Gobbo the Yobbo

I watch the scene quite hidden, a covert

Observer of this puke-provoking , fury-promoting

Spectacle of filth and dirt.

The safety of my window serves to protect me

 From this tragi-comedy.

Here comes Neanderthal Yob,

Ejecting with expert skill

The sticky, flicky lump of gob

From his blaspheming mouth, seemingly at will.

Shoulders hunched, hood up,

Scowling at the ground;

Adolescent  loathsome pup –

Never failing to amaze and astound

Me with his sure and spiteful aim.

Such vitriolic venom emits from

His cat’s-bottom mouth,

And the nicotine-stained mucous

Speeds rapidly down south

Landing on the sad, submissive

Pavement, enriching the luscious

And ancient mosaic with another youthful masterpiece

Of delicate grey and viscous phlegm.

Depressed black joggers descend with relentless

Sorrow down his skinny, undernourished spine;

His lack-of-workman’s bottom  shines

 With spotty whiteness

Against the faded gloom of washed-out Calvin Klein

Boxers, and the soles of his trainers flap

Noisily in the wind of Station Road.

Telling tales of his sexploits, his wheels

And his very shady deals.

Seven days since his last baptism

In the steamy, slimy council-grimy bathroom

Renders his darkening crevices

Rank with the overripe bloom

Of a fungal invasion.

His intense frustration

At his lack of animal magnetism

Is as evident as his

Poor digestion.

But she finds him cute,

This bouncy pink babe with the large red rose

Sprawling its way across her spongy, pale bottom,

Her lurex thong dividing its vast expanse,

The fifty pence stud glittering in her retrousse nose.

She teeters behind him, pushing the pram of desperate hope,

Wishing he would look around and remember

She existed at all.

She gives him her credit, her vouchers, her plump willing body

And her benefit money

Which he rightly deserves, in his miaow-muddled mind;

He gives her a bruise, a kid and the clap

And he thinks it’s funny

When she starts to cry

At the sheer despair of it all. But she stays.

“Cos I loves ‘im, see, like.”                 

Up the street they continue their journey,

Their unison in their warped microcosm

Almost touching in its pachydermatous pathos,

Getting smaller  and disappearing around the corner

Of  Station Road.

A symbiotic organism,

A strange elitism,

And all hope lost.

I turn away.

Mrs McDermott makes me some tea.

The Pleiades

The Pleiades Fell To Earth

Such bright and sparkling light,

so many crystalline fragments of stellar blue and white

fell to earth last night.

A Standard Explosion lit up the sky

with all the guaranteed thrill and skill of a brilliant

and divine symphonic orchestrion.

I searched the midnight sky for my sisters.

Had they rushed from their snug sorority,

their exclusive solidarity,

to blast my struggling planet with their fierce and searing fire?

Where had those shimmering siblings chosen to land?

Were they lying simmering hotly on the sands

of the indifferent Nile?

Or did their splendid spangles spin and twirl

around the hurly-burly of Pigalle’s pavements,

landing unnoticed on the arrondissment

of vibrant and hedonistic life?

But I wanted them to land on me.

I wished for a crown of fire to illuminate

my humdrum life, my tiresome, tedious and strife-driven

existence of work and care and sorrow and conscience-driven

daily grind.

I wished for some scintillating spark to ignite my

despairing mind.

I wished for the inspiration

of some other-worldly, super-human

and intuitive woman

to fill me with hope and understanding.

Tonight I look up at the midnight sky.

I sigh.

My seven sisters.

They are still there to comfort.

They never fell at all.

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Red Room

The red room closes in

And forces me out into

The silent din

Of the freezing street.

The quiet overwhelms me and

My cold ears are deafened

By the watchful, staring stars.

The snow-moussed cars

Are still, and the sliver of silver

Who calls herself a moon,

That watchful mother, that scornful other

Parent who knows me oh, so well,

Simply stares down at her shivering daughter.

I look down                          

At the twinkling  town

Where I was born, where I grew up

And branched out, blossomed and threw up

Occasionally, after a good night out

With the girls, in the Camelot,

Sir Kissalot being renamed Sir Missalot

As he stood me up for the twentieth time.

Olde English cider geared us up, providing the fire

For our hedonistic souls and the ache for our heads

In the morning.

I live on an island above the streets,

Always longing, yearning for the past,

Those years which raced away too fast.

Watching the present, but seeing the sweet

Youthful scenes, the ambitious dreams

Which came and went.

My heart lies deep in the centre of this night-time town,

Where the snow has turned to muddy brown

And people can walk and text without falling.

I can hear the drunken revellers calling

Out to each other, quarrelling

Over the last taxi, the last dance, the last kiss.

My thoughts fly swiftly over the roofs,

The sparkling, icy fields

And softly settle once more above the place which

Holds me captive.

They hover there, hoping to heal

The desire in my restless soul.

My silver cord is stretched, my furtive

Search is fruitless, the past has gone

Forever

Happily Horizontal

Happily Horizontal.

The two-faced sun beams down generously, sensuously

caressing the welcoming brown backs ,

warming them through, embracing the beach-bare bodies

in its deathly, golden heat.

dangerously inviting the multi-coloured  lesion

of death and destruction.

Piglet- pink people from Pontyrhywbeth,

their milk-white cellulite burning and tingling,

mingling unhappily with  the sleek and glossy,

candy flossy good-timers, expert tanners

and poolside piranhas.

 From the Gatwick flight, no doubt.

Long-limbed loveliness

contrasts cruelly with awkward lumpiness.

Minx-toed Mirandas wearing next-to-naughty nothing

teeter tantilisingly close to the edge of the pool,

watched with an explosive blend of seething envy

and lust, by roly-poly Rhians and Wyns with

wandering eyes

who  long to be part of that cosmic

world of Clinique, Clarins and orgasmic

salt-rub exfoliating peels,  seaweed wraps and

Jimmy Choo high heels.

But remain on their Dunelm towels,

happily horizontal, monumental mounds of

slow-cooked flesh.

Scorching nicely.

Posh, patronising accents cut through the air like polished darts,

home counties donkeys braying in the sun;

important, opinionated, loud and expensive,

lead crystal laughter tinkling and irritating

the invisible pale plumpies lying nearby.

Who do they think they are, mun?

Dripping with jewellery, glistening with glitzy gold,

these Seven Oaks sisters sparkle and dazzle,

watched by the Bont gang who are dressed to thrill

in Littlewoods’ lycra,

swiftly reddening, burnt to a frazzle.

But filled with gumption, grit and godliness.