Biography

An often tragi-comic take on the modern day from a disaffected, young, unpublished novice. Feedback of any kind appreciated.

Samples

"The Honourable Gentlemen"

Encouraged in rapacity,
so learned in audacity
with tongues full of vivacity,
aware of their capacity
to maintain much opacity,
adapting all veracity:

the average of the mean provides a change of scene
to the dominant location.

Ignoring all proclivity
the house dictates activity
secured from negativity
with pure public passivity
in self-imposed captivity
taxed for MPs’ festivity,

excused as fully just when people put their trust
in men and this true vocation.

With statements of pomposity,
beliefs full of porosity,
such serious jocosity
they share fake generosity
and escape curiosity
with well-rehearsed verbosity:

to find a way to mask any problems is a task
that ends in prolonged ovation.

The principal temerity
lies in the false sincerity
when the truth meets asperity
so zealous in severity
forgotten for posterity
with lack of such dexterity.

Some characters still meet at the corners of the street
but fail to receive quotation.

The game requires virility,
with dubious nobility.
Few recognise senility,
unconscious in docility,
just dormant in hostility
and consequent humility,

yet he of clearer sight can become even a knight
with a wise well-placed donation.

To realise that insanity,
political urbanity,
and bias mix in vanity
brings charges of profanity.
Hierarchical humanity
is overlooked inanity,

and though it may seem strange, this world will never change,
but there is truth for notation.

Intentions of validity
descend into stupidity,
corrupted with rapidity
as power gains fluidity
and grows into putridity
when curdled by acidity.

Taxation becomes theft when a nation’s right and left
reach government in rotation.

A modernised antiquity,
a vagueness in obliquity,
a blend of forms of equity,
prioritised propinquity
claims capital ubiquity
in a den of iniquity,

but ultimately true is the sophistic view
with enough skill in oration.





"Working class lad. Redbrick University."

Startin ter miss ‘ome n y’know yer ‘eart is pangin,
den posh gits are groupin up togeva gangin
up on us like, not banter – proper ‘aranguin.
Soz if I don’t fancy a puddin wi meringue in
n dese nights out ain’t exactly bangin,
not wiyout me mates. I’m jus endin up ‘angin
around in me room or on me lasses’ landin
wi all dese “better folk”, jus not understandin
why an accent ‘as to lower social standin,
cus I’ve ‘ad to do more to get me ‘and in
when all me mates are buildin, plumbin, sandin
doin proper jobs, needed jobs. And in
t’cold light o’ day all dese folk I feel like stranglin
are less than us. Dat’s at what I’m anglin.




"18:26"

On the 111, to catch 68
as monotonous routine now demands
and I’m just on time for the one that’s late.
I sit and watch drivers wave tattooed hands.

Back in the game, a wild cat now grown tame
I pass time picking the wheat from the chaff.
I’ve lost that old flame, but that’s not a shame
as I don’t want any back at my gaff.

Now, though, things are becoming exciting,
her boyfriend initiates eye-contact.
These very words, in my head, I’m writing
despite his offered non-verbal contract

but they depart as we cross the river,
I turn to see another place gone bust.
No doubt the shop floor will feel a shiver
whilst the boss remains rich. It’s so unjust.

We move on, stopping outside a bazaar
and a young lady is refused entry,
What - instantly raised prices? How bizarre,
they’re fixed. Where’s the good old-fashioned gentry?

I step in to do the girl a favour,
she’s having no luck trying to barter
so I pay. I taste his racist flavour:
I’m now accused of being a martyr.

He knew that she couldn’t speak our lingo;
his plan failed when I offered her relief.
Now old ladies are made late for bingo,
of course they blame me for all of their grief;

ignoring the driver, at me they scowl.
They’ve clearly forgotten Sunday’s teaching,
I lose my rag and I begin to growl,
dishing out my own fair share of preaching.

I move and I hear lads mumble ‘paki’;
she’s the reason that all of them are skint,
but they’ve just boasted of Faliraki,
which is in itself a tremendous hint:

they’ll afford sun, lager and a floozy
but poverty is what their main lad moots.
I can’t help feeling that they’re just choosy:
richer than her, but only when it suits.

I sigh and put it down to our era,
the power of certain sections of news.
To their stop we must be edging nearer,
I can’t say that I’ll miss their relayed views.

Right then, I saw society splinter.
Put it down to times of desperation.
I only hope this is a hard winter
before spring and renewed motivation,

or I’ll have to decide where the blame lies,
which seems to be, just now, too big a task.
Exactly who is it I should despise?
Just who is it that I should even ask?

Where they one-off or more regular scenes?
Perhaps it’s easier just to pretend.
These times must clearly be some kind of means,
but I want to know to whom, and what end?

The bus now passes the allotment grounds,
we’re all just killing time until we’re free
we think, but we’re all just doing the rounds:
there’s nothing else. Or so it seems to me.



"Living the Dream"

Paolo and Susie dance so well in tandem
and I do not mean to blow a gasket,
but all of their eggs are in this basket:
failure will push them over the edge.
Here is the thin end of the wedge
with an instance that’s less and less random.

Naomi’s got soul, and boy is she classy,
she’d not be out of place in any headline.
She sings with heart like a young Shirley Bassey,
but she’s yet to make it, she’s still on the breadline.
She tries to cling to tales of rags to riches
whilst she strips off to meet her monthly deadline.
She’ll tolerate the shouts of ‘slags’ and ‘bitches’
incessantly trying to make it down her said line.

Leo has only ever wanted to act,
he dreams of being James Dean or Steve McQueen,
but they were part of a different generation.
He’ll have to keep his side of a sexual pact
if he wants to make it to the silver screen,
but he won’t be the only one to suffer penetration.

And there was a young man from Stoke,
a very talented bloke,
he sang loud with pride,
but did a bit on the side
and now he’s doing time for coke.

He needed alternative dosh:
his wallet was under the cosh
whilst he was unsigned,
his lifestyle declined
postponing the chance to be posh.

**********

Don’t tell them they’re just a flash in the pan,
they’ll get their 15 minutes, man,
somehow, one way or another; by hook or by crook.
Stiff competition for chances, and they only need one,
to know that ‘The Show Must Always Go On’:
a statement on the cover on the book of bad luck.






"Subliminal Criminal"

Shown ter be a criminal
as fer them it’s just subliminal,
I’ve a record less than minimal
but still most men and women’ll
judge us in an ‘oody, n begrudge the fact I study.

This top’s all smudged n muddy. Don’t ‘old but nudge,
my buddy, ‘old yer grudge n I won’t budge: I know I am a goody.

I’m not a bloody villain whilst I’m list’nin to Dylan,
but I’m dead if looks could kill n
I’m stuck, quite a way off this passing Merc,
that company perk
she books, as I go ‘ome from work.
This doesn’t irk me, but what does is if they shirk
me n be snotty,
especially hottie top totty
off out, they might not see a culture vulture
but the iPod’s Pavarotti.

A to B’s big mileage – why be stylish?
It teks a while. I ‘old the bile if they try to rile me.
I try my best to smile, me.
Languishin in anguish n shortcuts n bust guts,
yet bus door shuts. Call me nuts,
still I’d rather be stuck in mine than your ruts, no buts.





"Money"

The sign says stand in line to pay your fine and mine.
Make dull pennies shine
so then they can wine and dine their golden shrine,
but don’t you dare opine when cheques bounce,
different amounts, effort by the ounce – finances all trounced
with empty accounts.
Where’s the money, honey-bunny?
Very funny. Oh well, hard-sell: I tell about my hell, of how I fell, but to avoid the cell I crawl back under my shell.

That’s swell.
I try to be passionate about my account with no cash in it.
Been laid off but not paid off.
Overdraft? Don’t be daft, there’s always hard graft!
How he laughed. He’s suited and booted, definitely commuted, the rest’s convoluted, except he wants me muted
and it’s easy to see that he don’t care an’ that…
the bourgeoisie to my proletariat.

Compromise wants for needs, follow the paper’s new leads,
do good deeds, don’t bite the hand that feeds.
Work hard at high speed but never succeed.
Jealousy and heresy with the muscle for the hustle and bustle. Feel the pinch, lose over an inch
but try not to flinch with this bunch as they lynch.
No such thing as a free lunch, and feel the hunch there’ll be no numbers to crunch.

Oh no: cash-flow no-go, no-show.
Still though, I owe, need dough, repossessed stereo – oh hello? Low blow, y’know?
But I’m so-so.
New job, a few bob, key fob,
baked beans on the hob,
all boo-hoo-sob.
‘Shut your gob’ say the profit and loss mob.
Boss is a knob… I’ve got to rob; end of.

Jail: can’t afford bail.
Out, but you feel frail, you rue the ale,
everything’s for sale, it’s all beyond the pale.
Sleep outside when it’s blowing a gale,
in rain or hail, never find your holy grail.
Know what it means to fail, but live to tell the tale.

Body sold, now grown old, walls with mould,
not so bold when you lose the one you used to hold.
It was foretold, but still you feel yourself grow cold
when you’ve lost sleep due to no gold,
when you’re a lost sheep with no fold.

Hard-up. Screw up, brew up, coughed up, packed up, messed up but buck up, get dressed up, suck up,
allow them to be stuck-up and things may look up,
just don’t become a f…
victim of circumstance, you should always have at least one chance to start again, but who knows when?

Real relevance to working outside in the elements,
or the office scandal of being this vandal, it’s too much to handle. I can waste time conspiring about the firing and hiring
but it’s tiring. When given the sack instead of daily bread I can only wish that red and black hadn’t turned black to red.

More sorrow, today, tomorrow. Beg, steal or borrow, how’s that for clarity? I don’t want charity, just the chance for parity. Overtime whilst in your prime, it’s a day a dime.
Use it or booze it and lose it; that’s the only choice you choose. Don’t abuse or confuse the fat cat top dogs, or they’ll turn their screws with hard slogs and refuse to walk even ten feet in your shoes.
Self-amuse when cleaning bogs.
Time is money; watch those cogs.
No-one does favours for a Joe Bloggs, old news still true day in, day out ‘till you pop your clogs.

The value of thrift.
Night shift, catch a lift, it’s never swift but they get a bit miffed when I start to drift and sift through in search of the gift
of release from this rift.
Hell to pay all night and day, it makes me sick.
Constant delay whether I leave or stay, or twist or stick.
All work and no play, it shouldn’t be this way when some can take their pick.
But hey, there’s nowt left to say, except GET RICH QUICK.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.