Thursday, June 14, 2012

FATHER, OH FATHER, I WISH TO COMPLAIN, I’M STUCK IN ENGAND AND THERE’S WEATHER HERE AGAIN


Seasons av all gorn wrong nah,
Down the tubes an up the spout,
We say, as we shiver in bus queues
In mid-May
There was an eatwave in February,
Young Buzzard flew in
Perched up a fruit tree
In a north London suburb
Sat mewing for mate
To make a nest together.
Gawd knows what
It thought it was going to eat
But the crows that run the sky round here
Chased the young buzzard away
Perhaps that annoyed god
Because  he or she or both or neither or several has been pissing on England ever since.
Or at least since
The government officially
Announced that there was drought
he or she or both or neither or several has
Been pissing here almost dally
Takes a break
Nah an ven
 from pissing on England, and
Maybe goes off to drink some more
Ambrosia or soma I suppose
Then when it stops
I scan the sky
Looking for knife winged screaming riders
Up on the cloud road
This is the time that
They should get here from Africa
No sight of them so far
But last night as another sodden gale blew in
I thought I heard swifts screaming up high in the dark,
But I might have been dreaming.
I checked sky again day after day
But it was a week till I was sure that I had seen
What I wanted to see
Six swifts slicing
Wide long blue skies
With black samurai wings
Not many
But at least enough
Had managed to
Come back home again.






Saturday, June 02, 2012

EUROSTAR


Crippled,
He crawled like a caterpillar,
But with less flexibility
And fewer legs.
Then, one day at the beginning of June,
He found a hole in
The island where he had been born.
He crawled into this hole,
With many others too,
Who had also learned of
The warm safe opportunity
That it offered.
In that Hole he became
A worm within a worm.
He slept as though he was in a chrysalis
As the outer worm
Wormed and wound its way beneath seas
And over lands.
Until
Something or some one
Tapped on his on the carapace
Of his chrysalis
And he woke and emerged into greyish daylight
Where he was sad to find that he
Did not have the power of flight
And had no iridescent and flickering
Multi-coloured wings.
In overcast grey stained concrete fact
He was now more like a maggot that ever
As he sat
Just another fat Englishman
On South Brussels railway station where
Nothing ever sprouted.