Thursday, 24 September 2009


In a hut eating a Brazil nut, a Brazilian feels he’s in a rut.
He’d wanted to manufacture knives, but he never made the cut.
Ironically, the factory where he used to work had to shut.

In Sheffield, a chef in a field is deciding he must yield,
His restaurant is losing money and his cuisine had never appealed.
Admitting to himself he was a failure, he knew his fate was sealed.
‘I will retire in Nuneaton,’ he thought aloud, then drank until he reeled.

The tramp with a laptop sat at a bus stop,
His lap a prop for the PC he uses non-stop feels warm through his grimy attire.
Tapping at keys, his eyes freeze on the flickering screen,
The sight of him to some is incongruous; to others he’s obscene.
He pays them no mind, surfing the net,
Looking for porn websites designed by a vagrant and a vet.

Vague, Grant—so uncertain when first met,
Seems no more coherent on subsequent occasions he’ll forget.
Grant wishes he could grant wishes and wishes his grant was bigger.
He also feels, albeit vaguely, that his girlfriend takes him for granted,
Yet he can’t resist her figure.

Mel, born in Melbourne, frowns at her medical records,
Which reveal a drugs overdose in her teens,
Mel ODs—inscribed in red ink makes her think about her past,
Living beyond her means.
Now, far away from the psychiatric ward,
She’s far less wayward and obsessively cleans,
Her only extravagance is her £100 pair of jeans.

Spike, Chairman and MC, makes his point quite bluntly,
But atleast everyone can see that he speaks his mind,
So they can find the thoughts he has on it.
Plain-talking Spike, on Salisbury Plain, taking a hike,
May not be all that sharp,
He sometimes acts the fool, but never plays a harp.
He rarely ‘harps’ on about things, which is to his credit,
His ego’s modest in size although he prefers others to have fed it.

‘IMP ALES’ read the labelled bottled beers.
They’re Spike’s favourite drink,
He drinks and cries out, ‘Cheers!’
After nine or ten of them, he regularly disappears…
To relieve his bladder, feeling sadder,
He splashes water on his face from basins in pub toilets.

Returning to his back-slapping cronies propping up bars,
Popping outside lighting up cigars.

Spike isn’t ugly but has some facial scars,
In certain lights they resemble types of strapless bras.
At the end of these nights, Spike, feeling rank,
Gropes for the door handles of taxis,
Waiting for a fleeting moment.

Mo, a woman he used to know,
Meant something to Spike a long time ago.
What had Mo meant at that moment when they’d separated?
He didn’t know, she’d yelled a lot and he’d felt berated.

Lurching in the back of some cab, Spike tries to take a stab—
At talking with the driver…
Moments with Mo submerge in his foggy memory,
But the surly cabbie, unusually, doesn’t want to talk,
Spike decides that he doesn’t either.

Home at last, he thinks—aghast at the taxi fare.
Grumbling, he pays, gets out and sways,
Then, to himself, he says, ‘Spike, my son, you are a survivor!’

Saturday, 5 September 2009


September’s here already.
Am I all ready?
Ready or not, I’ll give it a shot…
See what this month’s got,
Before October arrives and that’s my lot!

I’ve experienced over forty Septembers—some of which I forgot.
Some were cool and some were hot,
Some were fun and some were not.
September tends to signify the end of summer, which is a bummer,
Unless, of course, there’s an ‘Indian’ summer.

Joe Strummer—co-founder of The Clash—was born in 1952…
In the summer.
Fifty years on, he died in December,
Which is the ideal time for a Christmas mummer.