Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Monday, 5 March 2012

Your Time (poetry) By Dr. manhattan




Who took time away?
Robbed the child of play

Made sport of losers and winners
Proclaimed the saints and sinners

Divided days for treasure
Cloth cut down to measure

Who? If not you and I
Painting blue the sky

Or was it them not us
Who should have made a fuss?

What happened to the time?
Should have made it mine

Instead of making haste
Should have set the pace

It’s a game that can’t be won
If the running is no fun

Who robbed you of your day?
Is it too late to say?

If you don’t know
It’s your show

Your time is now
Take a bow

Take your time…


Thursday, 9 February 2012

Sheep




 Isn’t it funny

how you fall about

like a drunken idiot

when trying to alight

 from the top deck

 of a moving bus?



`Oops sorry!`

`Excuse me, my fault.`

`Was that your toe? My apologies.` 



Doesn’t appear to happen

when you’re in company

on the same bus,

same journey,

same bloody time of day.

Why is that?



Sods fucking law.

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

For Eck



O Alex as yi sit there on there on yir cludgie stane,
think lang and hard o the fouk at hame,
Wha can see right through yir spin.
Yir romatic pish speeled through a grin.
The folk o Scotland irny daft
Can your drivel and yir tosh,
We’ll  mak our mind up sain enough.
And send yi reeling far up north.
Tae lick yir wounds.

Your rhetoric of `our free land`
is wearing thin, becoming bland.
Your constant diatribe maks mae blood bile
Hammering on aboot Scotland’s oil.
The black blood which lies beneath oor seas
He thinks will pave oor streets, we gold
A this based on an auld report
By McCrone, written in times of old.

He promised much but little wiz given
Teachers, doctors and health care wimin
But what he really means tae dae
is divide this nation, unfairly.
His hatred for our southerly cousins
Becomes apparent in oor Commons
When he spouts his nationalistic try
`Freedom for Scotland` is his cry.

We need this union more than ever
To mak this Tory farce deliver.
There’s folk oot there losing their joabs,
their pensions, hooses, wir being robbed.
So Eck let the nation speak.
Let the voters mak their mark.
So this pipedream can be bedded,
and we get on we what is needed.
United we should face this farce
no divided, no apart.

Monday, 6 February 2012

Grandma doesn't love me!




Grandma doesn’t love me.
So do we carry on killing rats?
Because grandma doesn’t love me.
I hadn’t thought of that.


She’s sitting in the parlour.
With her tin tray on her knee
So if grandma doesn’t love me,
What shall we have for tea?

She suffered through the blitz.
A war she’d soonest forget.
But if grandma doesn’t love me.
I’ll crumble up in bits.

Her wrinkled eyes have seen so much.
countless years of life.
But if grandma doesn’t love me.
Was it really worth the strife?

Her tea is dark and stewed.
Her cups are brown and cracked.
But if grandma doesn’t love me.
I won’t be coming back.

Gathered here in blackened suits.
The curtains pulled together.
If grandma didn't love me,
then I’ll grieve for her forever.

Tuesday, 31 January 2012

Sleep




I should arise now and find the golden way
where pastel greens embrace with images of death
and antediluvian firefly's make sparks on mountains old.
Where crests of waves sparkle with rapturous applause 
and white haired men recite Gilgamesh's epic with vigour and delight.
Their wife's preparing supper from past forgotten bones.
O joyous time O golden time, prepare me for my sleep.
To sample love and speak its name a fantasy lies deep.
Within the hearts of common men each desperate for their share.
A beating heart which beats no more with passion but with hate
A silent scream which echoes far within satanic circles.

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

Attack (Poetry)

Attack...
thank-you, can I leave these here for a second?
Hic chu... hic chu... hic chu... the stapler laments.
Over and over.
Hi that's great, cheers.
Too many cards in this purse,
it's fine thanks.
There were two, one went to a hospital.
I just think that's ridiculous.
They were borrow-able surely.
I need some identification,
St Andrew and the solitary student.
I think I might read it tonight.
I cant study unless I'm here though,
odd that.
Mediocrity, always excites me.
A rumbled voice, how long was this?
Perhaps half an hour ago. 
I will send you an email.
White socks always attract dirt.
Filthy things, worn for days on end.

Richtameter ( Poetry)


Ferrets!
Damn rancid smell.
Advice unheeded. Blast!
To listen is to learn, so why
did I ignore the blatant friendly facts
and buy the stench ridden creatures?
Had my ear sought the truth.
I... never bought,
Ferrets!   

Friday, 14 October 2011

Rictameter (Poetry)


O muse
Sing back at me.
Repair misguided heart.
Instill my mind with joy not hate.
Rejuvenate a soul requiring love.
Forget me not heavenly god.
Restore my faith in him.
I beg of thee,
O muse. 
©

Thursday, 13 October 2011

Open the Vein (poetry)

Open the vein
let it pour
insipid desire to seek the truth.
buttered scones for tea,
yeee haaaaa,
don't forget the lemonade,
grandpa made it special.
Longinous started something humanity is hell bent on finishing.
but there's no escape from a guy like Anton Levey.
Big bushy eyebrows and sharpened teeth.
Wooo scary.
He resides in
a restructured world where shops open on the sabbath.
What day is that?
Depends on what monotheistic path you choose.
I've always followed the left hand one, but hey...



...WHO AM I!!!!!

©

Monday, 10 October 2011

Game players (Poetry)

Quite scary that,
to spot a man with one nose
nasal hair protruding.
Or a woman with one arm,
was she black?
Or a chap carrying a handbag
with a yellow carnation in his lapel,
all quite fascinating stuff really,
wouldn’t you say?

Look at that fellow with the turban.
Doesn’t that look strange?
Or the lady with Doctor Martin boots on
and tartan braces.
Look over there, a man dressed as a woman
Doesn’t he look good for his age?

`And look at me, normal old me.
White, male, heterosexual and a professional to boot.`
`Teaching isn’t it?`
`Teacher that’s right,`of morals and ethics.`
`Do you teach diversity?`
`I do indeed, to my Masonic group.`

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

The Willows (Short Story)


                                                                                   
                                                                                        
                                                                  51, Janefield Place
    Draxburgh  

 17thDecember 1881
                                                                              


My dear sister Gertie,

Do you remember the first time you saw the house down by the stream? We were in Father’s carriage on our way to Breemam for our music lessons. Old Farnell the driver was in a foul mood and we kept annoying him by knocking on the roof. Such innocent fun.
We thought it a derelict when we first saw it standing on the riverbank by the waving frondlike leaves of the willow trees. I think you said it must be haunted. We laughed and shivered deliciously at the same time.

Well dear sister, my darling husband Bert has bought it lock stock and barrel. Since our marriage last year the old darling has been looking for something for me that was romantic and idyllic. (The silly billy!) When he was offered the property which consists of the house (a ruin), an acre of ground and the fishing rights for the stretch of the river at the bottom of our garden, he snapped it up!
Since then Bert has been busy, busy making plans. He has employed an architect who will check the fabric of the house, you know whether it must be all knocked down or if we can keep bits of it and build up from there.

Hope you and William are well and your recent trip to Southsea was beneficial to your health.
Will write again soon.

Love from your sister and brother-in-law.




                                                                 51, Janefield Place
    Draxburgh  

 30th December 1881


Happy Christmas Gertie,

Both Bert and I hope you and William had a lovely and relaxing Christmas.
Thank you for the gifts you sent. The cardigan you knitted for me is exquisite. It matches my new bonnet exactly and Bert can’t get over the Meerschaum pipe you sent him. The house is a veritable smokehouse as he tries out his different brands of tobacco.

The architect has been down to see our ‘new’ house and he thinks that although the remaining bit of roof has got to be removed, internal and external walls are sound. He predicts we should be in by March at the latest! Isn’t that good news?

We went over to see old Mrs Garland yesterday, just to bring in some seasonal cheer to the old lady. Since her poor husband died she has been behaving like a recluse. She was so happy to see us that we managed to encourage her to come for a walk with us. We made sure she was well wrapped up before we sallied forth; it was a very cold day.

Thank you also for your last letter. It was lovely to hear how your neighbours were faring after that last bout of ‘flu they had. You both keep warm Gertie, you don’t want to get ill.
Love from us both

Catherine and Bert.



 
                                                                 51, Janefield Place
    Draxburgh  

 27th January 1882



My dear Gertie,

Thank you for your last letter. I am glad William didn’t take the ‘flu too badly. It certainly was a cold period. The snow down here was three inches deep! We had an awful job getting bread and milk, but the road men have cleared most of the roads and apart from the unsightly piles of snow everywhere, life has returned to near normal.

We got some really good news before that last blizzard stopped work on our house. The roof was fixed before the snow started falling and if the decorators can scrub the walls down and whitewash them, we can be in by next month! Imagine a month earlier than we had hoped!

We were so glad to hear that your cat Flossy successfully gave birth to her litter. I would imagine having six kittens running all over the place must be fun for you!  Have you managed to get homes for them yet?

I will put a copy of Mother’s marmalade recipe in with this letter. Good luck with it, the last time I tried to make it it was so runny it wouldn’t stay on Bert’s toast!
Hope you are both well.

Your loving sister and brother-in-law.




                                                                 The New Place!
    Outside Breeman 

 17th February 1882


My dearest Gertie,

Yes, you will have guessed! We are in my ‘romantic and idyllic’ hideaway.
We packed all our clothes, moved our furniture and vacated Janefield Place in a single day. Bert paid the moving men a small fortune, but it guaranteed that they did not leave until everything we owned was in its right place in the new house. (I thought one of the men was going to start emptying our suitcases!).

Well my dears, Bert and I are sitting by an open window listening to the tinkle of flowing water. There is a little breeze just flicking the willow’s leaves. A bird is calling to its mate and in the neighbouring field a cow is mooing. This is heaven Gertie!

We were glad to hear you were keeping one of the kittens to keep old Flossy company.
I’m sure the little soul will enjoy being Flossy’s protogee!

Well sis, I’m just off to bed for a very peaceful sleep. All this country air certainly makes you tired. I can’t wait to go exploring tomorrow!

Your loving sister Catherine.
                                                                 ‘The Willows’
   Near Breemam  

27th February 1882

My dearest sister,

Thank you for your recent letter wishing us every happiness in ‘the Willows’. I am sure that will be the case as soon as Bert and I get used to all the strange noises the countryside makes! My first night’s sleep was punctuated by sheep bleating, owls hooting and my friend in the next field, mooing! Don’t they all go to sleep at the same time?

Bert and I have explored all our property and we found something very exciting. Just at the back of our garden there are some ruins. Bert (the amateur archaeologist) reckons they could be very old. It maybe the site of a castle or an abbey. You never know Gertie, I might just acquire a title from this place. Imagine, Lady Catherine or Lord Bert!

Sorry to hear your marmalade was unsuccessful. When I make it you could drink it and when you have a go it’s as stiff as a board. Good old Mother had the knack!
We will just have to persevere and you never know, we might just produce an acceptable batch between us.

Give William all our love. Hope he has recovered from his ‘flu.

Your loving sister Catherine.

P.S. What name have you given to the kitten?



The Willows’
Near Breemam  

15th March 1882

Dearest Gertie,

Thank you again for your very welcome letter.
Bert and I think Marmaduke is a great name for the kitten. I wonder if he will be a gentle cat like his mother or a tyke like that tomcat who seems to like visiting you garden?

The local vicar came to see us today. The Reverend David Glossop to give him his full title! He is somewhat of a historian and we spent a very interesting, if not fearful hour listening to him narrate the history of the old ruins in our back garden. Oh Gertie, it seems that it was an abbey which had been built on the site of a grove of trees sacred to some ancient god. The site was reputed to be haunted by a guardian who was responsible for keeping everyone except the priests of this god away. When the abbey was built the foundations were set in the grove and the trees were chopped down.
The Rev. Glossop thinks that the abbey eventually had to be burnt sometime in the eleventh century after a particularly virulent strain of the Black Death decimated the area. He promised to do some research and let us know what he finds.

Bert was fuming last night. It had rained all day and he decided to have an early night. Well, he was just dropping off to sleep when he heard the drip of water. Yes, we had a leak and it was coming through the wall from the roof. We put a bucket and some cloths below it. Bert says he will call the builders as soon as possible. Hope that it doesn’t rain tonight!

Enclosing a recipe for Spotted Dick. This is Bert’s favourite pudding. See if William likes it.

Your loving sister Catherine.


                                                                 ‘The Willows’
   Near Breemam  

14th March 1882


My dearest Gertie,

Some really frightening news for you.
Bert had the builders in to look at the leak. They had been off on holiday so this was the earliest they could come. The men started taking off the plaster and trying to trace where the water was coming through from. I was just making a pot of tea for them when I heard one of them cry out. I ran through to see what had happened.
Well Gertie, he was standing back with a real scared look on his face. I turned to see what he was staring at and found myself looking into the empty eye sockets of a skull!
When the men had removed all the plaster and lathe a small recess was exposed and in there sat the skull.
Well Gertie, you know me I wont have a dead mouse in the house let alone something like that! So I asked one of the workmen if they would get rid of and he kindly threw it in the back of their dray with the rubble. You can imagine how relieved I was.

Thank you for your recipe for apple pie, although I have made it before it always seems very dry. The pie we tasted at your house last year was so much more succulent.

Weather here has brightened a bit. That last burst of rain caused the stream at the bottom of our garden to swell and parts of the flowerbed were very marshy.

I will write again soon, but I am hoping to catch up on the gardening as the weeds are starting to appear and some of the bushes need trimming.
Your loving sister and brother-in-law.



                                                                 ‘The Willows’
   Near Breemam  

28th  March 1882


My dearest sister,
Sorry this will be quite an epistle for you both.

The Rev. Glossop turned up just after lunch today. He was waving a bit of paper about and saying “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”  Upon sitting the venerable man down and giving him a small glass of sherry he explained that he had spent the last two days in the local library reading and recording all the history of the abbey.
Apparently after the abbey was built, several of the brothers were murdered quite brutally and speculation and superstition abounded blaming it all on the ancient guardian avenging itself on the non-believers.
The Father Abbot at that time was a man called Gruynyer and he refused to put up with this nonsense and led a party of holy brothers to the site of the last murder. They prayed and Father Gruynyer blessed the area with Holy Water. It was said that the intervention by the Father Abbot curtailed the deaths and he was venerated as the abbey’s saviour so much so that when he died his body was buried at the exact spot of the blessing.
After that, in the fourteenth century the Black Death arrived in Britain. The abbey was badly hit by the plague and in fact part way through this murrain the abbey was struck by lightning and burnt to the ground. A kind of divine cleansing.

The Reverend Glossop also had a copy of a very old map that showed the location of the abbey and Father Gruynyer’s grave.
Oh, Gertie, I think they built ‘the Willows’ on the site of his grave!

Sorry for the history lesson Sis, but it is fascinating isn’t it.
I mentioned finding the skull to the Reverend and he seemed slightly confused, then he said rather fatuously I thought, that it could have been Gruynyer’s skull which was discovered when the builders were digging the foundations.
But, when I asked why it would be kept within the house, he mumbled something about protection. As far as I was concerned I was glad it was away wherever it ended up.

Before I forget, thank you for the photograph of you and William you sent to us, it is a very good likeness.

Write soon Sis, you know I miss you.

Your loving sister Catherine.



   ‘The Willows’
   Near Breemam  

  15th April 1882


Dearest Gertie,

 Something horrid has come to my idyllic heaven
I feel a dark shadow has fallen over ‘the Willows’. The air is very still and there is a feeling of expectancy in the air. A palpable heaviness that weighs heavily on me.

Bert went out to try his hand at shooting this morning. I could hear his gun going off in the distance and I hoped he was having success. As I stood in the window I felt cold and a shiver ran down my spine. Feeling rather stupid I went through to the kitchen to start preparing a pot of soup. Nothing, as you well know, chases the chills away like vegetable soup with a piece of homemade crusty bread.
While I was peeling the potatoes and onions I happened to glance towards the stream. A burst of rain the previous night had increased the flow and I could make out small waves running ashore due to the speed of the water’s flow. Then, all at once I was looking into the eyes of something that had risen to the surface of the stream. It looked for all intents and purpose like a dolphin or porpoise, but the feeling that I got from these eyes were emptiness, lack of pity or humanity. Infinitely cruel and evil.
Well Sis, I am not ashamed to say that I rushed to the front door and bolted it shut. I then ran through to the kitchen where I closed and locked it too. 
When Bert came home a few hours later I had to unlock the front door to let him in. I babbled at him in my terror and he held me tightly till I calmed down. He looked out of the window but could see nothing that could have caused me the fear that I was displaying.
That night I heard strange noises that seemed to come from all over the house. I knew that Bert had locked the doors and windows, but what off the chimney? Each creak, each groan set me on edge and I could feel the cold sweat running down my back. Something was probing our defences. Searching for a way in.

Hello Gertie, I am finishing this letter for Catherine. I have had to put her back to bed as she has developed a fever. Some of the things she has been saying. A creature in the stream. Something creeping around the Willows. I ask you?
I promised to finish this rather garbled letter and post it off to you
I’m sure Catherine will be back to her old self again soon.

Love to you both from us.
Catherine and Bert


The Following partially finished letter is part of the evidence collected from ‘the Willows’ on 17th April 1882.


   The Willows’
   Near Breemam  

                                                                  16th April 1882

Gertie, my darling sister Gertie,

This will be all I will ever be able to write to you
It was outside all last night, hunting, seeking
I should never have got rid of the skull. It was Father Gruynyer’s. It was the talisman that held the beast at bay!
I have doomed Bert and myself
When Bert emerged from the house this morning he found slime trails all over the ground and all over the walls and roof! He tried to explain it away but I saw it.
It looked like a massive slug had crawled all about the area.
Bert has just run inside and barred the door. I heard something slide off the roof and land with a thump on the ground.
Oh God Gertie the door is bending inwards. The hinges are cracking
Oh my God It is in



‘The Willows’ had been visited by the Reverend David Glossop  on the morning of the 17th April 1882 and upon finding the door broken in and the state of the interior of the house, the reverend gentleman immediately contacted the Constabulary here at Axburgh, it being the closest town to Breeman.

Doctor John Purdie MD Report

17th April 1882  Dr. John Purdie.
I was requested to attend ‘the Willows’ for the purposes of establishing termination of life.
The owners of the property, a Mr Robert Barthol and his wife Catherine, formerly residents of the said property ‘the Willows’ had lived at the house from the 17th of February 1882.
In my opinion the couple were savaged by some animal which was attested to by the large quantities of blood coating the walls of the rooms and the terrible state of their bodies.
I would have the Constabulary warn the public that some wild and ferocious beast is at large.


This case is still pending     12th July 1882

         



………………………….+………………………………………                                                                          

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

Mousehunt ( Poetry)

<Cat surprises and chases mouse.  Mouse leads cat into ambush.  Cat then is devoured by six rotweillers.  Clever old mouse!>

Squeak, squeak.  Squeakity Squeak.  Munch, munch.  Squeak squeak. 

Miaow!  MIAOW!

Squeak?  SQUUUUEEEEAAAAK!   Eek!

Miaow!!!!!!

Squeak!

Miaow!!!!!!!!!!! 

Squuuuea.................squea..........squeak!

Miaow!

Ruff ruff.

MIAOW?

RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF RAR Grrr Rarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rMIAOOOOOOOOW!  rrrrrrr hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRAR RA RAR RAR rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

CHomp, chomp, chomp,rrrrrrrrrr, chomp, munch, munch.......munch.

BURP!

Squeak! Squeak!  Squeakity squeak!!!!!!!

Vietnamese Pot Bellied Pig (Poetry)

Oink!  Oink!  OOOOOOOOink!

Snort snort snort

Oink oink!

EEEEEEEEE Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Fat Lad ( Poetry)

Bla, bla, bla, do you ever stop complaining,
Not fkn likely, I'm aching with this training.
Was I wise to appoint her my personal fitness coach,
The lengths I'll stretch to lose the Fat Lad brooch.

Lettuce, cabbage, eat your greens,
This shitty regime is truly obscene.

No more kebabs, McD's or chips,
Strain those arms, let's see those rips.
Bend clean over, touch your toes,
One more strain and I'll let one go!

Lettuce, cabbage, eat your greens,
This shitty regime is truly obscene.

Shorts and t shirt, trainers on,
Oh fkn god, a four mile run.
I have to stop, I've got a crippling stitch,
She's pushing me too hard, the bitch!

Lettuce, cabbage, eat your greens,
This shitty regime is truly obscene.

The agitation now, I have to smoke,
Loose the fags or I'm gonna croak.
A litre of Vodka please, I crave a nip,
She hid my booze, this fkn fitness trip!

Lettuce, cabbage, eat your greens,
This shitty regime is truly obscene.

I had a go, yes I made a start,
The pain, the pain, the pain and farts!
She pushed and pushed, through the gates of Hell,
Produced a short, fat guy who smells!

Lettuce, cabbage, eat your greens,
This shitty regime is truly obscene.

I'm through with it, now I've had enough,
Where's my fkn fags, cough cough.
Lack of liquor, oh what a nightmare test,
The pain, the dark, Cardiac arrest!!

Lettuce, cabbage, eat your greens,
That shitty regime was truly obscene!!!

DIY is not all it's cracked up to be. (Poetry)

DIY is not all that it is cracked up to be
Assistant knew the score.
Prove yourself
It’s for my dad, honest!

Ashen filthy look
But not a care
Brown rancid sticky
Ten-bob a pour

Supermarkets held containers
Plastic, lethal without air vents
Grab as many as you can
Time to reach for the peach.

Desolate place begin the ritual .
Saliva becomes warm
Lungs bursting with acrid fumes.
Cold sore pain numb .

Swirl takes the brain.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Breathing heavier now
World you are mine.

In and out in and out
Bag resembles snakeskin
A consequence?
Not at the moment.

Look for the stars
Owned by him
Take it onboard.
Reality is lurking.

Over... it’s over,
O fuck ,
Why did I have to come back?

Post Modern Britain (Poetry)

The last time ever I saw your smiling face,
You said 'any spare change pal'  then produced a flick knife!
After your ghoulish eyes appeared in the dark,
I was minding my own business, trying to get home!

You waited in ambush like a wolf!
The scent of innocent blood in your nostrils,
Your throat an open grave,
Waiting for someone to devour!

You blame the victim for your state!
Or the world, society or even God,
As a child you were smacked too much or not enough!
Talk psycho-babble and advocate responsibility,
Right and wrong are only what's good for you!

Did your victim make you stick a needle in your arm?
Or pour industrial grade effluent down your throat?
Until you became a wreck,
You have no-one to blame but yourself!

'GET A JOB' you slacker, carry your own load.
Or is that the harshest punishment of all?
You have regret only for getting caught,
After community service you'll give it another go!

'I'm better off living on benefits'
Here comes the free money train!
Free? All money comes from someone else
While you sleep it off another sweats for you!

Life is not fair, the world owes you nothing!
Accept it and deal with it,
Find something positive to do,
More than just signing on the brew.
Move forward not back!

You say 'I have nothing'
But you have life,
One day you will miss it,
When you lie in a shadowy grave,
And feral youths smash your tombstone!

Do not compare yourself to others
You are you and nobody else
Keeping up with the Joneses?
But you are not a Jones,
And your life is more than 'stuff'

Junk food, cigarettes and alcohol
Survival of the fittest becomes arrival of the fattest
The world is round and so is the guy in the street

'The politicians lied to me'
They did not lie, they just didn't tell the truth!
The spin doctor can explain the distinction,
Up is down and right is left,
Black is white and bad is good,
Vote for me!

'We do not have a crime problem'
Not near your rural mansionette,
Try a council estate and shudder,
End Urban apartheid,
Live like your constituents!

Repaint the funnel on the Titanic,
It will look better for a moment before it goes down,
Earn your bloated salary!

David Icke says Lizard-men run the country, odd!
But I see Cameron, Clegg and Blair!
Moral chameleons all

A banker looses another billion quid,
'Have a bonus old boy!' 
While another thousand workers bite the dust!
Another step towards the revolution.

'Hug a hoodie'
You first boy!

Here comes the politically correct tide,
Follow the crowd right into the Abyss!
It makes no difference if it's all barking mad
The priority is that no deranged oddball confronts himself,
be another Lemming, here comes the cliff!

Monday, 3 October 2011

9 Lives ( Poetry)

The Kitten!, the Kitten!, sleeks along the tiles,
Seeking out his fame, his fortune or Top Secret files.
Ninja style, just a story up, he weasels through the night,
Crossing rooftops cautiously, he avoids the bright moonlight.

Stealth is the Cat or merely just a Kitten,
Shouting from the rooftops, his name will soon be Written!!

Staying in shadows and keeping low, he dreams of what can be,
If no-one's home and the window's open, he'll stop-by to collect his fee.
Fame and Headlines is all he wants, the people to know his name,
He never thinks about being caught, he's a master at his game.

Stealth is the Cat or merely just a Kitten,
Shouting from the rooftops, his name will soon be Written!!

The problem is, he'll never be, the legend he desires,
Using the rooftops like a ferret, chimneys, aerials, wires.
His victims, they have no idea, a superhero Kitten,
He's wrapped up in his feline world, of which he's totally smitten.

Stealth is the Cat or merely just a Kitten,
Shouting from the rooftops, his name will soon be Written!!

He'll never find his fame, his fortune, stealing from this place,
He needs to venture into town, where buildings reach to space.
The people will never hear of him or have him in their sights,
For this Kitten burglar has a problem, he's afraid of heights!!!

Sunday, 2 October 2011

Cop Out (Poetry)

Argggggggghh said the pirate to the squall down below
I have had nothing but rations and my bowels on the go.
When I boarded this ship I was promised so much.
That great one legged captain is so out of touch.
Scurvy and rickets are served up so neat.
There’s nothing, sheer nothing for a man just to eat
So I'll finish this ditty with a hum and a harrr.
And jump on my ghost train straight back to Stranraer.

Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Incongruity ( Poetry)


Insidious visitor of unknown origin
Look in the mirror and appreciate his goodness.
A child in the field, sinewy flesh suspended by a membrane.
The mother infected with contemporary plague.
Bullet… crack, crack ,crack, live on channel four.
`Turn it over will you, Coronation Street is about to start.`
Orphanages overflowing with silent infant tears.
Unheard of by me.
Are the Charring Cross arches packed again?
Shall I buy that extra loaf at Christmas?
Ignore the screams, suburban home next door.
March in tandem, Tesco bound.
Consider the outcome of sausage and mash,
Or the pork and ham pie.
While she sits with the frayed candle-wick.
The cigarette stained bar emits rather than glows.
Lamplight droops.
Bereaved family, now waiting on the knock.
Soldier son opened deep, incendiary device rooted in kerbside dust.
Dust? I’m sure that’s the remains of this afternoon’s suicide.
Father stares in the mirror,
appreciates his goodness!

Big Society ( Poetry)

Last time we hit the streets, we pulled out all the stops
Catering for the masses, at a time of crisis,
Older victims of the blitz, from small beginnings.
A Postcode lottery?
The butcher the baker and the proverbial candlestick, no longer exists
Stopped…create something new
Something to look forward to.
We can and should all do.
Apple sauce, baked potato, difference to lives
something ironic ,with gas prices so high.
I don’t care for them, but I do like a bit of fish,
Feast for a king.
I love my mother
When did she die again? 
Was it Saturday or Sunday?