London is a dancefloor

Village life is beautiful,
the locals smile and say hello,
regardless of whether they know
your name or what it is you do.

London seems unsuitable,
people frown wherever you go.
Tension is high, patience is low,
commuters tut and charge into you.

Village life feels lush and green,
even when it's wet and grey.
A teapot keeps the cold at bay,
biscuits melt with drizzling cream.

London often feels unclean,
cobwebs blow fresh air away.
Programmed staff in a chained cafe
pipe muzak on a soulless stream.

On Friday night the tide is turned,
the village yawns and hibernates.
It's time to party with my mates
in London Bridge and Leicester Square.

Village love has been adjourned
and a train to King's Cross now awaits.
The journey is long but just creates
more lust for letting down my hair.

The dancefloor is hot, location-free,
there's a carnival across the Strand.
Sleazy Soho is a one-night stand
for those who dabble with no regret.

The village pub entices me,
with a Sunday roast and a local band.
Retirement there is loosely planned
but I'm not ready for that yet.

Put a lid on it

Sometimes we need to step back,

reflect and ponder for a little bit.

Our heads and hearts may clash and crack

but will stabilise if we put a lid on it. 

Bubbles burn in a manic kettle

with steam yearning for release.

It's time to listen and help them settle

in a safe place to keep the peace.

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Widely unpublished 

Your 'song'

I hate your 'song' but I'll sing along

as I need to further my career.

I've got nothing of my own

but you do, and I have an idea.

Let's burn your beats, blitz your bass,

a tinkling piano will take their place.

Change the key, and loosely speaking 

any sense of a melody.

A charity needs a bleak soundtrack,

and my throat has the perfect crack 

to carry emotion and create the notion

that your 'song' is really mine.

You need the cash, you've had your time,

euphoric nights have come and gone.

The good news is you'll keep the credit

and thank me when I'm number one.

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Widely unpublished

Minor chord

The eeriness of a minor chord,
a strum of sadness; dark and moody.

Black keys dominate heart rate and fear
when terror and tension gradually grow.

High or low and regardless of tempo,

a minor chord is a sharp-ended warning.

Something or someone is around the corner 
but who or what, we may never know.

A minor chord can be a snapshot of peace,

lost in thought in a spiritual space. 

One or two notes are jigsawed in place

to thaw any angst when it threatens to roar. 

Maybe it's thunder or a menacing sunset,

a subtle rhythm, creeping and crawling,

deep underneath its ubiquitous fret,   

a minor chord is beautiful and never boring.

The bald revolution

Look at you, Mr Kajagoogoo,
you're back in the 80s but not by choice.
It's time for baldies everywhere
to rejoice at the sight of sprouting hair.

You look like an unbulbed lampshade,
a thatched cottage with years of neglect.
We've stolen the scissors, blades, clippers,
your scalp is choking beyond repair.

Furious flicks, the stress of not knowing,
rumours of a shampoo shortage are growing.
The strenuous shakes as your curtains close,
every day will be hide and seek.

To think you used to mock and squeak
as you rubbed my head then ran away.
Now my glorious bonce is a gift from God,
the bald revolution is here to stay.

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Hand relief

Turn me on and watch me gush,
raise the pressure, feel the pleasure.
Tender rubbing, there's no need to rush,
so oscillate at your leisure.

Keep me running, keep me going,
Keep me coming, keep me flowing.
Wow, what a splash, I like your style,
haven't felt one like that for a while.

But there's no room for complacency,
so be pro-active and use protection.
Remember, I have many clients
so you need to practise regularly.

No reluctance, no defiance,
because even if I kill every germ
I can't confirm they won't reattack
so don't be a stranger, I need you back.

The coolest couple

We'll be the coolest couple,

married on a cold, calculated date,

looped in a palindromic calendar,

to-and-fro at a robotic rate.

A triumphant strategy so oh-so-clever

that no-one will turn up on this day.

No cake, no speeches, no first dance,

no father to give the bride away.

We'll be the first item on the news,

I see what you did there, they'll say.

It will all go viral, millions of views 

back and forth and round again.

Good luck to those robots in 3030

who spot what we did in 2020.

Earth will be eerie and at least half-empty,

the planet singed and fucked by then.

Nice title, shame about the poem

Handwritten on a tea-stained page,
nothing worked at any stage.

Every angle was explored,
from wacky to tacky, rant to raised eyebrow,

ponderous, with a senseless stream of consciousness.

A series of haikus left me suppressed
so I tried modern free verse instead. here

Let's place a random word over

with

peculiar

gaps

to make it unclear.

That just made it worse,

even though I liked it at first

as some would take it seriously;

but pretentious bollocks is not for me.
If I had a studio this would be torn
to shreds and scattered on the cutting room floor.

But I don't so it won't be.

You turn me on when you turn me down

I don't need magazines or online porn,
just a photo of you with an awkward smile.
My bedroom door will be locked for a while
as I fantasise about your rejection.

You shake your head and it gives me the horn,
the way you sigh in sweet sympathy.
But I'm a sucker for your negativity;
that frown, those eyes are pixel perfection.

I'm on the border of a restriction order
as I spot your joy with someone new.
He responds with a defiant finger;
hang on, he looks just like me!

So in your mind I will always linger,
trapped but relaxed inside you.
He'll be crying when you turn him down;
it's a triumphant moral victory.

Image: Carly Rozman

Magic Monday

The receptionist is an exhibitionist,
strutting herself along her desk,
with a picturesque peacock dress
as entry cards buzz and staff pour in.

Loopy lifts bounce from level to level,
the stairs are a backwards escalator.
A thousand cokes and coffees later,
there's breakdancing on the kitchen floor.

Laptops crash in spectacular fashion,
with a firework feast for the powers-that-be,
who wave their waistcoats in ecstasy,
as slideshows explode with fun-fuelled passion.

The funky fire alarm relentlessly bleeps
with rave-like beats that crave vertigo.
But no-one leaves and no-one sleeps;
why should they? It's snoozeday tomorrow.

Insects

Wherever I go, insects follow,
slurping on my vulnerable skin.
It's a punishing swell, I'm itching like hell,
with bruises blossoming and ballooning within.

Wherever I go, insects swallow
my succulent blood with no conscience or fear.
Whether up here or somewhere down there,
picturesque patterns and rashes appear.

Wherever I go, insects bring sorrow,
mocking my lack of fight at great length.
The tiniest bite gives my body a fright,
sapping whatever remains of my strength.

But all will turn on its head tomorrow
when I stagger to buy antihistamine cream.
Watch out you bastards, I'm going to get plastered
and poison your evil and venomous scheme.

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