Poetry

Supermarkets

One day I went to Morrisons

Forgot to take a map

I only wanted beans and buns

And bog roll for a cr*p

Got lost by the ladies things

Forgot my North and South

I didn’t come for flapping wings

Or stuff to wash the mouth

It’s just as bad in Sainsburys

Perhaps it is my age

The fruitless quest for herbal teas

Just puts me in a rage

I’m far too flipping old for these

Daily shopping trials

I’m sweating like a Stilton cheese

Lost in the British aisles

Maybe home delivery?

Should I? Do I dare?

Become a couch potato

Fat arsed, shopping from my chair

I’d miss the talking checkout though

And cheery orange bags

My unexpected items

And my special pricey fags

I’m hard, I can handle it

I’m such a little trooper

And while I’m there I’ll have a sh*t

Markets. Simply Super.

 *

by Gail

Brutal Truth

Brutal Truth

 Should we view images of death and evil in the media?

*

Brutal truth; how dare you burn our eyes

How dare you mark our quiet hearts with pain

Our gentle ears are deafened with your cries

Our worlds will never be the same again

Brutal truth; without you we deny

Ourselves, our fear, the part we have to play

So shine your fierce searchlight from the sky

Force in to form the shadows of the day

Brutal truth; unchain our memory

And rend the veil that shrouds a lie from sight

The evolution of humanity

Is in your hands; stir us to flight or fight

To know ourselves and know our enemy

Shifting deserts, oceans flowing free

*

by Gail

Florence’s Pie

Sir Terry Wogan and Mason McQueen take a tasty trip round town…

*

No traffic jam when Terry came

No culinary surprise

He used his loaf and found some cheese

When munching round The Vize

He and his little Mason friend

Had breakfast at The Bear

Sausage, bacon, beans an ting

No revelation there

Terry chewed the fat a bit

And did a bit of walking

A bit of pork, a bit of cake

And pudding (now you’re talking)

The flight of locks left Terry cold

He didn’t eat the quackers

Then things got quite interesting

When John got out his clackers

And hold on there is Florence

Making Olde Vizes Pie

Terry’s buds are tickled now

A stuffed fox winks an eye

*

So cheers for that then, Terry, mate

You put our town on telly

But next time have some lardy

And get rat ars*d in the Pelly

*

by Gail

(For Florence from The Black Swan

and the Unusual John Girvan)

The Unbearable Brightness of Beauty

Beauty

*

Beauty, your colours

Wash the eye with paint and pain

In rainbow prisms

*

Beauty, your music

Astounds the ear to silence

In cadenced rhythm

*

Beauty, your raw touch

Stirs the flesh to birth and death

In passion driven

*

Beauty, your deep scent

Calls forth sudden memory

In flash unbidden

*

Beauty, your rich taste

Licks the tongue to wild delight

In manna given

*

Beauty, your glory

Ripples water, shatters stones

In revelation

*

by Gail

Fie Sir, thou art a Troll

Fie Sir 

(a response to a provocative post)

*

Your voyeuristic anal post

Has got me choking on my toast

I should have better things to do

Than commenting on sex and poo

Whilst everybody likes a joke

‘Tis somewhat niche, the anal poke

Night up the alley, hard to see

For those without a front door key

What people do behind closed doors

With wives or husbands, friends or whores

Is up to them when with consent

I question, sir, your post’s intent

We English hide within our castles

No comment when it comes to assholes

Trolling really gets my goat

Fie, sir, flounder in my moat

I hope your banal gasket’s blown

Write what you know and get your own

*

by Gail

Changing the Soundtrack

can you hear what I'm hearing for upload

(the bells of St.John the Baptist, Devizes, go Pete Tong)

Sunday, summer, church bells chiming

Ringing patterns, sounding light

Ancient forms of echo, rhyming

Complex rhythms, bounded, tight

Resounding voices throng the breeze

As tower captains keep in time

Wise bells with personalities

In sacred music, old, sublime

Last month the bells went out of sync

And changed the soundtrack of the town

No one heard but me, I think, but

‘Twas the Stranglers, “Golden Brown”

(dum, dum, di dumdumdum…)

by Gail

Singing Vincent back to Life

(A sonnet for Seth, the Bath busker who made me cry)

Beneath the Stall Street Colonnades he sings

Of Vincent and his starry, starry night

The echo of his bright resounding strings

Infusing scintillating rain dropped light

As weary shoppers rest and take a breath

His voice falls low and sweet upon the air

By painted shades of Vincent’s starry death

Drawn forth, an ancient sorrow hard to bear

Hot tears spring and mingle with the mist

And brim and well and fall upon the ground

In blues and greys, like Vincent’s canvas kissed

By grief and madness; blesséd joyful sound

Of one man’s voice, uplifting, sweet and strong

The grave of Vincent opened, with his song

 

by Gail

Dissing Disney: dismal karma sonnet

 

Dissing Disney Dismal Karma Sonnet

(a true story)

“Don’t make me go to Disneyland!” I cried

Fourteen years old with all the angst that brings

They made me go and something in me died

Depressed by all the fake and plastic things

The second time my parents made me go*

Was in my twenties, Paris, lucky me

I sulked; I’m an aesthetic snob, you know

Too selfish to enjoy my children’s glee

The third time was the worst, the fuss I made

At thirty odd, made odder still by drink

I tried to run, got caught in a parade

The final Mickey piss take; now I think

I want to go to Dismaland! Bad luck

For can I get a ticket?  Can I f**k!

by Gail

*without artistic licence, and from the perspective of the present, this sentence would read: “The second time my beloved parents kindly paid for me and my children to go to Disneyland…!”

Banksy’s Joke

Dismal Gnome

I want to go to Dismaland!

I’ll thcweem until I’m thick!*

I have blisters on my fingers

From the endless futile click

There’ll be secretaries on it

Pulling non-existent strings

There’ll be rumours of a con

On social media and things

I want to go to Dismaland

And see the horrid stuff!

How come I can’t buy tickets

And my money’s not enough?

In the shadows Banksy chuckles

He’s got the Art World in his hand

He has turned pretention on itself

As planned

by Gail

The phrase marked with * is a quote from Violet Elizabeth Bott, from the Just William stories, who was a very spoilt footstamping little girl with ringlets and a lisp…