a sunny weekend in greater st albans

backpack to london
for the downtown fun run
ladybirds, butterflies,
apple trees
and sofas in the sun
through the field of wheat
like a young theresa may
teal dragonfly perched
on a vibrant green
leaf above a rust bed stream
we wade with baggy minnows
by the weeping willow
clock two foxes,
attempt avuncular football
scorched between the bridges
peddle assisted
to the bucket hat photobomb
goosebumps on
the cold carriage home

this was a lovely holiday. it was sunny. saw friends. family. wildlife. waded in a stream. it was very cold on the train home though.

all billionaires are paedos we just haven’t proved it yet

mishear flushing pedos,
think will someone leak
the epstein files
*sniffs* smell that lass?
that’s football.
and it’s comin’ home
and it actually does
but i still have a wee tear for the losers
that’s a feeling i understand

then lo and behold they did release the epstein files, at least, some of them, not the video recording. and weird, nobody has been lifted. this is the worst cover up in history and yet nobody is arrested. maxwell moved to a swanky luxury prison. offers to testify in exchange for favours. trump, named more than almost anyone, remains in situ.

then england’s women won the euros and that was a bit cheerier but, due to the nature of this poem, it became attached at a section about a billionaire pedo cabal. sorry, lionesses. i did cheer for you.

something of the morning ii

it’s really quite alarming
see there’s something of the morning…
don’t they know
paracetamol
will directly cause neurodivergence… ?

i’m getting quite dysregulated
you know, it’s something of the morning…
these people
bring me out in sweats
i need another transfusion…

well now i’ve really had enough
of these zombies of the morning….
talk of the
kennedy curse
it’s the living that i fear for…

the way he croaks his words, the bizarre anecdotes re roadkill, the thing that lived on his brain. he is just so unusual. i simply reject that the world can be this insane. it must be me who is insane. [jumps from window]

space and time are the same thing, sort of

i run, unearthing memories
and washing them with tears
visit the exhibition of piles
and get some good reels
patronise my town
and try our world
renounced cuisine
if time is distance
and the past’s
a million miles out of scene
can we go back, one day
or must we slave obsequiously
to linearity, inflexibly

endurance sport is where i often am when processing difficult memories. but if space and time are the same, then at least all the traumatic events are very far away now. did you know that the dinosaurs lived billions of miles away from us? it’s hard to remember that we are on a spaceship.

the trilogy of four

we now commence a trilogy
of four to the floor
techno-complacency is the vision
in the fore-
ground. action continues
in palestine
i’m powerless and frustrated
in this time-line;
seek whimsy, a step in the ascent
of pasta
bolognese, circuses, evil
and disaster
it’s time to normalize
the aphorism:
under the thumb of
“actually existing capitalism”

hello and welcome to part four of the love epochal: technodeterminism. this is the first part of a techno trilogy that i have been working on that will take up the next eighteen months.

i would like to use this sentence to affirm my belief that yvette cooper was wrong to proscribe the group palestine action as their actions do not amount to terrorism. it is absurd that with courts struggling with backlogs and the prison estate overcrowded that the police have been arresting hundreds of octogenarians for supporting peaceful protest.

and it is all a pointless distraction from the real issue: which is that israel is committing genocide against the palestinians. and if they are using weapons produced in this country, then everyone, including the government, including yvette cooper, has a moral duty to prevent that from happening.

the biggest ride of the summer

take the train to lockerbie
soaked twice on the heatwave day
learn it
then you’ve earned it
always pack a gilet
sun cream
gets in your eyes
as the king meant to say
through coalburn a wheel-sucker
and deadwater and succour
climb abandonist
when i felt the thirst
as a stab in the kidneys
a painful business
don’t have a cow
abunga dude
bloody lookin’ rose
is looking good
lily pads
and other wet plants
then keith goes to a barbecue
and we just ride home in the rain
how come we don’t get burgers

the final chorus of the gilet years, which only lasted six months

that’s our lot
for the gilet years
a window of calm
between crises
it’s the unseemly quiet
amidst the tempest
when the storm is over
what will be left?

alternative ending and final chorus, making the previous final chorus the penultimate one all along

those were the gilet years
congratulations
if you’re still here
this is the end
until more similar tomorrow

and that’s it for part three. i hope you enjoyed giletdonism. please come back next month for part 4: techno-determinism.

the poetry/bills conundrum

would it make me
a syndicalist to say
the way that you treat people
is the way they behave
and then it struck me.
i’m not anxious,
i’m scared.
so much of the time
scared to be at home alone
i just don’t naturally
enjoy the repetition
and uncertainty of life
i’ve spent all my time
trying to find meaning and comfort
and all that really works is
a constant diet of art,
drugs and sex and exercise
but sadly i have to earn cash
to sustain it

the human condition. productivity. gdp. we work so much and so many of us work at things that… could simply not be done. there are enough clothes on earth to last several future generations. we could feed everyone well with less land if we could just eat less meat.

we could simplify life so dramatically, and benefit from much more leisure time. we could exercise every day. see friends every day. write poetry. paint murals. do the things that make us happy.

anyway. best put your phone away and get back to work.

the opposite of listening to madonna in decathlon

they pass the assisted
dying bill
will the lords giveth
the right to kill?
a vision: no,
you have to take it yourself
mr benn
a shock of mortality
please, call me n.n.
quite a memento mori
a lonely shiver

i have aphantasia but this was a pretty harsh, real feeling idea. i imagined the doctor passing me the pills in the little plastic cup. and telling me no, i have to take them myself. it gave me a blast of the feeling i had after i was diagnosed with emphysema. thankfully, i was undiagnosed about seven months later and celebrated by listening to madonna in decathlon.

as it turns out, the lords tooketh away the right to assisted suicide. antidemocratically waffled it away. i give them the respect they deserve.

n.b. this poem should only be read upside down in blue pencil

i’m an autistic on
the poetic spectrum
i want a microphone
but have accepted i can’t sing
there are two types
of words, it seems to me
words that rhyme with
and words that mean the same as
i’m a rabble douser
a sub-intellectual
active on the couch,
always ineffectual
in vest and briefs
and sandals and socks
trying the door knobs
testing the locks
thinking of
five minutes mary,
so called because she always
wants five minutes mair
i’m up her street
rinse and repeat
bring down the government
no bobbies on the beat

i heard a nonsense poem on radio 4 once maybe 20 years ago that i’m sure had a line that someone’s name must be spelled upside down in blue pencil but i have searched high and low (ok, i asked claude) and i haven’t been able to identify the original inspirational work. maybe it was dadaist? maybe the pencil wasn’t blue? perhaps it was a crayon? if anyone has any ideas, i would welcome them.

the butler problem

since i made my billions
i just can’t stay asleep
i bet so big on brexit
i swapped the water i used to keep
by my bedside as water
does not befit
an ego and a grift
as overbig as this
so if i wake late in the night
i demand to have
vintage champagne
from a fashionable brand
cool or tepid
just won’t cut it
only ice cold
refreshes with subtlety
yeah it’s got to be
outwardly sublime
and there is no time
to pop a cork
when one is parched
every second’s delay
is a failure in the quest
for perpetual and delicious
prime hydration
so jeeves pours fresh
on anticipation
of each occasion
popping champagne corks
all night long
so as i said
i can’t stay asleep
since i made my billions
on brexit, betting deep

in 2016 i had the grand plan to write an epic poem about brexit. this is that poem. so i need to bring brexit it up every now and again. brexit has created many problems, and being woken up by the constant popping of champagne corks is one of the worst, although it is seldom talked about for some reason.