AGE
I
Once
upon a time my cock
Was
happy as a cuckoo clock,
But
cogs of time that once renewed it
Caught
my wedding gear and chewed it.
Now
my dick’s
Forever
stopped at half past six.
Once
a resolute erection
Gave
my aimless days direction.
Now
the prick that pointed at
Tomorrow
night’s conjectured twat
Leads
the way
Down
toward the fatal clay.
Once
it brimmed with optimism,
Spouting
gouts of joy and jism,
Self-delighting,
self-annointing;
Now
this fountain’s downward pointing –
Just
a hose
Ensuring
urine clears my toes.
Once
I chanted thrilling bits
From
handbooks for Ikea kits,
Extracts
from the Highway Code,
The
shops along the Old Kent Road,
The
causes of the Civil War,
Requirements
for a leg-before,
The
workings of the off-side rule,
And
half-forgotten junk from school
To
stop me coming.
Now
women’s bits are only plumbing.
How
I shouted, ‘Praise the Lord!’
How
I came a spinal cord,
Bumping
down from Heaven’s gate,
Pumping
out my body weight,
To
hit the floor –
And
here I’ll crawl for ever more.
II
Ignore
St Paul’s, forget Big Ben,
The
Vatican’s a rabbit pen,
The
Kremlin and the Hermitage
Compared
to this a hamster cage.
No
sultan’s palace
Matters
like a happy phallus.
Yet
crabwise, crouching, clutching books
To
hide our pride from nasty looks,
We
hunch and bunch and keep well hidden
What
public transport raised unbidden.
Enough!
Unbowed
Let’s
meet the people duly proud.
Oh
see each glad commuter stands
Announcing
loudly, ‘Look, no hands,’
While
eager maidens crowding by
To
keep his tackle hard and high
(A
feather duster
Ensuring
that he passes muster)
Are
reassured
England’s
future’s thus secured.
III
Where
my wristwatch lost its mind
Where my compass needle spins
Where the squatting milestone’s blind
Where the camel’s carcass grins,
I turn each rock
Hunting for my vanished cock.
Where, across some stony slope
Roads erode and tracks unravel,
Lost and lonely pushing rope,
Herding
water, knitting gravel,
I strain to sniff one
Whiff
of my absconded stiff one.
O missing prick I’m praying that
Strong,
insistent, firm, unflagging,
Happy
in a bath of twat,
Splashing
in a swamp of shagging,
Time can’t soften
Your
aptitude for hard and often,
Age undo
Your
sempiternal urge to screw,
Years impede your
Pork
projectile, pink torpedo.
And
may no backward-looking
Sympathy
for what I’m stuck in
Obstruct your fucking.
IV
Only
another lovely woman
Of
which this town has a thousand dozen.
Only
a million London beauties,
Honeyed
cuties,
Eyeball-popping,
traffic-stopping,
Languid
at their window-shopping,
That
for me are
Only
lovely as a car.
V
A
rumble as of thunderstorms
And
London’s cunts were shut as stones.
‘Oh
for someone young to do me,’
Women
cry. And look straight through me.
‘Oh
for someone strong and nasty,’
Women
cry. And walk straight past me.
‘Oh
for something harder, bigger,’
Women
sigh. And I don’t figure.
But
I’ll endure these brief years.
I’ll
pull my hat down over my ears.
LETTER TO DEVON
Written on a Christmas
card
Here’s
hoping, Clive, they’ve stopped your dope and dole,
And
beer’s what there’s an awful lack of, Annie.
If
not, I’m sending from this northern hole
To
the land of clotted cream and black Afghani,
Of
jam and acid tabs and skinny dips,
GREETINGS
AT CHRISTMASTIME begrudged through twisted lips.
‘Sid,’
you say, ‘so tell us, how’s the weather?
Raw
we suppose, all icicles and sleet,
And
the snow, down here a swan’s shed feather,
Is
ready-blackened when it meets the street.
Cold
cracks the cobbles and the sunrise stalls,
And
dogs with lifted legs are stuck to workhouse walls.’
True.
And clearer means colder. Rivers freeze,
Running
in a tunnel under dull glass
Round
bicycle bones. We’ve teeth on the eaves
And
spiky like a bed of nails the grass.
A
low sun in a corner of the day,
As
weak as watercolour yellow, turns away.
Today
I nipped outside to grab a nice
Shovelful
of coke and nutty slack.
Instead,
with contact lenses formed of ice
And
stalactites of snot, I staggered back
To
hug the empty hearth and curse in vain
(Through
windows double-glazed with panes of frozen rain)
The
tribes of fearsome folk who crowd the town,
Who toil upstream against the level
gales,
Coughing
creatures with a barbed wire frown
And
faces like places where April fails,
Who
spring and summer through will still complain
For
the lead necklace of December days again.
Tonight
I risked my life and had a jar.
The
landlord’s wife was cheering on a fight.
Her
husband hadn’t time to tend the bar
With
helping someone set a cat alight.
It
was a girl trying to get it lit:
One
of the posher sort, the type that doesn’t spit.
I
blushed: she laughed. I shook: she bit my ear.
With
football forwards’ thighs she pressed my knee
Till
I ejaculated thus: My dear,
Your
weight is wealth, it’s like gold, like rich fee,
And
heavy as treasure your precious head.
‘Are
you trying to say I’m fucking fat?’ she said.
I
said, Oh tell me how to serve you best,
What
track to take till Time’s tread shall tire;
What
foe to fight, what golden fleece to fetch;
Tell
me, tell me, I’d win you your desire
Though
bought with crimson coins my dead head bled.
‘All
right. I’ll have a pint of bitter then,’ she said.
I
said, Oh party of my life and soul
Remove
the ticking apple of my heart
And
bite. We are one of a kind, a whole,
A
part of a heart that is never apart.
‘The
only thing we have in common,
Is
you’re a man and I’m a woman.’
So
I left, wheezing through the freezing night
Where
winds will whittle you to the white bone;
Where
the streams and the smiles are locked up tight
And
cold enchants whole bus queues into stone.
A
skull-like moon leaned over with a grin
On
suffering Sid, alone at the cold world’s rim.
But
stop: through all this summer only hides,
Waiting
where May-blooms clutch their roots and hold
And
keep the secret – Life – that still abides
Though
mean mid-winter grips, vice-cold.
I
too will clutch my root and hold and stay
And
be daft with the daffodils, dreaming of May.
It’s
a dream of how Eden begins:
Bursting
the doors of dawn on the first day,
His
whiskers filled with lightning-bolts and grins
On
green scene, flower bower, hoe-high hay,
The
lord of Devonshire mornings has come
Where
I lie, smiling at last, asleep in the sun.
ON A BIRTHDAY
I
Now
like a classic Chinese sage
I’ll
turn to verses to console old age,
Scorning
the raw disordered city
For
the true poet’s envy, spite, self-pity.
And
this is fitting for a sad old fart
Since
art itself’s a dying art
And
soon the maker’s role will be
Killed
by the Singularity –
When
supermarket checkout tills
Outdo
Rubens on our baked bean bills,
And
any bar-room stool ad libs
Dirty
jokes to crack your ribs;
The
lonely hotel guest’s beguiled
By
wardrobes wittier than Oscar Wilde,
While
every lift’s a soloist
With
better melodies than Brahms and Listz.
Yet
let our younger art creators
Lose
their jobs to elevators;
I’ll
enjoy these final days
Of
history’s temporary literary phase
In
which inflamed imagination
Strong
from pre-Web masturbation
Served
a readership who’d never seen
Pixels
flit across a screen.
For
nowadays who feels at home
Hugging
alone some droning tome
All
in immobile monochrome?
Given
the choice,
Who
but losers toil through Joyce?
What
wilderness of empty days
Drives
a man to Auden’s plays?
No
one good at outdoor games
Endures
the gruesome Henry James.
Only
folk that love forgets
Wrestle
the dreadful Four Quartets.
Of
those who groan through Wordsworth’s Prelude
High
proportions look like hell nude.
Therefore
see the world forsake
Verse
like a turbid ox-bow lake
Where
we, with self-inflicted futile duty,
Fish
the infected pit for truth and beauty.
And
this is why: beauty and truth
One
day slapped us through the gloom of youth;
Amid
our dolor, dead men’s verses
Eased
our adolescent ache like curses;
Leaving
grief we’d briefly dwell
In
walls of words where all is well,
Where
lust and fear and the world’s wrongs
Are
vented safely into songs,
And
secret teenage dreams and doubt
On
legs of lines can stride about.
So
come with me, you sorry crew
Bereft
of better things to do,
Your
lives and loves so much amiss
You’re
sitting here and reading this.
Unkillable,
the need to speak
Drives
our tireless treks that seek
Through
sumps of dullness undeterred
Borrowed
ways of being heard –
Poetry,
the perfect word.
II
I’ve
rhymed for lust, for praise, for gain
But
scribble nowadays to test my brain,
Penning
each sonnet, song or saga
For
reassurance that I’m not yet gaga.
I
might unknowingly conclude a line
With
some deluded not-quite rhyme,
Or
reach for rhymes I can’t quite hold
Like
William McGonagall pursuing his hat in a strong breeze that is also cold,
Or
like McGonagall in a Dundee tavern groping drunkenly for an exit,
Or
like some would-be humorous versifier who pictures McGonagall drowning in
the
silvery Tay and splashing blindly for the lights of a far-off shore and
thereby
hopelessly over-eggs it.
For
though extruding through our charmless youth
Clammy
voidings we confuse with truth
(The
notions trite, the rhyming hackneyed)
Comforts
us for being acnied;
And
though through deserts of our middle years
We
pump our output into Beauty’s ears
(Our
hair departs, our bellies sag,
But
handsome stanzas might secure a shag);
Yet
how much more old age
Demands
a recompense across the page:
Here
where a whip of wit confines
Our
desperation in a cage of lines;
The
rabble multitudes of rage and woe
Kicked
into regimented row on row;
Compressed,
condensed, our grief so terse is
Crystallised
at last to verses.
So
let the fact I’m balder, sadder, fatter
Tame
itself to subject matter,
Until
my life – so ill-begun,
Bungled,
fearful, left undone –
In
this false light appears
Worthy,
almost, of these sixty years.