I make the catalogue again

 I make the catalogue again,

Moving my father’s paintings

Around and between rooms.

I relabel them, 

Enter details and dimensions

Into a machine,

Which wasn’t even thought of

When the paint was laid down.

Some paintings are unfinished

Suggesting schemes and visions

That never came to fruition.

I see images of life

Happening before I was born,

People building haystacks with pitchforks,

Bombed streets, ack ack guns

And barrage balloons,

Vases of bright flowers

And portraits of dead beauties.

All now long gone.

I too will depart soon,

But the brush strokes, oil and canvas

May live longer.

nocturate.

 Night time pissing

Is no longer what it was,

Because

It has now been given a medical name.

A pseudo-latin word

Has been bestowed

Upon the golden rain.

It is no longer any good 

To rise from your slumbers

And commemorate Jimmy Riddle.

No, you can no more

Piss or piddle.

You can’t have a wazz.

Or go for a wee;

When the bat flits,

And the owl hoots

No more peeing for you, mate,

You must now nocturate.

THE SUBURBAN FOX

 

THE SUBURBAN FOX 2

If you get up early in summer,

You may see me, lazing

Sunbathing in the first rays

Of the day.

Lying, yawning, content, alone

On the lawn that you thought

That you rented or even owned,

You probably thought

It was part of your home;

But it’s not,

It’s mine

And I’ve been living here all the time

Making my bed

Under your garden shed.

This whole street of

Discreet little Englishperson’s castles

Clenched tight by suburban arseholes

Is not your land,

It’s mine

I hunt across it in my own time,

And you seldom see me

Unless I want you to

And I show myself so you can know clearly

Who is the true owner of the territory,

The urbane suburban fox,

My compliments, that’s me.

Adam Smith's Sock Problem 2

 Adam Smith's Sock Problem

Sock, Sock, Sock, emergency
There are no Socks upon my feet,
There are no Socks that I can see
Socks Socks Socks immediately

Woke up in the morning
Birds are singing in the tree
But I see toes in front of me
So I seek Socks with urgency

Sock, Sock, Sock, emergency
There are no Socks upon my feet,
There are no Socks that I can see
Socks Socks Socks immediately

My Socks are vermin dirty or
My Socks are soaking wet
But I gotta wear them or go barefoot
I got a marked absence of hosiery

Sock, Sock, Sock, emergency
There are no Socks upon my feet,
There are no Socks that I can see
Socks Socks Socks immediately

But am I gonna sit here
Til my feet grow fur?
No! I’m gonna get up and get going
Be a Sock entrepreneur,

Sock, Sock, Sock, emergency
There are no Socks upon my feet,
There are no Socks that I can see
So I gonna start up a Sock factory

Gonna raise up some capital
Gonna go it alone
Get them proles knitting
Inna Free trade zone

Sock, Sock, Sock, emergency
There are no Socks upon my feet,
There are no Socks that I can see
Make more Socks immediately

Now I’ve started moving, I ain’t gonna stop
Like a shark in the water,
I keep swimming or I drop
I won’t let anyone else make any socks

Yes it’s Sock, Sock, Sock, emergency
You all gotta buy your socks from me
I wiped out all competition, so now you see
I gotta Sock, Sock, Sock, monopoly

toddler

 The Earth is rare,

And there’s rare earth there

With long dead forests

To frack, drill and mine

To warm the world

And poison the air

Until all the carbon’s done.

Then we’ll dig up the lithium

Whilst those who still live

Can get irradiated

By the nuclear waste

That we’ve created.

It’s like watching a toddler

Put a finger

Into an electric socket.

Such a beautiful planet

With so many idiots on it.

those Days

 Today was one of those

Days, I suppose.

It got right up my nose,

Like a greedy maggot

Crawling towards my brain.

I had to painfully pick it out,

Throw it on the floor

And squash it into organic mess;

Which was what the whole day was,

Total shite.

Bored man

Waiting for a van

That never came.

Definitely total shite.

But at least I saw a red kite

Regain its ancestral place

Skilfully flying

Forktailed over London.

When things go wrong

Sometimes they can be put right again.

THE SIXTH DAY AFTER ELIZABETH WINDOR’S DEATH

 Disrespectful parakeets squawk in the garden,

Washing machine and radio mumble on,

The first washing away biological evidence with soap,

The second erasing dissent with propaganda.

And so a dynasty rolls on over me,

Like a driverless tank,

Or a blind elephant with a felon chained to its foot.

Whatever I think or say,

I’m still subjected to having to be a disloyal subject.

The mundane morning sounds erase

My republican dreams.