coronation chicken

 I wish I was flying, screaming , in the bright sky,

Like the swifts that returned to England today.

I wish I could be anywhere far away

From a nation being forcefed until it sickens

On an unrelenting diet of coronation chicken

Glutinous golden goo, spicy thickened and sweet

Containing slimy chunks of factory farmed birdmeat.

Mother mainstream media won’t let us go hungry

We must be stuffed and stuffed again

In case we get angry

With made-up ceremonies, pomp fiction, gaudy paraphernalia

And Fawning flunkies dressed up in overpriced regalia

Glittering icing on the rich shitcake of political failure.

 

suburbsounds

 SWSSSHSSSSSSH

Hiss of heavy vehicle on wet tarmac

Climbing hill

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD

Pile driver drives

Preparing land to build more shops,

No figures could dance to that,

Except for the ones in an accountant’s spreadsheet

YARYARYARYAR YARYAR

Crazy midnight foxcubs’ screams

Playing in their new garden of eden.

No one will hunt them here.

HAHHAHHAHAH HAH

Parakeets scream to their flock,

That an old man is filing the bird feeders.

And if the sun comes out on a weekend,

Every bastard in the street

Will start using powertools.

DRRRdrrrr DRRRRR DRRRRR DRRRRR DRRRRR

3 haiku

 

A magpie alights

On gable , flaps tail, looks, swoops down,

To green lawn. Worm ends.

 

Again, in my mirror,

Pink wrinkled caricature of

An orangutan.

 

Impatiently wait

In cold doorway for transport

Dead flies in cobweb.

sleep,

 I’ve just seen, on my computer’s screen,

A sleeping class 

Teaching me all the parts of sleep.

How deep they are

And exactly when you dive into dreams.

Sleep isn’t easy, it seems,

Yet it’s always been that way for me.

I’m out like a light, every night

Unconsciously.

I doze, drift off and sail away

As the radio plays.

I no longer hear my farts

And submit to circadian rhythms.

It would be bliss

To stay in this state

If I didn’t have to awake

At regular intervals to piss

Into a plastic bottle via a funnel

But, once bladder is voided,

Consciousness can be avoided,

I can get back on my own tube train

To go down, down, down,

The deepest tunnel

To nowhere.

flightlessness.

 Now I’m all over my avian envy,

Once I almost cried with jealously,

That I could not be

One of the

Winged creatures that flew over me.

I used to be disconsolate.

That I could not levitate.

And I cursed my creator again and again

Since I could only fly in an aeroplane.

Yet, I attained some consolation.

For my landlocked situation,

Since some birds are flightless too

Emus, rheas, penguins, cassowaries, kiwis and kakapoos.

But I derived scant comfort from that,

As I couldn’t hover over the world below;

I had no wings to flap or glide,

Which used to eat me up inside.

But now I know it’s far too late,

I must accept my earthbound fate.

Descending with wingsuit or parachute

Would never be a substitute.

It would be appalling.,

It would just be modified falling

So, I must await future rebirth,

And just be judged for my worth,

Or worthlessness

Until then I accept

My flightlessness.

 

PIFFLE ABOUT PIGEONS-Parts 1 &2

 

PART 1

Pigeon on the garden path

Looks like it’s experiencing.

Existential doubt.

Walks about aimlessly,

Puffing out it’s splendid iridescent neck feathers,

Whilst bobbing its head.

The other members of the flock

Are busy eating up the birdseed,

Dislodged by parakeets and starlings,

From the feeders on the tree.

 

But this pigeon wanders about

Separately, seemingly perplexed.

Maybe it’s just well-fed,

Maybe it’s bonkers,

Maybe it’s the reincarnation of Immanuel Kant,

Wondering why it’s in a suburban garden.

 

PART 2

I write piffle about pigeons,

Whilst the world falls apart.

I get old and self-centred,

As this planet starts to cook

And.an internet of liars,

Has most of us hooked.

Slime oozes out of my laptop screen,

But I have a pair of

Heavy duty zircon-encrusted tweezers

To keep my braincells clean

And I adeptly use those

To pull spores of capitalist propaganda

Out through my nose

They squirm and squawk shrilly,

About freedom and enterprise

Offering that stuff I don’t need,

But that I could borrow to buy.

So, I take my tweezers,

And drop the spores 

Into the waters of my porcelain throne.

I press the handle and wash them down

Naively believing that they’ve gone,

But they will reproduce themselves,

Deep down on the ocean floor?

Or am I deluding myself

Into blaming capitalism on spores?

When, all along the slimy things

That I extracted with tweezers

Were integral parts of my own greedy brain,

Not alien beings or diseases.

So once these dangerous cells

Are removed and flushed down the drain.

I can aimlessly go back

To aimlessly watching

Aimless pigeons again.

NO DREAM

Aren’t dreams supposed to be

The seeds of inspiration;

To light the fire

That leads to the creation

Of operas, epics, theories and symphonies?

Well, they don’t work like that for me.

I’m in a zoo or a park,

Walking along a sandy trail

Towards two shady figures,

Who are leaving me behind.

When on the path a bird appears

A whimbrel, a woodcock or a rail.

Why is this stored in my mind?

So instead of worrying about

What this might mean,

I prefer it when the slate is wiped clean,

The screen is erased

And I can wake refreshed

Remembering none

Of these stupid dreams.