By ROYAL Appointment & FAKE NOSTALGIA

By ROYAL Appointment
Become a hamburger in Helmand
Or bolognaise in Baluchistan
Drive around in cloud of dust
Like spam in an armoured can

FAKE NOSTALGIA
I started off with psychedelics
And ended up with diuretics.

In brave young Technicolor days by the sea,
I saw the black cat that,
Did not cross my path,
Elongate itself into a multilegged curve,
like a black furred millipede,
as it turned a corner,
To avoid me.

Seagulls flew like biplanes
Over a deserted winter shingle beach,
And spirits spoke mysterious messages
From inside piles of folded deckchairs.

For sixpence we could make the
Laughing Sailor in the amusement arcade laugh
And he would guffaw,
Mechanically and maniacally
Into the teeth of a Channel gale

On good trips
I sometimes felt that I benignly controlled
The Solent with my solar plexus
And could by sheer concentration,
Calm the waves to rippling blue
And bring the Isle of Wight ferry
Safely into harbour.

Just as well since,
If the rumours, that I heard were true,
Half its crew,
Were on Acid too.

But now instead of waiting
To come up into a rush of revelation
I nervously await the onset
Of the urgent need to urinate
Oh, Froosemide,
I hate you so, you nasty pill
Punishing me
With enforced micturation,
For days by the sea
When drugs gave me visions.

EATLATINANDIE POETS at the Astor Theatre DEAL

REVIEW 29 OCTOBER

PERFORMANCE POETRY AT THE ASTOR

The poet Adrian Mitchell said: “Most people don’t like poetry because most poetry doesn’t like most people.” Not the case this evening! Four poets from the London circuit performed their work with exuberance, wit and drama, presenting a rich mixture of voices and themes shared with an appreciative audience.

Patric Cunnane read with passion about the Palestinian peace activist Rachel Corrie, told wry, funny verses about strangers on planes, and hilariously became reconciled with his comic book hero from the Dandy, Black Bob.

Zolan Quobble writes about what it is to feel alive. His verse was full of rhythms, about childhood, freedom, shamanism and people who die in prisons. A hypnotic and moving performance.

PR Murry gave us sad, funny and mysterious poems and songs about lobsters, eagles, launderettes and one about Tooting mutating, with extraordinary and blisteringly funny consequences.

Emile Sercombe presented surreal dramas, with an exploding potato, a royal Roman worm, a French werewolf and the ultimate folding bicycle. A breathtaking performance of absurd panache.

The first ever evening of performance poetry at the Astor. There is talk of the troupe returning in 2012. Can’t wait!

Nathan Lobb

Compered by Berni Cunnane Compere without Compare

Zolan Quobble first set

PRMurry first set

Patric Cunnane first set

Emile Sercombe first set

PRMurry second set

Patric Cunnane second set

Zolan Quobble second set

Emile Sercombe second set

STINKY THE DOLPHIN

Stinky the dolphin’s come to play

He washed up on the beach today,

And on the strand, he rots away,

Whiff, Whiff, Whiff, Whiff, Stinky.

Stinky the dolphin’s come to play.

He used to frolic in the waves

But that’s no way for a corpse to behave

So now he decomposes.

He used to click and squeak in the foam,

As all around the seas he’d roam

But above the tideline is his new home

He’s become a seagulls’ restaurant.

His bones are exposed as he turns to slime

He could outswim the tide, but he couldn’t beat time

And as I hold my nose, I wonder when I’m

Gonna be joining Stinky.

YOU CAN NO LONGER BE AS UNINVOLVED AS A TUNNELLING MOLE

It’s no good retreating

Into your shell like

An armadillo.

Shutting your small door

Or portillo, behind you

On the basis of some peccadillo

And sitting sipping the amontillado

Of which you are an afficionado

You can’t just shut yourself away in there,

You’ve get to out here.

Things are happening everywhere

Bif baf bof

It’s all going off

And it’ll come back down

Around all our ears, my dears.

Set get out of the cave Dave.

Get down off the hill Jill.

Get out of your shack Jack.

And back in the swim Jim.

You can no longer be as uninvolved

As a tunnelling mole.

So get out of your hole

Because worm eating is not the answer

Collective worm farming

Under democratic workers’ control

After the overthrow of world capitalism

Is.

The Concrete Lampost

One tooth protrudes 

From my lower jaw

And there’s no evolutionary reason

For it to be for.

It does not enable me to

Spear or shred

Some special food

And I am not a unicorn

Nor no narwhal neither

So my tooth does not protrude

For sexual display or foreplay.

What it is is

A small yellow ivory monument to mischance.

One day,

Maybe about

My thousandth one alive

I walked along

Looking about

At the brave new world

When a great big concrete lamppost

Leapt up through the pavement

I looked to one side

And it sneaked up

In front of me.

SMACK

My consciousness was impacted

By its very first fact.

The moral of this sorry tale

Is to crawl slowly and slimily

Like a snail

Don’t strut or run

Like an ape or an antelope

Or you will get smashed in the face

By a concrete lamppost

Like a hammer hitting a melon

Or a heavy goods vehicle

Running over a lemon.

THE DRAINING BOARD

I used to fly,

High above the world,

And float free of time,

Like some starwinged eagle;

But I was just

An ape opening an atlas

To see

Maps of the tides of history.

Tribes and empires;

Ostrogoths, Visigoths, Huns, Alans

And Picts depicted

And printed on paper plans

Denoted and defined

By differing cross hatchings.

On each new page

A new era

Now I don’t even have

To open a book.

Whilst I wait for my tea kettle to boil,

I look

At the bloblules and globules

At the rivulets and dribulets

Of water in the indentations

Of a kitchen sink draining board.

Gravity and history make them coalesce and flow

Like tribes and empires,

One among many

May suddenly gain momentum

And surges on

A rampant conquering superblob
Absorbing all others
In its path,

Until it mostly careers

Headfirst down the plughole

Leaving scattered remanents behind

Like a kingdom

That once was

And now is gone.

I pour water

And some spills

Onto the draining board

So history starts up

All over again.

my radio is always lying to me about food

With deductive powers,

That would put Sherlock to shame

I looked out from my kitchen window

And as I heard the city coming awake

With its trafficflow starting

Making a sound like the sea

Washing through shingle on beach

And likewise thoughts

 Begin to flow in my head

As I sipped the tea

And realised

That my radio is always lying to me about food

“No” a farmer says "I could not live

Just by selling the meat and veg that I make,

The government must pay me.

People will not buy expensive food,

They’d rather buy computers instead.”

An hour later,

The radio reports from Africa

People are walking for weeks there,

Not stopping to buy

Even the cheapest computer

As they struggle across

The hottest desert on earth

Walking on and on

Or stopping to lie down and die

Until they reach the place

 Where they are given the food

That they could not afford to buy

Two hours later

It is time for another

Radio lie about food

A store manager says it is no good

Demand just will not restart

Try as he might

He cannot make

People want computers enough to buy them

When they’re spending all their money on food

And now and then or some other when

The sun comes up and warms a solar panel

In the cave mouth

So a radio turns itself on

To tell more lies about food

To a conference of human bones

That is being held amongst

 The ashes on the cave floor.