2: Poems

The Impossibility Of Lust

Taking artefacts without informing the Receiver of Wrecks

Is illegal – as, indeed, is not wearing any keks

In schools and, it goes without saying, oral sex

With all lizards except tyrannosaurus rex,

Not to mention deliberately bouncing Czechs

On each other’s heads or wearing powerful specs

With which to peer lewdly at ladies’ necks

Or using slander to vilify or vex

Innocent sailors, or kissing them on the decks

While they’re on duty; even dangling a flex

Between one’s legs and saying, “England expects!”

Is banned in most districts of Quebec’s

Lower Town, including the funicular, though one suspects

That this prohibition simply reflects

Canadian modesty, which rigorously rejects

Performances which puzzle and perplex

Those taking the steps, for whom the arduous treks

Make them sticky as the sweat collects

On their collars; though in some bizarre sects

Dedicated to the memory of Malcolm X,

These gestures are obligatory, as is paying one’s respects

By proferring one’s pudenda for passionate pecks

And signing over the bulk of one’s effects

To Tim – who runs the funicular, with his brother, Tex.

But at ceremonies of the horsemen when the wind

Is blowing through the graves as freedom comes,

Men do indescribable things involving bums

And, frankly, you’d have to be awfully thick-skinned

Not to mind such meddling with one’s rear;

But that’s the way of the underworld, my dear.

The Partisans were pure and their conviction

Obviated any dereliction

Of duty in their struggle to release

People in Yugoslavia and Greece

But even they – occasionally – took lovers

And spent their courage underneath the covers,

Waking up to find, with such sweet sorrow,

That such sweethearts don’t love no one tomorrow.

And yet the shadows hold the outlines of desire

From which the labouring lust turns into love –

As when the lion lies down with the lamb

And the dromedary discourses with the dove.

The Isle Is Full Of Noises

The morning light infused your room—

White, reflected off the snow;

I watched you from my late-night gloom.

You drank your tea. You had to go.

I’ll miss you when you bob your hair

And I say, “Darling, never better!

The cutter worked with love and care—

Next time you go, be sure you get her!”

We shared warmth, experience, belief,

And fears and jokes—we shared the charge

Of memory and desire; relief

From pain. You recalled a surge,

A thrill, a quickening in the blood

—Remember you asked me if I knew?

And I said yes (each time I stood

When you said, “Let me look at you”—

I didn’t tell you that). The thrill,

You asked, was just the stuff of youth—

That urgency, and almost ill

With being so alive? The truth

Is: I’ll miss it when you wear your boots

And go out early in the snow.

I said, “Darling, your jacket suits

You… Stay a while?” “I have to go.”


Rejection took me by surprise

(Get used to it – it takes a while).

I miss your breasts, your lovely thighs,

But most of all I miss your smile.

I miss the things we used to share
(All my well-intentioned lies),
But we were neither here nor there
(I miss your lips, your lovely eyes).

The morning in your room is white,

You say that I should not be sad.

You tell me I don’t have the right:

“You can’t lose what you never had.”

On Refusing To Look Into Burton’s The Anatomy Of Melancholy

Good evening and welcome, weight-watchers!  Tonight,

For those of you whose trousers are perhaps a trifle tight,

We shall be introducing the revolutionary new technique

Called Pump It And Dump It, which, even as we speak,

Is receiving the prestigious Jack Nicholson Award for the most

Promising invention since toast.

And here to take you through your steps

Is none other than Johnny Depp’s

Erstwhile trainer, Miss Maureen Hardcastle of Crewe,

Who’s hoping that what she did for him she can do for you.

Will you welcome, please – she’s slimmer than many a teen –

Our host for this evening’s entertainment… Maureen!

     Thank you, thank you!  You will have noticed that my bum

     Is tight, and my breasts are pert, and my tum

     Is trimmer than a glimmer in a blind man’s eye.

     And here’s the reason for why:

     Fluids!  Lots of fluids every day – that’s tip

     Number one.  And, ladies, if you’re struggling with that zip

     On your backless dress, here’s tip number two:

     Sex – and plenty of it!  But, whatever you do,

     Always use some form of contraceptive,

     Otherwise you’ll find that you’re embarrassingly left wiv

     A bun in the oven and your waist will swell

     From winsome M to a whopping XL.

     Tip number three is exercise:

     Wiggle those buttocks and swivel those thighs;

     Pump it and dump it – let the fat fly free –

     But lose the shoes or your feet’ll smell like brie!

     And gentlemen, if you’re hoping to look suave and slinky

     But your belly’s so big that you can’t see your winky,

     Put on the gloves and try a round in the ring

     And you’ll soon be able to gaze on your old ding-a-ling.

Well, that’s all we have time for tonight – but Maureen will be back

Tomorrow with a cure for baldness and plaque.

Until then, on behalf of my wife, Genevieve,

May I ask you to put on your trousers and leave.

Maisie

I wish I knew the secret

Of what makes Maisie tick.

I know what makes her well

And I know what makes her sick.

I know her size in knickers

And her favourite sexual act:

She likes to whistle on the job –

I know that for a fact.

She can’t abide an aubergine

Or dishes made with eggs

And eats her muesli naked

With the bowl between her legs.

She loves the plays of Pinter

But abhors the works of Poe,

Is tolerant of Dickens

But ignorant of Rimbaud.

Her relationships with sailors

Are predictable and glum:

They take her weeping up the stairs,

Rewarding her with rum.

She doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss

About the fact’s she’s fat;

She can crack a tree between her thighs

And she’s very proud of that.

But deep inside a strange unease

Gnaws at my vital parts:

Is Maisie really cut out

To be Minister for the Arts?

The Morning Malison

My horse is awakened, the petrels are soaring

And carried aloft on the wings of the gale;

And deep in the forest the wild men are roaring

For good fatty broth and a stoop of fine ale.

My long withered boots in the sunshine are dancing
To music that only my old boots can hear,
My horse in his wisdom has given up prancing;
The last time he pranced, he got a thick ear.

I wish I could hear now the old ocean singing

That song––aye! Old sailors, now long dead, once sang it,
I once knew a sailor who took up bell ringing—

If you showed him a church bell, by Jingo, he rang it!

No Filth At Fiveways


There used to be a knocking shop at the top of Preston Drove:
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock it went – and the chaps                    all cried, “By Jove,
“Felicity’s on form tonight!” and they tipped her half a crown –
A merry time was had by all, until the Council closed it down.

Felicity found other work, as a state-registered nurse,

And married a man from the ministry – for better or for worse –

And in the early days she knocked him about a bit:

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock she went, until he sought a               writ.

The judge wore a grave expression and a wig that didn’t fit him

As he asked Felicity to explain why on earth she hit him;

Felicity said simply that it gave her enormous pleasure –

And recommended a “tampon toupée” that was made to measure.

This act of gross impertinence convinced the Court to find

In favour of the ministry man, though Felicity was inclined

To call the judge a “bender” as he didn’t even cough

When she wore her shortest, sexiest skirt – or when she took it                   off.

The injunction clearly stated that she mustn’t beat her spouse

In the bedroom or the kitchen – or in any part of the house –

So she made herself homeless and, being of no fixed abode,

Waited for him with a hammer at the bottom of Ditchling Road.

There used to be a knocking shop at the top of Preston Drove

But now the punters have to travel all the way to Hove,

Where Felicity’s the madam now, her knocking days behind her,

And the keenest customer by far is that balding judge who fined               her.

Iron Chef French

When I was young and full of beans

I courted lasses in their teens,

They’d let me kiss them on the mouth

And didn’t mind if I went south.

A bold young man, and full of fish,

I must have been a salty dish.

Young women didn’t seem to mind

When I caressed them from behind.

Ay, as a young blade full of custard,

I tried out all the tricks I’d mustered

O’er my short life - I’d often squeeze

The ladies on their pretty knees.

When in my prime and full of gammon,

I used all the charms that I could summon.

Encouraged by their Ooohs and Aaahs,

My nimble hands unhooked their bras.

When I was a lad and full of chips

I feasted on young ladies’ nips,

And they would never say me nay—

No! Ne’er a one said, “Go away!”

Aye, in my youth and full of eggs

I’d thrust my hand between their legs,

And they would rarely move away—

No! Ne’er a one would say me nay.

A stripling youngster full of pies,

I’d oft unzip my trouser flies.

The ladies never showed dismay

When they saw what was on display.

My youthful fondness for jam tarts,

My glee when I released my parts—

Ah! Looking back, I don’t recall

Anyone saying my parts were small.

When I was young and drank hot tea,

The word “No” was unknown to me.

When I declared my frank intent,

I’d get at least their mute consent.

But now I’m old and full of cheese,

And Ba Jov! I still aim to please

Myself—nor need I e’er abuse

Myself: Ah ladies, ne’er refuse

Me. In my tea I dip my biscuit,

You see? I warn you, do not risk it,

Ladies––though some, like Nefertitis,

Seem stone deaf to my entreaties.

I need more sugar in my tea:

Ah gentle ladies, hear my plea

And never dare to say me nay

Nor brush my wandering hand away.

As I grow old, I like things sweet.

My appetite for good fresh meat

Is quickened when I sense the fear

In ladies sweet when I draw near.

These days I much prefer to poach

My eggs. I’m frank in my approach.

Life’s much too short to wait and smile,

Too short for all that craft and guile

I learned when I had time to wait

For thighs and breasts to marinate.

These days I turn the gas up high

And when the skillet’s hot I fry

What I need just when I need

It—And sweet ladies, it’s not greed

That’s made me abandon those seductive

Games. One learns that more productive

And less time-consuming ways

Present themselves as precious days

Become more precious by the hour:

Art yields to exercise of power.

I’ve ceased to care if you desire

Me or detest me. While the fire

Burns under the spit, I’ll be true

To my appetite, and so will you.

The Day The Handle Literally Came Off In My Hand

I’ve always been fond of her, ever since

We were eight and played together on the heath

Below the castle; I was Charlemagne with my laurel wreath,

And she was Boadicea, smelling of hawthorns and mints,

And whoever won would get to sit on the other

Behind the parapet and sing God Save The Queen

Or La Marseillaise.

Those were the days!

We played this game until we were sixteen, when my mother

Said I couldn’t see her anymore because a magazine

Had printed a picture of her without her top,

Eating Rice Crispies, and the caption read:

“Lola will make you snap, crackle and pop! –

“Join her for breakfast in bed!”

Time loosened the links between us and the years

Blurred my memory of her freckled face

And her lighthouse eyes that sprang with tears

And her racing green doublet of leather and lace,

Until one day, when I was thirty-five,

I met her again by chance in Old Compton Street,

Just before she was due to appear, live,

At Ronnie Scott’s as “Rita Petite”.

Her eyes moistened and a tremor took hold

Of her lips as she held me the way she used to do

Behind that parapet when Boadicea The Bold

Made Charlemagne quiver and yield what was due

To the conquering queen.  I kissed her cheek,

Feeling the old thrill, but the spark of lust

Fizzled fut! – and, before I could speak,

She duly dissolved in a dune of dust.

The doors are closed now, and that other land

Is frozen, like the handle in my hand.

Captain Shand & His Dog Albemarle

The snarling dog that bit your hand

Once belonged to Captain Shand,

Who scandalised the neighbourhood

By doing things you really should

Not do with sheep and paid the price

For being caught not once, but twice

And went down for a fair old stretch

(And well deserved, the filthy wretch!)

And then came back from stir all smiles

And lounged about on gates and stiles,

As if we’d all forgot the harm

He’d done to creatures of the farm,

Singing and playing on his uke

(Oh Lordy, how it makes me puke

To even think of him, the creep!)

Songs about his love of sheep!

While Shand would have his violent way,

That dog would hold the shepherd at bay

With yellow teeth and horrid snarl.

His master called him “Albermarle”,

After the private members’ club

In London’s Mayfair where this grub-

-by scion of a diseased tree

Disgraced his dying family

With escapades too gross to mention

Here. With just his army pension

Left, having completely frittered

His fortune, and leaving London littered

With the casualties of his appetite,

This noble endoparasite

Came back home to our peaceful village

And put us all us to rape and pillage.

Species, sex and generation

Notwithstanding. The ovine population

Walked in fear and dread of meeting

The captain and his dog. The bleating

At all hours of the day and night

Was piteous to hear. Their plight

Was desperate—no hope, none at all,

When the Captain came to call.

Why, you ask, do we put up

With the captain’s dog? E’en as a pup

He was a nasty piece of work.

Why let the slavering monster smirk

And bark at common decency,

When only very recently

He was aiding and abetting Shand’s

Filth with other men, whose stands

When sheep were near indicated

A vileness never vindicated

By nobility of birth, or death

Heroic?   

No, Shand’s dying breath

Was not a holy martyr’s sigh,

Nor did he repent, express

Remorse for his abominable excess,

And never once apologised

To animals whose compromised

Innocence made angels weep

—And I wept too for all those sheep.

This brings us back to Albemarle,

Who the captain taught to bite and snarl.

He taught him other things as well,

For which he’ll no doubt go to hell.

Watching Shand among the fleeces,

The dog learned a taste for other species,

—But not for sheep. His pulse throbbed faster

When he gazed on his rampant master.

As well as giving him protection,

He longed to show his rough affection,

And watching Shand about his fun,

Thought this must be how it was done.

I should explain that Albemarle was

A Great Dane and a Pit Bull cross.

He had ferocity and size,

And much admired his master’s thighs.

One night, in a God-forsaken byre,

Infected by the captain’s fire,

And devoted to his master dear,

He set upon him from the rear—

Aye, entered the captain from behind!

His canine lust was unrefined

By human intercourse, and so…

But that was seven years ago.

The man had lived in mortal sin:

An access of love—yes!—did him in.

His final words expressed no fear

Of hell—but they were hell to hear.

According to his batman, Carl,

They were: “That’s it! Good dog, Albemarle!”

The sheep beheld those canine shanks

And leapt on him to give him thanks,

The only way they knew now, and

All that they’d absorbed from Shand

They gave back, ah! a hundred times

To Albemarle. The captain’s crimes

Came home to roost upon the person

Of his dog! Bring the hearse on

For the captain! But for his hound

Let the grateful hills resound!

And that's why Albemarle is seen

Lounging on the Village Green,

Snarling at the passers-by.

He’s licensed to be horrid by

The Parish Clerk, a man called Hillage,

Who, speaking for a grateful village,

Made Albemarle a Freeman and,

For getting rid of Captain Shand,

Proclaimed that he was free to run,

Free to have whatever fun

Where’er he wished, and he was free

To be whate’er he chose to be:

Free to snarl and free to bite,

Free to fart and free to fight

Whomso’er he chose to light

Into—fright old ladies into fits—

And free to take his monstrous shits

Where’er he liked. What’s obscenity,

When he had brought serenity

Of mind to damaged hearts,

Of heart to damaged minds?

The damaged sheep and their behinds

Resumed their gambolling—joy to see!—

And safely grazed upon the lea.

One night this Hillage had told the vet

To “stand by while the vicar and I get

Ablemarle drunk on vodkatinis

(Which he had learned to drink with blinis)

In the Lamb & Flag. Hide by the pump—

That’s where he likes to take a dump—

 

And when he does, you take this club

To his head. We’ll be in the pub.

And while he’s sleeping where he falls,

Take out your blade. Remove his balls—

That’ll teach him to get blutered!”

And that’s how Albemarle got neutered.

A little nip from Albermarle,

A pile of shit, a yellow snarl,

Inspire no fear. He makes us laugh,

Now that he’s much less than half

The dog he was. He still has rages

But we all grin at his rampages.

Oh, he still loves to drink and brawl,

But doesn’t have the wherewithal

To do the things he used to do—

His life is sad, his pleasures few.

If he gets nasty on the booze,

We just call in some rams and ewes.

They sort him out—he can’t abide

These woolly creatures by his side.

Our happy village safe may sleep—

Bless Albemarle! God bless our sheep!

The Qualified Germans

“My son is a doctor,” said Frau Fischer proudly

And in case no one heard her, she repeated it loudly.

“That’s why they call him Herr Doktor, you see.”

I feigned my astonishment and said, “Bugger me!”

It turned out her nephew was a paediatrician

And her daughter a lecturer in nuclear fission,

Her cousin a chemist, her brother a lawyer

And her aunt an expert on Francisco Goya.

Her father, while studying Chaucer in Wales,

Translated the whole of The Canterburry Tales

And her uncle, who happened to live just next door,

Wrote jingles for Goebbels during the war.

These remarkable facts she imparted one night

As she toasted her family’s geist of the zeit,

With pineapple schnapps and strudel for afters

As the Heils rose like rockets up into the rafters.

But a Pole among the party, a prophet from Warsaw –

Who, while others were sceptical, cleverly foresaw

The collapse of the Reich – raised his hand and declared:

“You’re all going to die and none of you’ll be spared!”

They laughed at him, their smugness smeared on their faces,

Saying, “Ve vill outlive all inferior races!”

But I must confess that I harboured my doubts

As I’ve never been awfully fond of the Krauts.

Going To Sea

I’m down by the water
I'm standing very close to the sea
Distant echoes of slaughter
Coming across the water to me

I’m thinking about Vikings
Surfboards never played any part
Ships can conquer the world
Surfers end up back where they start

I’ve been reading the Sagas
I think I like the snow and strong drink
Light a fire in the darkness
Lasts much longer than you might think

          Look for signs and you’ll find them
          Who’s going to harvest the whirlwind that you sow?
          They left things burning behind them
          And dragons showed them which way to go

High on the mountain
A fiery hand is beckoning me
I like the cool of the fountain
I like the depth of the sea

I think I’ll go for a swim
Head across the water to the west
You might think I’m acting on a whim
I think I’m doing what’s best.

A Quick One (While He’s Still There)

The wizard climbs with bottles to her room,

His red nose winking in the flick’ring gloom,

And sits beside her on the rusty bed

And says in perfect English, “Hi, it’s Ted.”

She, languorous and sweating in the heat,

Notices the boots upon his feet,

The polished leather, arrogant yet soft,

Inviting horseplay in that humid loft.

“Give me a drink,” she purrs with a saucy lilt

As her eyes take in the splendour of his kilt.

He pops the cork, she grabs the glass with greed,

Fixated by his coat of Harris tweed.

     But then she sees his wide Peruvian hat

     And gushes, “That’s a damn fine hat is that!”

E-volution Now!

Ghadeer has ruined the couscous!

She’s usually such an ace cook!
And what can be this good girl’s excuse?
She abandoned the dinner for Facebook!

Mubarak’s rule is on the skids,
And his regime is all in the shitter!
Abdulaziz, like all the other kids,
Is chatting like fury on Twitter!

Beware, take heed, oh bully-man!
Draw swords and blow hard the bugle!
Mubarak, Gaddafi and Suleiman
Will fall to the fury of Google!

When he died, Enver Hoxha’s supporters
Were routed by Slavomir Melchek,
And all the most glorious slaughters
Were accomplished with Microsoft Spellcheck.

Osama has got a computer,
He prefers Linux to Microsoft Word;
Wikipedia makes him astuter,
Without it he’d be quite absurd.

Mubarak and Omar Suleiman
Will give way to Muhammad al-Baradei.
The word on the Arab Street's “Hey, man!
What's going down out there on eBay?”

The Lumpy Men

Out of the glen they came,

The lumpy men:

William, Arthur and Dirk

And Ben,

With their trumpets blaring

And their trousers rolled;

Hatless, although

It were devilish cold

And they made for the home

Of Sergeant McQueen,

Who’d run them out

Of Aberdeen,

With their trumpets blaring

And their trousers rolled,

Although then

It weren’t so cold.

Rat-a-tat-tat they knocked

On McQueen’s oak door;

“Wit tha fuck

“Are ye knocking for?”

Shouted Mrs McQueen

But the lumpy men

Just knocked and knocked

And knocked again.

“Are ye tha lumpy men?”

Mrs McQueen cried.

“Aye, we’re tha lumpy men!”

The lumpy men replied.

“Wit d’ye want wi’ me?”

She asked the lumpy men.

“It’s no a cup o’ tea!”

Wryly answered Ben.

Sergeant McQueen stood up

To face the lumpy men;

As they knocked and knocked, he said,

“I’ll get it, hen.”

Out of the glen they’d come,

The lumpy men,

Leaving the glen just after

Half past ten.

As McQueen opened the door,

The lumpy men

Blew the trumpets they’d brought

From the glen

And blew and blew and blew

Until McQueen

Regretted what he’d done

In Aberdeen.

“Let that be a lesson tae ye!”

Said the lumpy men

And they took their trumpets

Back to the glen,

Leaving Sergeant McQueen

At his door –

And reaching the glen

At quarter past four.

The Summer Benison

Oh, give me pickles in a jar today;

And let me eat them in my own good way

And in God’s own good time; let me not fear

The indigestion or the milky tear.

Oh, give me pleasure in the ladies bright,

Like candlelight by day, like ghosts by night;

And make me happier in ladies dark,

Who beckon travellers in the moonlit park.

And make me happy in the swimming pool,

The shave that doesn’t bleed, the perfect stool,

The thunderstorm that crashes far away,

The babe that lives to die another day.

For this is hope and nothing else is hope;

It cleanseth life like good carbolic soap.

Let me not be afeard of good St. John,

And give me strength to put my trousers on.

The Resourceful Robin

The robin is the most resourceful of birds

And, if I may be permitted to say a few words

On the subject of robins, let me start with the fact

That robins are seldom, if ever, attacked

By buffaloes, bears, bison or beagles,

But always keep an eye out for predatory eagles.

The robin resides wherever it chooses

And seldom migrates, and never boozes,

Because, if it did, it wouldn’t be able

To land so precisely on any bird-table.

It doesn’t eat lampreys or liver, but feeds

On terrestial invertebrates and is quite fond of seeds.

It’s known for its breast which, as I’ve always said,

Is actually orange, though some call it red,

And, whilst keenly alert to another robin’s call,

It frequently flies for no reason at all,

Except, perhaps, because it needs to feed –

If that is the link between reason and need.

One particular robin – let’s call him Bates –

Became a celebrity in the United States

When he eschewed insects in favour of the knee

Of Ivy League student, Lisa-Marie.

He made his way north, with a view to the prize,

Pecking the pasture of Lisa’s thighs.

She squealed and she wriggled as the shameless flirt

Disappeared all the way under her skirt

And, turning to Piper, her room-mate at Yale,

Said, “This robin sure is a red-blooded male!”

Piper agreed and the girls cried, “Gee whizz,

“Oh what a resourceful robin he is!”

Champion The Wonderful Dead Horse

Last night, to my chagrin, I had a dream

About my good old horse out on the prairie,

Galloping ’cause he could smell the good fresh cream,

That the cowboys were making him in the old dairy.

Every time it’s the same when I dream of Champion:

He’s full of health and brown as a rusty nail,

Fast as any bicycle, tall as Schiehallion,

And the cowboys pour the cream in the horse’s pail.

Our national anthem always graces my lips

When I think of that proud horse who’s passed over yonder;

The cowboys’ boots come way up to their hips,

And whene’er they saw that horse, they ’gan to ponder.

When I awoke from this vainglorious reverie,

Some major disappointment I did feel,

And I was overcame with misery,

As I wandered off to eat my morning meal.