falling into the error of believing the fibs they have told, Amerikar once again dallies at the brink of Precipice. Not eight years have passed since they elected a Slimy Greaseball formerly known as The Don, and now they stand on the very cusp of repeating that Supreme Error.

And yet, let us not view Baltimore through Slavic eyes, but rather with London’s long-suffering insight. The poor City, in the form of Lloyd’s, is set to fork out some three billions Sterling, as the loses of life and infrastructure are adjusted and settled, putting no small Dent in the Profits of the world’s largest Maritime insurance house. Is the time not nigh, after more than two centuries’ mounting impatience, to cry halt to these Proceedings? These Yankee Rogues – aka Rebs  – have strained at the long leash long enough. Let go, away with them! England shall have their full Brexit now, rejecting this Wishy-Washy half-way house.

Baltimore featured in Madison’s War (the War of 1812). Google the Eponymous battle for proof of Amerikar’s Mendacity, and Madison’s cowardice. Indeed, so brazen are they, it only behoves one to read between the lines & glean yr Actual Truth. The Canadian Mace was held for over a century - just down the coast at Annapolis!

One could neither condone nor defend the British Empire or its Colonial Warts & all, and one will say, by the standards of the day with Hypocrisy e’er the refuge of the Cad, that the 1812 invasion of Canada should live – as does the bombing of Pearl Harbour, in the Urinals of Infamy. The Brits - in their Titanic struggles with Napoleon Bonaparte - Amerikar’s boom chum in Revolutionary Tyranny - were hard pressed to come precipitately to the aid of their Canadian subjects, many of whom French speakers, yet who, for the most part Conspicuously, chose not to embrace the invaders as Liberators and prospective Fellow Citizens. It wasn’t until the Corsican - self-styled - Emperor of the French was temporarily bilked from Power into exile on the isle of Elba, that the Brits were in a position to deal with Americkarn incursions onto Canadian soil. Toronto (then styled York), having twice been sacked in 1813, when huge quantities of booty were lifted and the Legislative Assembly building burnt to the ground, it was decided that Punitive Acts of Retribution were Required. Thus a force of Veterans from the Peninsula War were assembled at the Bahamas prior to sailing for the US coast and disembarkation at various points stateside. First, in revenge for the burning of the Canadian Parliament, President James ("Let's grab Canada for the Union") Madison was chased from Washington; whereupon, after his Evening Meal had been dispatched by a Contingent of British Officers, the presidential mansion (formerly George Washington’s home, and later to be known as The White House) was torched. Thereafter, private and federal storage buildings along the East Coast of Chesapeake Bay were emptied & the goods impounded in Reparation for losses the civilian merchants had sustained at York & elsewhere. Finally a bold attempt was made to overrun and burn the very port of Baltimore, but there the Revengers faced a spirited defence and so retired, the Honours being mostly theirs. Yr Actual Truth - seen by the light of these stars - was a successful punitive raid, not some attempted invasion or landgrab. Also, as a fledgling Rogue State, Amerikar learned its lesson. Time to remember it, eh?

Of footnotes, it is interesting to note the Citizens of Baltimore had rioted in opposition to Madison’s Declaration Of War on the owl Mother Rogue. Though the town was principal base for many of the Privateers that would harass British merchant shipping in the Caribbean and off the Nova Scotian coast, an outrage which would have provided poor London itself with the excuse to Declare War on its former colonies had it not been engaged in more pertinent conflict elsewhere; nevertheless, the folk of Baltimore had little to gain from war with Great Britain - and much to lose - as trade with Liverpool and Bristol was the basis of their Prosperity. Also of note is that the words of the Star Spangled Banner (later to become the National Anthem of the USA) were composed to celebrate the successful defence of that town. A gigantic Stars & Stripes had remained in place throughout the place’s shelling and rocket attacks by the Royal Navy. Incidentally, it is indicative of the Internecine nature of the Wars between these two Rogue States that the music to which Francis Scott Key’s lyrics were sung was composed by an Englishman, John Stafford Smith - having been the Club Song of The Anacreon (a forerunner of London’s Garrick Club for Gentlemen). And so to the Abolition of the Slave Trade and the pursuit of slavers by His Royal Majesty's navy...

Slavery and the Slave Trade, then even hotter potatoes than Human Trafficking and the Sorry Plight of Refugees today, formed the background (or Leitmotif) of early Nineteenth century World Politics. But leaping forward to the Present day, is not the death of six Latino Boys From the Blackstuff on the Francis Scott Key bridge Indicative of the economic State of Affairs? Just as the Economies of Europe and the United States at the turn of the eighteenth century were bound up in the misery of Black African slavery, so is their present day reliance on cheap, often illegally hired Labour from failing states in the Global South.

Amerikar, as the Great Bear will attest, is the Greatest Rogue State in History. Hypocrisy is written into their Constitution. They were founded by a group of scoundrels determined to avoid paying their dues on the French Indian War, and who then Smiled upon those to whom a Frown was Appropriate. To this day their school books make fun of the hero General Braddock, while jealously guarding the sword which he presented to Colonel Washington. Let it, like the Mace of the York Parliament, be returned to its rightful owners. And let the rebuilt Francis Scott Key bridge be renamed Convenience O’er Truth. 

No, not then, nor ever!