People have weird dreams,
‘tis all I’m saying,
not making assumptions
but if my dreams are anything to go by,
that holiday home in the South
of France, sipping shelled grapes
and eating croissants for breakfast,
that expensive car, worth more
than the house they live in,
and still only capable of
listening to Classic F.M.
when the signal is weak;
they say, Living the dream,
I daren’t tell them mine,
having been seduced by glamour’s women
on my worn out sofa,
Hollywood starlet, fighting
You are paid too much,
money is too tight
for the public sector purse.
Only a politician with greed upon his mind
would suggest that a nurse, a firefighter,
a police officer or a teacher
is earning too much,
isn’t that a slap in the face,
perhaps it would have only been worse
for those devils who dare be public spirited
and do the jobs that others cannot do,
if Philip Hammond had bared his backside
to the news anchors
and the television cameras
The black stitched cherry
being tossed down the pitch
is turned away for the deft quick single,
the sly look of happiness
on the batsman face as he outwits the wicket
keeper is all too evident
through my binoculars, purchased by my wife
for days such as this,
not a ship sailing on the edge of the horizon,
but to witness the glorious catch
of the fielder on the other side of the ropes, down
in the Noir of Third Man, one inch from a six.
Always here, among the mad,
the uneducated of history
who put on a uniform, a white sheet
between them and the same air breathed,
the crew cut hair do, close read this,
they have an agenda and you are not paying
attention closely enough,
they weren’t banished or defeated
when the mad moustache took his own life,
they are still here,
in the shadows, dressed as corporate,
tidy suits, pin badges
with Hi, I’m here to help, but always that agenda;
they might not march down Cable Street now
You have no power not now,
veiled threats perhaps
sly digs in which my name
spits
off your tongue, the kind of fascist
remark, I expect from you
but only missing a number, tattooed
on my skin.
Would you prefer I sank to my knees,
saying
Oh lordy master, please
don’t torture me so, don’t serve up me up
as example of your impotent rage,
for I see you for the weak and pathetic boy
that you are, ineffective
capitalist front, happy
to screw a person over
Seconds out,
round one,
her alarm goes off
and there is a groan of bitter regret
that for the working woman,
the work never seems
to get any simpler,
that the clock,
fascist timekeeper, harsh task master
is always an hour too soon,
just an extra hour,
one day to wake up refreshed and bunny like enthusiasm
as the dawn of a day missed is noticed;
till then, the silent anger of sitting
and talking Government speak
is the reason
she hates the clock.
My favourite boots, feeling worn
out underneath, a little tired but loved,
the cobblers
will always find a way to preserve
them for a while;
dropping them off at closing time
and with pair of bulk standard
trainers to sneak home in
standing by as replacement,
I got them to mend them once again.
Next day, the clock chiming Ten
in the market square,
I walked in to the shop
just in time to see
the cobbler ringing the till
and his fingers red from the pressure
The Irate Cleaner who washed
her business in public, was once
quite sweet, her younger self
only bitter when it came to
the lies she readily told
each boy who dared like her,
as she waved her yellow duster around
as if it was some kind of regal artefact;
a certain reel to lure them in
and then treat them like dirt,
who questioned them too far
and who with a sense of gleeful spite
and not a tear recline
from her just outside Wrexham collapsed face
The once smoky atmosphere of the bar,
now cleaned by regulation
but somehow losing its charm
in the modern day transformation
would always see conversation
take shape in the air
about who was the greatest
footballer that ever lived.
Names bandied round
like solid facts,
all different and full of truth in their own way,
I offered a Dutch master, poise and panache
the steady stroke of artistry,
drawn from memory,
painted with deft strokes and unnerving realism,
vivid with expression, imagination
Summer should only start at the moment
when the first ball of the opening innings
of the first test is sent down the pitch
by a bowler who has found an extra yard
since Christmas.
Whilst April and the wet dew of Spring
heralds the days when you can ignore family
for six months of luxury
of a set of headphones firmly
implanted down the ear
and the commentator’s eye finding
the slow drawn crease akin
to the artistry of Michelangelo’s David
and attendance of the