TORY LORD’S PRAYER

Tags

British, labour, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, satire, Tory, Youth

TORY LORD’S PRAYER

Lord thank you for
our Tory Heaven
in which we will
not suffer
the children
who vote Labour
(much to
decide about their fate
would we could
a Child’s Crusade)

let us live this life
eternal, forever,
so let us take away
democratic flavour
get rid of the young
and every immigrant
for we
are British
ruled the world once
now live within
our happy pensioned means
double-glazed and garaged
settling down
to watch the kind
of television in
which we
believe
nothing to erudite
if you please
we being old and
British and
so, so slow of
wit
and
viciously small-minded

MR LENNON

Tags

Hamburg, Inagine, John Lennon, Lenin, Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, poem, poetry, Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, THE BEATLES, wordplay

MR LENNON

I thought you
were a
lowly insect

but now you tell me
you are the
Working Class Hero
interred in
Red Square

my brain
reeling from this, and
from smudge of
Hanoverian in
your saucy scouse accent
gone turned
pink and white
and bubble-gum blue marshmallow
(top ingredient in the pies
rocking-horse
people like)

yes, I read of your death
browsing the backseat
in a newspaper taxi

“imagine that!” the taxi-driver cried,
they were all
in dress uniform
waiting for outbreak
of war
or some vaudeville event

and Alice, through the mirror, out
in one of your deftly landscaped gardens
wondering, as we
we will
all be
wondering forever and ever

as aliens
in distant galaxies will be wondering
what
it all
meant

what “Day in
the Life” might have
done to our heads.

LEAVES FALL

leaves fall
like Empires

except
they do not cling
to what they were, where
they are, what
they know
as fierce as limpets

the law of Nature, rule
if gravity
this the city teaches
it is how it masters, measures
controls
I myself have

a smidgen of
that learning, an incomplete
picture that now
the gallery is
closing
is being
taken out
the frame

and yes,
whilst we are
in this realm of
analogy we must

add how
it is
that trees topple
but not
never (meaning
hardly ever)
of their own accord

STATUE

What does a statue
say about death?

that posed gravitas
(frown of power)
how does that
translate into
hope for something
gorgeous, hope
for something new

fear that the old
cling on against Nature
against any fair odds

Oh for a world where the past
teaches without
overshadow!

INTO THE IRISH SEA

when I was younger
I thought I would
fall into the Tame river
and be swept out
into the Irish Sea

waving as I pass
to John, George, Paul
and Ringo
asking them the whereabouts
of their yellow submarine

NOT ENTIRELY RESEMBLING VIRID AMPHIBIAN

Some students — millennials —
were trapped in a book
for what seemed
(time being
relative) to
them like a
lifetime, even
a eternity

prisonhoused of language
waiting for Prince (or Princess) Political
to come, break the spell
of enchantment with a kiss

raise them up
to the Eternal Bandwagon
turn them into something
(in compensation for
lack of erudition) not
entirely resembling
virid amphibian.

WINTER

I wonder when I
cottoned on

to the change of
seasons first
flash of Spring
balmy heat
of Summer
Autumn marking
a tightening transition

and now my
season, Winter
cold in the bone but
something stirring

memory of that
day
ice-cold snowball in
my poor sister’s face.

IN CONTROL

he’s a figure from
the 70s
flew in in bells and platforms
from planet Monty Python
so much glitter
around his eyes you’d
swear they were the
centre of
twin spiral galaxies

how could he fade, grow
respectable, bore to
death but
not die yet
when the world around
him hurtled
into order
nicely
in control?

YOUNG ACADEMIC

YOUNG ACADEMIC

The young academic
goes boldly
ventures forth
breathing enough fire
stockpiling enough energy
to power a city.

Hears the turbines
humming his
praises
(soon they will know
all the words). And

I have promised to be there
for his knighting, certificating,
much-medallioning:
reward in no short measure
meet for harvest of solutions

nor shall we forget
that Babel-bibliographied
tower of footnoted periodicals
immune
to the march of time
(as he
computes the future to
twenty, thirty, forty
decimal places).

UNTIL THE COWS COME HOME

I was at the photocopier
when I fell into an
existential crisis

imagining a medical rapscallion
sneaking in to
snatch my
genetic code

an infinitely better copy brought
up in best laboratory conditions
to see
himself grow into
a walking contradiction
of that godlike parent
loving assertion
that
one will never
amount to anything

never, never, never
and
you can photocopy that
until the (mummy
and daddy) cows
come home.