Please Prove You Are Not a Robot

I make mistakes

I rarely do as I am told

I am unreliable

Circuit training is done in the gym

Not the workshop

I need a mechanic for my car

Not my body

I hate repetitive tasks

I only wear silver

On Abba tribute nights

When I see a robot

I don’t need to ask

For verification

I know

But I wonder what it would be like

All the same

March

Dead Pop Stars

It has come to my attention that the calibre of dead pop stars,
And their deaths,
Is not what it once was.
I just thought that I should mention
That it is my intention to point out that
Whitney was not the greatest
Or rather that her greatest was in fact Dolly Parton’s.
If greatness is measured by a capacity to consume alcohol, crystal meth, cocaine and downers – then she is of course up there
Yet that is overlooked by record company execs, who expect
To increase product prices,
And ignore all the vices ,
Of the deceased
To keep them in alcohol, crystal meth, downers and cocaine
Just the same – ironic isn’t it?
Or was that Alanis Morrissette?

Taking waiting to exhale just a little too seriously,
A life slipped by as it sank beneath the cooling bath waters of a Beverley hills suite
As if being baptised into a holy sect for those for whom a premature death is the ultimate encore

Amy Winehouse lived her surname , rather than the dream and just two albums into a career,
Dusty Springfield would have turned that out in a year,
She is now feted because she has been “lated”
Why? Because of her great output? No
Because she did it, the rock n roll suicide which we love to watch,
But not participate in, or die of, we stop short
For celebrity death is a spectator sport


Michael Jackson’s doctor is now in jail just for giving his fans what they wanted, fifty shows in London from a body too frail to cope, too riddled with dope
The greatest black dancer ever, apart from Sammy Davis Jnr, the greatest black singer apart from Marvin Gaye, the greatest performer apart from James Brown, the greatest entertainer, apart from Nat king Cole ,even in death they cannot live up to the standards we set them in life. More -Is That It? Than This is it

Because rock n roll death is not what it used to be,
When it came, Buddy Holly had to be brought down in a plane,
John Lennon gunned down, to stop them,
But hey both won fame, for what they had achieved

Jim Morrison completed a life’s work in a summer,
Three decades it took Joe Strummer
Before checking out
Jimi Hendrix defined an instrument, no doubt,
Before saying “beat that” not “beat it” – forty years on no-one has

We expect too much, and accept too little
From departed lips coated with drying spittle
Not a purple coloured haze, just a purple coloured hearse
An ignominious demise which confirms the worst
Aspects of dead pop stars bad taste
Proof beyond the grave of talent laid waste
And that in your quest for immortality
You’ll need more than your funeral played on MTV.


Undeleted Texts

They scroll, falling as tears
There is no GPS tag
But I can remember the location
Each time my phone pulsed

Tantalising snippets
Of what once was
My replies remembered
But unrecorded

Saved to my soul
Not just my memory
I reread, searching
For a nuance, unnoticed

Neatly date ordered
They can be summoned
At the press of a key
In perpetuity


You can edit them
If you want
Reconsider a reply
Be wise after the event

Punctuation
And abbreviation
Can mislead
Sometimes

You can press send
But never recall
You can read
Or just delete

But never again
Will my heart
Miss a beat
At that bleep

Please Prove You Are Not a Robot

I make mistakes
I rarely do as I am told
I am unreliable
Circuit training is done in the gym
Not the workshop
I need a mechanic for my car
Not my body
I hate repetitive tasks
I only wear silver
On Abba tribute nights
When I see a robot
I don’t need to ask
For verification
I know
But I wonder what it would be like
All the same


The Captain’s Column

I ‘d just like to say on behalf of the lads how gutted we were about last week
And the week before that, I suppose, heaven knows
The manager could not even talk to us at the interval- he said we were that bad.
I can count on the fingers of one hand ten games where we’ve caused our own downfall
But despite all that our league position is awful
The game is about goals
And scoring early on is important, especially when the opposition has scored even earlier,
And their forwards are bigger and better and burlier

The big man has been producing too little and the little man hasn’t been making himself big
But I suppose that is something you can tell
As you yell, from the stands close racked
Where every single seat is packed
If you were a mole on the wall of the dressing room
You will hear me say just one thing to the lads before today’s game, concentrate and focus.
We will have to start the way we mean to begin

Some of you have questioned whether I should still be captain
But I tell you this , I will walk away when my legs go
I need to be on the pitch, but you will get you goals from me whether I am on the pitch. or the bench.
I almost laid on a goal last week, it was only a yard away from being an inch perfect pass
Some have asked why I didn’t play as well for England as I do for the club, well its tricky, I know its irrational but when you play for your country, you’re playing against eleven internationals .



But football isn’t just about scoring goals it’s about winning
The two M’s, movement and positioning
Some people were unhappy with last week’s goal less draw, but there are goalless draws, and goalless draws, and this was a goalless draw, as you saw
I woke up having sleepless nights about that one
Six inches either side of the post and it would have gone in
Sometimes you win
And sometimes you lose
But the tide is very much in our court now,
And before the opposition we will never bow.

"You can't do better than go away from home and getting a draw."
Our new forward needs a break, he is a good goal scorer, not a natural born one - not yet. That takes time.
A game, or two, or maybe nine
It's nice for us to have a fresh face in the camp to bounce things off.
He dribbles a lot and the opposition don't like that - you can see it all over their faces
When we play at their places




But back to today, I would just like to say that If history is going to repeat itself
I should think we can expect the same thing again.
If it stays as it is I can't see it altering

It can be tough out there, I swear
You're on your own , with ten mates , awaiting the fickle finger of fate
We don't underestimate them - they might just be better than we think.
And win lose or draw I want you to know you will not be hoodwinked, that the shirts hang together, we win together, and we lose together ,I don’t blame individuals, I blame myself.

Thank you and enjoy the game.


The Launderette

Spinning ,whirring muck and grime
Rotates in sequenced synchronised time
Hypnotising and mesmerising
Drum beat thud, falling rising

Amidst a steamy warm fug
Muttered murmuring momentarily rises
Over the incessant hubbub drone
From those from washing machine-less homes
The drama of the cleansing of stains spots and blotches
Whilst the ghost of Dot Cotton sharply watches


Spinning ,whirring muck and grime
Rotates in sequenced synchronised time
Hypnotising and mesmerising
Drum beat thud, falling rising


And souls too come to expiate
Pound coins proffered to striated slots
As complete strangers lean over and tell the lot
Strange stories far too wild to be true
That matter to them but not to you
A life played out in a wash rinse cycle
Of bold strategies hung out to dry
Recounted with a wistful sigh


Spinning ,whirring muck and grime
Rotates in sequenced synchronised time
Hypnotising and mesmerising
Drum beat thud, falling rising


Bags sit in rows carefully prepared
By colour and fabric from disaster spared
Abandoned to the service wash, whilst those with time
Stare transfixed ,in perfect lines
And middle aged ladies close their eyes and dream
Of Nick Kamen coming in and removing his jeans


Spinning ,whirring muck and grime
Rotates in sequenced synchronised time
Hypnotising and mesmerising
Drum beat thud, falling rising

This is Not a Love Poem

Sometimes love resists fate;
The new boy on the adjacent aisle,
Sits on a distant far off isle,
Too far to swim.

Joint studies converge eager minds,
Poring over school essays,
May not help cupid’s assays,
To prevail, this time.

Living in college,
Above and downstairs,
Yet blankness still stares,
Between them,

Till alone,
Both well read,
Sink a bottle of red,
And love ripens.

On the eve of Valentine’s Day,
As passion heavily weighs,
He suggested a parting of ways,
To see his mother.



Chantelle- (Composed for the Dome Limericks charity initiative)

Chantelle was a talented stripper
Whose fine act strained many a zipper
But she experienced hassle
With flying loose tassles
Though gents continued to tip her.

February

After Dark- Version

It fades. The discolouration.
Grazed skin heals, cream and powder help

The blows tend to fall in different places
In patchwork pattern.

But sometimes, when bruised skin
Is struck again, the clenched fist is exquisite

Repetition comforts in nihilistic sedation
A supine acquiescence to specious predation

Anaesthetising the ache of savage fate
Dull thud


Of impossible horizons and crushed hopes
Swept by an ebb tide.


Reverie

If you close your eyes
You are not there
The air can smell sweet
Drawn by puffed lungs
Unencumbered

Dreams can unpick locked doors
And scale the highest fences
You stroll unnoticed along empty beaches
Consumed by a hazy horizon


Smouldering kisses, not rage, unleashed
In desperate embrace

With lids tightly shut
Bare glare is lost
Struggle won

Sunk, hunched and broken
In limp despair
If you close your eyes
You are not there


Reverie- Version

If you close your eyes
The air can smell sweet
Drawn by puffed lungs
Unencumbered

Dreams can unpick locked doors
In unfettered abandon
You stroll unnoticed along empty beaches
Consumed by a hazy horizon


Smouldering kisses, not rage, unleashed
In desperate embrace
With lids tightly shut
Bare glare is lost


Sunk, hunched, in silent prayer

If you close your eyes
You are not there



Cafe Ort

Where ink once mixed in chemical alchemy
Folk and ideas now flow
They come and go
In babbling chatter
Of this and that
Of what does and doesn’t matter

Some talk of Plato
Others of Descartes
Or come just to think
But not of ink, anymore

To pontificate, about who or what they rated
Whilst hunger and thirst are satisfyingly sated
Did the Sexy Weirdos live up to their name last night?
Was Johnny Kowalski a bit of alright?

Or did he pass beyond vanishing point?

Transience

Let me tiptoe on the spray of swollen surf
Or bake in the momentary imprint of soft sand
As it cradles my inert corpse

May circling gulls swoop to peck my glazed eye balls
Whilst nimble crabs nibble loose flesh
Salted by a whispering breeze

Drawing my exhaled breath beyond
So that it may touch far off shores
Before being absorbed into oblivion

As the incoming tide bites ever closer
Tenderly tickling before full embrace
May it bear my spent frame easily

That limp limbs should not snag
Nor matted hair drag
During my journey on the ebb

May my bones be stripped
Before they are engulfed
In sedimentary permanence.

At Home With God

Inspired by Richard Frost

“How many times do I have to tell you lot to stop that fighting?
Can’t you sort your own problems without dragging Me into it
And, expecting Me to take sides?
If I have to come down there again, I’ll smite the lot of you!”
And It won’t be a messenger, this time, it will be the real thing

And Mankind answered unto the Father:
“God – It’s so unfair!, He started it!, I didn’t ask to be born!”
Some, with real existential angst, said
“You can’t tell us what to do, You’re not even our real dad!”
And there was much wailing, and gnashing of teeth.
And mighty was the wrath of the Lord
“As long as you live under My roof, You’ll do as you’re told!
When you’ve got your own place you can do as you bloody well like!
And while we’re at it, stop treating this place like a hotel
Making a mess everywhere and ruining things
Organising floods, earthquakes and famine, is a real pain
I’m not a miracle worker, you know.”


And, muttering something under his breath
About how they’d all be better off without him,
God went out into his potting shed
Where he could have some peace.
And the Almighty contemplated unto Himself:
Okay, He wasn’t perfect. He never seemed to be around when they needed Him,
But hey ,He worked a six day week
And He couldn’t be everywhere at once.
Besides, He had other things to think about:
He still hadn’t got round to fixing that hole in the roof
And now He had to figure out what to do with all the polar bears~
When the ice caps melted,
Then there was loss of habitat for Panda’s,
Edinburgh zoo was no solution.
Christmas is always mad, especially at midnight, Easter is 72 hours non-stop, and what other business would offer an eternal forgiveness service on demand? And , for the record, I find transubstantiation a little spooky.
So he switched his mobile to the messaging service
Whilst Man looked in disbelief, at all the grief, and turmoil in the world;
The anguish of families torn apart by war,
Children suffering through famine and disease, but what for?
When all they wanted to do was please
And such was their despair
They fell onto their knees
And turned to prayer, calling out to God
“Lord, are you there watching over us,
Where are you when disaster strikes?
Do you really care? Are you still there?
And this was God’s message:
Your call is being held in a queue.
Please hold and salvation will be with you as soon as possible.
However, if you require approval for wars, please press one
If you want forgiveness for something I told you not to do in the first place, press two, if you want to make a payment, of a goat or virgin , press three, if you are thinking of leaving the Faith, please wait.

But Mankind couldn’t wait
Lord, we’ve held on for long enough;
We look on helplessly ,and see,
Those who have more than they need
Taking from those who cannot even feed ~
Themselves.
The regimes of tyrants, oppressing the weak
Cannot be, what you seek,
Whilst the poor fight for the wealthy.
What can be done to free us from this slavery?

And this was God’s message:
Your plight is important to us.
Please continue to hold
And your prayers will be answered ~
As soon as an angel is available.
Mankind wailed: Lord hear our pleas”
And this was God’s message:
Due to overwhelming demand at this time
We are experiencing a high level of calls.
You may wish to try again later,
Or continue to hope.

Dead Pop Stars

It has come to my attention that the calibre of dead pop stars,
And their deaths,
Are not what they once were.
I just thought that I should mention
That it is my intention to point out that
Whitney was not the greatest
Or rather that her greatest was in fact Dolly Parton’s.
If greatness is measured by a capacity to consume alcohol, crystal meth, cocaine and downers – then she is of course up there
Yet that is overlooked by record company execs, who expect
To increase product prices,
And ignore all the vices ,
Of the deceased
To keep them in alcohol, crystal meth, downers and cocaine
Just the same – ironic isn’t it?
Or was that Alanis Morrissette?

Taking waiting to exhale just a little too seriously,
A life slipped by as it sank beneath the cooling bath waters of a Beverley hills suite
As if being baptised into a holy sect for those for whom a premature death is the ultimate encore

Amy Winehouse lived her surname , rather than the dream and just two albums into a career,
Dusty Springfield would have turned that out in a year,
She is now feted becuae she has been “lated”
Why? Because of her great output? No
Because she did it, the rock n roll suicide which we loved to watch,
But not participate in, or die of, we stop short
For celebrity death is a spectator sport


Michael Jackson’s doctor is now in jail just for giving his fans what they wanted, fifty shows in London from a body too frail to cope, too riddled with dope
The greatest black dancer ever, apart from Sammy Davis Jnr, the greatest black singer apart from Marvin Gaye, the greatest performer apart from James Brown, the greatest entertainer, apart from Nat king Cole even in death they cannot live up to the standards we set them in life

Because rock n roll death is not what it used to be,
When it came, Buddy Holly had to be brought down in a plane,
John Lennon gunned down to stop them,
But hey both won fame, for what they had achieved

Jim Morrision completed a life’s work in a summer,
Three decades it took Joe Strummer
Before checking out
Jimi Hendrix defined an instrument, no doubt,
Bbefore saying “beat that” not “beat it” – forty years on no-one has

We expect too much, and accept too little
From departed lips coated with drying spittle
Not a purple coloured haze, just a purple coloured hearse
An ignominious demise which confirms the worst
Aspects of dead pop stars bad taste
Proof beyond the grave of talent laid waste
And that in your quest for immortality
You’ll need more than your funeral played on MTV.



Undeleted Texts

They scroll, falling as tears
There is no GPS tag
But I can remember my location
Each time my phone pulsed

Tantalising snippets
Of what once was
My replies remembered
But unrecorded

Saved to my soul
Not just my memory
I reread, searching
For a nuance, unnoticed

Neatly date ordered
They can be summoned
At the press of a key
In perpetuity



You can edit them
If you want
Reconsider a reply
Be wise after the event

Punctuation
And abbreviation
Can mislead
Sometimes

You can press send
But never recall
You can read
Or just delete

But never again
Will my heart
Miss a beat
At that bleep

January

Chuggers

They stake their place in the thoroughfare
Allowing just enough space for folk to pass
Begging permission :“If I could just ask?”

Memorised lines splatter in random rhythm
Multiple hooks hopefully cast
Their plaintiff plea:” If I could just ask?”

Seeking a tentative tantalising bite
A cause reheated behind the mask
Excuse me sir: “If I could just ask?”

They lurch, puppets in programmed dance
Rehearsed bonhomie blazing fast
Miming the words: “If I could just ask?”

Trying to break your thousand yard stare
Of insouciant indifference to their task
Their prey silently imploring “Please don’t ask”

Lost in Lace

In the fine embroidery
In pretty patterns
That beautify
Disguise and seduce
Swirling patterns restricted
Within angular lines
Which cannot be contained
Perfectly framed



The Slope of Hope


Climb
Raise your eyes
Dare to soar
Then teeter
Slip slide glide
Down perfect lines
Don’t stop
To ask “Y”
Hurtle
Into the unknown
Over the edge
Throw your soul
Off the precipice
Your body
Will follow

After Dark

It fades. The discolouration.
Grazed skin heals, cream and powder help

The blows tend to fall in different places
Offering some respite, if required.

But sometimes, when bruised skin
Is struck again, the clenched fist is exquisite

Repetition comforts in nihilistic sedation
A supine acquiescence to specious predation

When anticipation is the only justification
For staying. A vindication

Of impossible horizons and crushed hopes
Swept by an ebb tide.

Oats and Desserts

This is the last in a trilogy of call and response poems, inspired by the work of Amy Rainbow, to whom I am indebted:

Oats- by Amy Rainbow

I met him when I was working
In a greasy spoon cafe
He said it was fate that he’d met me
That things often turn out that way
That just when you’ve given up looking
You could meet the girl of your dreams
And the woman you’ve searched half your life for
Is right on your doorstep, it seems

He was funny and drop-dead gorgeous
Called me flower and angel and pet
He asked for my mobile number
But Siobhan said to play hard to get
And Joanna said don’t trust a trucker
They’ve a woman in every town
Take your time, take it slow, get to know him
To make sure that he won’t let you down

He came in twice a week for his porridge
And he did have the gift of the gab
But he swore he was ready to settle
Was too old now to play Jack the Lad
His sweet-talking charm won me over
And I said I’d go out on a date
But there’d been some delay at the depot
So he got to the pub an hour late.

We got on like a house on fire
And when it was time to go home
He insisted on coming to my place
Didn’t want me to walk on my own
So of course he came in for coffee
And he ended up staying all night
Then he asked me for porridge for breakfast
Cause he knew that I’d make it just right

He told me that I was his soul mate
That the bond that we has was unique
That he wanted to make a commitment
Could he move all his stuff in next week?
And oh, how I loved all the cuddles
How I swooned at his dreamy blue eyes
He assured me he’d always be faithful
And he promised me he’d tell me no lies.

I liked having someone to care for
And I did all I could so he’d stay
Did he washing and cooking and ironing
And I gave him his oats every day
He told me that I was his princess
So I treated him just like a King
But he gave me no silver to speak of
He was saving it all for a ring

When they offered him long distance haulage
He called it a stroke of luck
But I started to miss all the cuddles
As he’d sleep overnight in his truck
It’s not easy to hold it together
When your partner’s away half the time
But he swore that if he could he’d be with me
And he vowed that his heart was all mine.

Siobhan said that I deserved better
With my looks and my rains and soft heart
That he treated me worse than a doormat
Disrespected me straight from the start
He’d have cut down his shifts if I’d told him
But it wasn’t my place to ask
So I’d lovingly cook him his porridge
Send him off with his oats in a flask

Then this woman rang early one morning
Said she had something urgent to say
She told me that she was expecting
That my Jack had been playing away
I felt sick with the humiliation
Oh the shame of it oh the despair
Through the whole of our eighteen months courtship
He’d been getting his oats elsewhere

Siobhan said she had seen it all coming
And so did my boss and my folks
They said it was weird and unhealthy
The obsession he had with his oats
That’s the last time I fall for a player
My heart’s battered and tattered and torn
I shall give up on men altogether
And I’m going to marry Siobhan


Oats and Desserts – by Gary Longden

I met her when I was driving
At a greasy spoon cafe
I had my routine of pit stops
A different one for every day
Love had never been very kind to me
More nightmares than the girls of my dreams
But the new girl Jane smiled as she poured
Offering more than refreshment it seemed

The haulage game is notorious
For waitresses giving you the eye
Playing with honest men’s affections
Even though there are plenty of fish to fry
Joanne and Siobhan teased and giggled
As they tossed my breakfast hash brown
I played it cool and collected
So tired of being let down

I always have liked my porridge
Jane would give me just a little bit more
I buy it regularly each morning
She would wink , well you know the score
Flirting teasing and chatting,
Invariably making me late
So I vaccumed my cab specially like
Before we went out on a date

She was pretty and funny, a bit of a laugh
And when it was time to go home
She said that she was frightened by the dark
So we walked back together and not on her own
She loosened a few buttons as she asked me in
With a knowing look and a lustful grin
Next morning when I left unwrapping our coats
I departed as a man who had already had his oats

We shared the same interests ,
The same music the same bands
And when she kissed me gently
I was putty in her hands
She was sexy and tactile
The sweetest of fates
She liked Marvin Gaye
And we became soul mates

Her domestic routine was quite curious
Formica surfaces always wiped down
With vinegar and salt sachets perfectly placed
Paper napkins placed carefully around
Her housekeeping was quite excellent
But there was a problem , it was just that
Although a goddess in the kitchen
Her hair always reeked of stale fat

The foul aroma was quite overpowering
The stench it irritated and irked
So when the boss asked for volunteers
I opted for long distance work
Yes the long nights can be quite lonely
A test to stay faithful and true
Particularly when I discovered that on night stops
Siobhan had started to work too

Siobhan said that I deserved better
With my looks and my brains and soft heart
That Jane was mocking me behind my back
And had been right from the start
She said that she had a plan
That backstabbing inevitably hurts
And that although Jane was alright with oats
She was the best with desserts

Ringing Jane , she disguised her voice
The betrayal was too much to bear
How desserts had then led to afters
And now there was a little one there
He felt sick with the awkwardness of it
Choosing between them , it just wasn’t fair
Yet throughout the last eighteen months
He’d been getting his oats, everywhere…..

Winter

Snow
Falling
Thick and fast
Ever whiter
Till all trace of man simply disappears

Ice
Gripping
The frozen lake
In winters tight vice
While children slip and slide in abandon

Feast
Table
Sags heavy
Heady aroma intoxicating
As diners wait in anticipation


Gifts
Waiting
Under green fir
Wrapped tightly with care
Torn asunder in joyous excitement

The Shepley Lion

Stalking as it has done for millennia
It prowls the warm Pennine hillside
Evading human eyes

Scourge of ancient homesteads
His cunning admired
His strength feared

From Birdsedge to Holmfirth
They talk of him, and the Golden Cradle
Buried in Round Wood

Where the circle of the dead lies
Waiting to give up its secrets
For a price

Patrolling at dusk, in the shadows
It is a price none are willing
To pay

It is said that some evenings
At the Cask & Spindle
Its growl may still be heard

A warning to all who seek ancient secrets
A reminder of forgotten powers
And the past

Still, the Shepley Lion
Has us
In his thrall