Sunday, October 28, 2018

fat balls.


CLOCKS GO BACK TODAY

November’s nearly here,
The bones of the street trees start to show,
There’s a cruel sharp cold edge in the air,
so I sit on my suburban front doorstep,
handling my fat balls.
But the neighbours don’t phone the law,
For I am not a weatherproofed pervert,
But the respectable owner of half a house
Who is unpacking and storing lumps of suet,
To feed his garden birds,
Through the winter that now begins,
But these birds aren’t really mine,
They’re not even my feathered friends.
I pay them with food hung from garden trees,
To brighten the air above,

A small, bramble-infested, eden.

CHIP SHOP FIRE

CHIP SHOP FIRE

A wall of searing flame
Roared through the “Happy Plaice”,
The saveloys were turned to ash,
The pasties brightly blazed.
What should be crisp and golden
Was charred and burned to black.
Fire almost cooked the owner,
Just like the doner kebab,
which had sat behind the window,
for just as long as he had;
but he escaped the inferno,
he ran across the road
to stare in consternation,
as his life’s worked combusted,
in a sudden conflagration.
His tears were salt and vinegar
And he cursed the firey fate,
 that burned his rock and cod,
and overcooked his skate.
Streams of water from firehoses,
Could not assuage his pain,
but he bottled up his grief like tomato sauce,

and vowed he’d fry again.