Tuesday, March 13, 2018


The dead bad giants
Are alive again,
Once my father believed
That they had been slain,
Or at least, battered
Down onto their knees;
And that Poverty, Ignorance,
Squalor and Disease
Could no longer crush us
With fear and grief;
But, sadly, that belief
Was overoptimistic.
And like something terrific and horrific,
The four zombified monsters
Are re-animated and undead,
Lumbering into a new century
Crushing those who cannot pay
Smashing all obstacles in their way,
Rewarding wealth and spurning need,
Driven by the power of greed
To ensure capitalism’s control
Of our bodies, our brains our souls.
So now we must dig a deeper hole
to bury them forever.


A Nice Nurse knocked on my front door,
So I showed her up the stairs,
To my first floor flat.
I asked her to observe,
The difficulty that I have
In ascending to my abode,
For it is an overweight and arthritic old man,
Who writes this ode;
And coughs as he does so, remembering,
Forty years of heavy smoking
Plus decades more of breathing,
Polluted city air.
So I pant up the steps,
And sit, wheezing, in my chair,
As the Nice Nurse questions me.
She asks if I can wipe my own arse,
And how frequently I pee,
How I catch the bus or train,
And, how many pills I take,
And when I walk with my walking stick,
What progress do I make?
At the end of the interview, she explains
That in a month or so,
A verdict on my payment will be made,
It could be cut, it could be raised, it could even be doubled
Then she holds up a bucket and says:
“or just kick this now,
Save the government some money and trouble.”

Saturday, December 30, 2017


The black shouldered kite
Shakes his silver pinioned wings
And does what he has to do
Which is hover,
Then change position,
Slip-slide, ride the wind
And hover again;
Like a feathered helicopter
Over this scrappy, scrubby field.
The black shouldered kite’s red eyes
Know no pity and see through concealments,
To detect the urine traces of
Scurrying mice and voles
Which better had, scurry like mad,
For now the black shouldered kite is god here
And god is not love,
But a grey feathered raptor,
Which wants its dinner
And will feast on saint or sinner.
It will fold its slender wings and drop,
To spear you on sharp-clawed talons,
Carry you to the top of a telegraph pole
And eviscerate you.
The black shouldered kite

Don’t take no shite.


In Spain at Monfrague
Three hundred vultures live on a crag.
I have seen them with my own eyes.
They have seen me and ignored me,
A fat man who gets out of a van and
Gapes up in awe.
Some sit on ledges,
Some perch on edges,
And let go, to fall,
Spreadwings and soar.
They may circle and glide,
Find a thermal to ride’
In spirals and gyres
Higher, higher and higher,
Silently curving, intersecting, interlacing
In a broad feathered dance in the sky
Over the Tagus gorge
Over the valleys and woods,
Up ever into pure azure

High above apes with their words.


Cousin Mary strikes along the seafront at Seaford,
Walking into to the salt wind,
With her red hair streaming behind her.
She’s always dreaming,
So she’s dreaming again,
Of her Ireland of ancestors,
And the country of her heart,
Which is Spain.
She walks along the sea wall,
Past the Martello tower and the beach huts;
And then explains, when we ask her why,
That this was a Spanish muleteer’s cry.
Mary ate some mammoth once,
Unfrozen from Siberian ice, then cooked and sliced
At a Royal Geographical Society banquet.
Perhaps the flesh of the prehistoric pachyderm
Lets her access spatial and temporal dimensions,
Where others cannot be.
So there is Cousin Mary in a quiet English seaside town,
Calling out to other places and times,
There she is, we see her there,

But Cousin Mary is anywhere and everywhere.


Sleepless in the airport hotel,
Where every molecule of air is tainted
By the aviation fuel that will fly me tomorrow,
Up high and far away
from the air conditioned box that
I have hired to have a throbbing headache in.

And the next night, I can’t sleep again
Although I’ve flown and travelled
To the extreme quiet of extreme Spain.
Being city bred,
I can sleep sound next to the sea,
Where ceaseless shushing waves soothe me into sleep,
Reminding me of the endless ebb and flow,
Of London traffic.
And if I wake to piss,
My anxious brain,
Does not let me sleep again
Without its usual background refrain
Of the sounds of more and more stuff
Moving from here to there,
Punctuated by sirens
And the rattle and hiss of nocturnal trains
Whereas out here on Iberian plains
I lay awake, waiting to hear
An eagle owl hoot

In the black black night.

Waiting for spring 2016

POEMS TYPED30/12/2017
Waiting for spring 2016
Seasons have all gorn wrong nah,
Down the tubes and up the spout,
We say, as we shiver in bus queues.
In midmay, there was an eatwave,
In February, young buzzard flew in,
Perched on a fruit tree in Dollis Hill,
Mewing for a mate.
Gawd knows what it thought it was going to eat;
But the crows that run the sky round here,
Came and chased it away.
Must have annoyed Gawd,
‘cause he’s been pissing on England,
For a month or so now,
Ever since the government announced a drought.
It was raining but it stops sometimes,
Perhaps Gawd goes off to drink
Ambrosia or soma or something.
Only Gawd knows why.
Then I scan the sky hopefully,
Looking for the screaming riders of the cloud road,
This is the time that they should arrive from Africa.
A day ago, as a another rolling wet gale blew in
I thought I heard one cry
But, my ears were cheating me;
So I checked the sky again and again,
Before I was really sure
That I saw what I wanted to see;
Swifts curving and swerving again,
Slicing the skies above London,

On black samurai sword wings.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Lilieth leapt the electric fence

Lilieth leapt the electric fence,
Maybe, at the time, it made sense,
To pounce, claws extended, at a bird in flight,
And so, fall into freedom by accident.
Or maybe she made a deliberate jailbreak,
‘cause you gotta do what you gotta do,
To get outta the zoo.
Who knows what a lynx thinks?

But briefly, Lilieth  the lynx got away
And was no longer on display,
She was no longer confined,
To be admired or to be ignored ,
By the curious, the awestruck, or the bored.
Peering through the wire.

Perhaps real freedom then kicked in,
With no food and drink provided,
Out in the woods and the fields and hills,
To eat she has to hunt and kill,
And at first maybe she has an edge,
As it must be centuries,
Since any lynx walked and stalked
Along these thickets and hedges,
So maybe some rabbits and mice,
Or a bird or two, turned just too late
And drew their last breaths,
Between the jaws of golden-eyed death.

Sadly, hunters can be hunted too,
And Lilieth could not be left to be free,
She was the ‘property’ of a zoo,
And large predators in Britain just cannot be,
Unless they’re members of the bourgeoisie.

Uncaught Lilieth caused official fear
Alleged to pose a risk “severe”,
So a killing bullet, not a tranquilising dart,
Was sent to stop this beauty’s heart.

But the wheel will turn, and justice will be done,
And free once more,  Lilieth will run,
Padding along on larger paws,
With longer, stronger, deadlier claws,
Reborn a larger, fiercer cat,

She’ll rip out the throats of bureaucrats.

Wednesday, November 08, 2017

DODO MODERN POETS: LIVE at the KING & QUEEN 23rd November 2017

Resonant language combining the rich and rapturous     
 Deep soulful seams  mining exquisite poetry      
 Adrenalin soaked rhythm n' verse from muso poet   
OPEN-MIC SPOTS sign up by 7pm              
Thursday 23rd November 2017, 7.30pm
The King & Queen, 1 Foley St, London, W1W 6DL
£ 7 &6 concessions - open-mic spots £4
Info: 01303 243868; patric.poet@zen.co.uk
Goodge Street tube.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

The Ghost of Franz Kafka: online

Dear poetry lovers,
Those of you who were unable to attend September's launch of my new collection, 'The Ghost of Franz Kafka' can now buy it online from Palewell Press. Please see attachment and link for more details. 
I hope you enjoy the poems,
Patric Cunnane
01303 243868.

Monday, October 23, 2017

DODO MODERN POETS LIVE at the KING & QUEEN Wednesday 25th October 2017, 7.30pm

Smart pop meets music hall, art history and serious fun  
Taking aim at inanity, planet trashing and injustice  
Urban edge &  passion grown from Cornish roots 
OPEN-MIC SPOTS sign up by 7pm 
Wednesday 25th October 2017, 7.30pm
The King & Queen, 1 Foley St, London, W1W 6DL
£ 7 &6 concessions - open-mic spots £4

Info: 01303 243868patric.poet@zen.co.uk
Goodge Street tube.
dodo modern poets letting fly with words

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Stories about bombs

Stories about bombs have punctuated my life.
Born when the welfare state was also a baby;
I heard about my dad firewatching on the roof
Of an art school in blitzed London,
And composing an oil painting whilst he was up there.
I heard about the shrapnel,
Still embedded in an aunt’s leg.
And, every so often, a radio announcer might report
Unexploded ordinance, found buried on a building site.

One day, Cuba was in the news,
Nikita Khrushchev banged his shoe on a desk at the UN,
That was the first time that I saw my father scared.

Made to be a school boy cadet,
The worst bomb I heard was a thunderflash,
Just oversized fireworks,
Thrown about by boys in pretend wars;
Whilst half a world away,
Youths threw real grenades at each other
In Vietnam.

But London learned the hard way
That old wounds don’t always heal,
As propaganda of the deed reminded us,
Of an unjustly held colony,
Kept down by British army boots
Across a narrow sea.
A bandstand blew up,
A cast iron waste bin disintegrated in a high street, killing a child.
Sudden night blasts outside Territorial Army barracks;
And then, after a general election,
I heard a massive dull thud roll up from the Thames valley,
To my suburban hilltop,
As a debt was repaid in the City.
Not content with that,
The Fenians blew me out of bed,
Where I lay drunk, trying to forget
The start of four more Tory years,
As, three quarters of a mile away
A four-lane flyover was lifted off its foundations,
By an exploding van.

A truce came to London, until Jihad began
Old wounds don’t always heal,
Crusades and colonialism festered,
And oil was not a balm,
For those treacherous treaties, Sykes-Picot, Balfour
And all the other dodgy dealing,
Spooking and conniving,
To keep those motors running.
But the truth could be that
It doesn’t worry me more
Than the chance of dying in traffic accident.

Stupidity seems to breed Stupidity,
Just today the world’s prize-winning stupidest man
Addressed the UN to threaten a nation
With total destruction.

I wish, because it’s all I can do,
That he’d taken off his shoe,
Like Nikita Khrushchev did, but then
Beat himself with it,
Over his dyed blond head.