He saw the human race
as a lethargic angst,
(it crushed him)
a furtive arrangement
of elementary particles,
a transitional shape
on the way to chaos:
cold, empty heavens,
streaked by dying stars.
He was dried fruit,
had never married.
Where had he left his car?
He could say it was stolen,
theyd believe him,
the police, his friends,
there were as many
car thefts as stars.
What little breeze there is, is lukewarm,
plumb hems of curtains hardly waver,
even though windows are flung wide open
like a grandfathers arms
at the ready to scoop up
the sprightly approaching grandchild.
Dogs are not so brisk, loll in shades,
their pink tongues hang, drip.
No More Hugs
Last remnants of feminism disrobed,
discarded bras used as slingshots
by pop-shot teens, who rather slay than lay.
Men snip gold rings from their lobes,
flex muscles to stay leaders.
Its all too much for granny,
who has no outlet for her love.
In as much pain as this I am an easy touch,
easily swayed, ready to pay any sum
for some remission, and you come up with
the perfect fix, a balanced mix:
This is great, man! 60s revisited:
golden years of that cool Millennium,
flowers in the hair, beads,
two digit signs, miles of smiles
and softer tongues.
Mixing with Aliens
Temulent winebibbers jiffle
among shoppers along the High Street.
Going nowhere, they U-turn
before the throng filters to a dribble,
not wanting to be kenspeckle
to street-cleaning cops.
The sots are deadpan,
behind which, one cant help but think,
theres an autobiography
that cries for elaqueate.
A would-be bestseller, a mixture
of rhathymia and woebegoness,
but we only get to see the wrap.
Back home, huddled under arches
alongside the canal, they gongoozle;
talk little of their day out:
smell of fresh clothes, buzz of aliens.
I'm not sure whether it was right or left,
the odd trainer in my holdall,
but I do recall the song
that played while I packed.
But you don't even need to know that.
The subwoofer's tremors
along the laminated flooring
would have to be felt to set your mood.
This is where we should start:
the unpacking room,
of locker doors,
the sizing up.
Has anyone got a spare pair of eights?
No positive answers,
I would save my tears for beyond the tape,
tears, in which I'd bathe my woes.
Maybe you should know, it was
Elton John, I'm Still Standing.