Proper Followers

Monday, February 27, 2012

Dream - Three


concave plastic notel open both ends

the honeymoon suite for my poetry friends

efficient as a mobile home that rolls

rocks when the drunk kicks it on his way past

hums when some bum sicks up all over it

and this is home to the best poet I know

and he has holes in the soles of his shoes

and wears musty and old hand me down clothes

and he lives in a plastic pipe that rolls

he and his princess the poetess goddess

they scrawl their poetry on the concave walls

in a shared red and blue blood mixed with love

propped up against the square peg plywood door

they optimise their day writing poetry

newsprint curtains blankets street sheets scream same

the best poet in the world and his princess

the treacherous candle burning both ends

they can only dream about a hot bath

the only shower they get is the rain

out there alone but not lonely white cold


Originally posted here.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Total Recall - Post Two

It was Saturday afternoon at three o’clock when the chant went up.
Manchester Boot Boys!
And the Bovver Girls joined in, taking the bubble gum out of their mouths.
And expertly spinning it round and round and round an index finger.
Manchester Boot Girls!
They cried, flicking the sticky gum over the heads of the police line.
Towards the Rockers who gathered on the left side of the steep terrace.
The Boot Boys were a makeshift mob of Skinheads and Scooter-boys and Mods.
Most had Steelies, Hobbies and Docs on their feet and the Mods wore Oxfords.
The Bovver Girls wore Monkey Boots to the match in those days, with red socks.
And the Mods and the Skinheads and the Bovver girls all wore Crombie coats.
The Scooter-boys had Fishtail Parka’s with tin badges on the front.
They rode Lambretta’s with ‘Sex Machine’ emblazoned on the side panels.
The Greasers wore leather jackets with studs and sleeveless denim colours.
They all said that they rode Triumph Bonneville’s and six-fifty Norton’s.
The ageing Ted’s used to stand next to the Rockers on the left hand side.
The Ted’s always wore their drainpipes and winkle pickers or blue suede shoes.
When the game went quiet the Bikers would taunt the Scooter-boys like this:
‘Are you there skin?’
They would sing,
And the chant would come back,
‘Are you there Grease?
And the Rockers would laugh, giving a little wave to provoke the Mods.
‘Back to school on Monday!’
The Greaser’s would jeer.
‘Back to school on Monday!
But soon things would settle down and the whole of the Kippax Street would cheer.
When City scored a goal – everywhere, all round the ground the chant would ring.
Manchester la, la, la, la,

Manchester la, la,la, la...

This is a link to a story here about the Moss Side Stadium with pictures of The Kippax Street Stand!

The above was originally posted on my STG Bloggage in 2007

Monday, February 20, 2012

Dream - Two

dream walk
it should have been a breeze a walk
in the park but there were no trees
or grass the earth was parched dry and
sun cracked – we walked with the other
safari tourists through this place

this barren land - keeping to the
makeshift road following the tyre
tracks of a thousand 4X4’s
that come and go through this harsh land
with its hard baked sand and no wind

then we saw all the dead monkeys
piled high alongside the road
all their tails had been cut-off
why? What for? we kept on walking

on the other side of the track
an even bigger stack of dead
lion and tiger cubs rotting
but not even a bird came to
pick their bones in this desert place

moving talking amongst ourselves
until we saw them sitting there
they looked like they were dead at first
they sat there absolutely still

shuffling uncomfortably
we shuddered as we passed them by
blood spurting out from one mans nose
we can’t believe they’re still alive

a little girl on the tour said:
look daddy that man's not quite dead
but her father dragged her away
‘they haven’t killed the natives yet’

at the end of the walk there was
a stack of leather shoes and some
old cosmetics and toiletries

when we reached the safari lodge
hotel no-one wanted to eat
except one man who insisted
on tasting the monkey-tail soup.

The above was originally posted here on my STG Bloggage.

Monday, February 13, 2012

Dream - One

The following was written from a dream I had in 2007, I originally posted this piece on my SweetTalkingGuy blog for a poetry prompt: One horse powers a thousand dreams...


The Kings soldiers come in the night
kill his father, rape his mother.
'You can't make a silk purse...' they curse
as they force the pig farmers wife
one after another till dawn.

They tie the boy to a donkey
so that he has to run behind.
They ride out of the piggery,
fording the cold stream at first light.

When they are sure the boy can't read
they cut out his tongue for the dogs
and brand him with a hot iron
urinating on his fresh wound
they leave him lying there bleeding
for the camp-followers to find.

In an un-interpretable
hieroglyphic of his own hand
he scrawls his last thoughts on the wall
of the royal stable in blood:
One horse powers a thousand dreams...

At the moment I'm busy doing the February Haiku Challenge over on my SweetTalkingGuy Bloggage...

But here's something to keep you going - Round the world race!!!