Bermuda House

STORM COITAL

2011-11-28T04:59:00.001-08:00

You made coffee. Poured it from
that ancient black pot of your grandmother’s.
The one with the long vertical spout
and the golden Arabic calligraphy.

The cat snored on the rug and somewhere

beyond us, the storm smashed
the sea wall, destroyed Old George’s

cherished skiff and dealt his unlocked

lobster pots across the quay. Their
precious blue prisoners tasting a small
freedom before being secreted in other
pots in nearby harbour cottages.

Oblivious and uncaring we sat flushed
and naked with hot hungry eyes,
arms stretched across the table.
Our finger tips... almost touching.

Made In Britain

2011-11-16T03:22:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago I was interviewed by Sarah Smith of Channel 4 News, not about poetry unfortunately but about British manufacturing and the small consumer goods company that I co-own and run in Somerset. A couple of excerpts from the interview were included in the feature which ran on Monday 14th November. See above - my bit is about 4 minutes in.

What has this got to do with poetry? Simply that my professional life interferes with my poetic output in a number of ways. It stops me writing as much as I might by chewing up a large amount of my time for instance (although this is increasingly an excuse I use to justify my inactive months) and it frequently intrudes in the subject matter of my poetry. For instance I talk in the interview about why I am a supporter of British Manufacturing (and elaborate here). This point of view comes up again in this poem written back in 2010:

THE PATRIOT

He loved his country. He loved the flag.
He had Union Jack cushions, Union Jack tea towels.
He had a Union Jack rug.

At Christmas he bought his wife
Union Jack knickers, a Union Jack T-Shirt,
and a Union Jack mug. He had no idea

it was all made in China.

It intrudes in other poems as well. I bought the business in 2003 with my business partner Martyn Shiner. The PLC that owned it had been forced into receivership by its bank. The most likely outcome was that the bit that we worked for would be closed with the cost of 45 jobs including my own. Neither of use were directors so we had no influence on how things would pan out. So we stepped up and cut a deal. We emptied our savings, borrowed some more money personally to top it up, persuaded HSBC to back us, bought it out of receivership, renamed it and started again. We still employ 45 people 8 years later.

A couple of events from the time around the failure of the PLC have crept into poems in recent years. "The Receiver" published in Popshot 3 for instance deals with the terror of the seeing the man in question (for he was indeed a man) walking up the drive "carrying fate in his black leather case" and is based entirely on my recollections of the day that the receiver arrived.

"The Union Rally" similarly recalls a mass meeting of the 300 odd workers of the PLC locally in a huge industrial hall in the factory next door. The representatives of three separate unions stood on a small raised platform and spoke over a p.a. One stood up and tested the p.a. with some inappropriate jokes before spelling out that the PLC was on the slide and might not make it. They has seen the numbers, he said, it was bad.

The workers were unimpressed and the general feeling was that the unions were colluding with the PLC to sell them all down the river. Voices were raised. A fist or two. Things were said that I won't repeat here.

In the poem I contrast this with a conversation I had with the CEO of the PLC when I tracked him down after doorstepping his mobile phone for a week to try and find out what was going on during the final few weeks before the PLC finally went under. He was cryptic. "Sometimes it is better to go down and get back up" he said.

A one time mentor of mine liked to quote "tell women what they want to hear and your business colleagues what they need to know". The first part I don't endorse. The second I have seen happen all too often. The numbers in question above may well have illustrated the inevitable demise of the company but they undoubtedly painted a picture that suited some vested interests, and these were quite different to what was in the best interests of the many many workers who lost their jobs as a result of that whole sorry saga.

THE UNION RALLY

In a crumbling factory where three hundred
make a wage, a Union Official tests the PA
as he lumbers to the stage.

"Now I'm not saying my mother in law is fat...
Can you hear me? Can you hear me?
Can you hear me at the back?"

The message he conveys is not one his members
want to hear. "No one wants to see jobs being
cut, not at this time of year."

"We don't trust you!" Voices cry. Fists punch the air.
"You're a bloody liar!", "You're on their side!",
"You just don't bleedin' care!".

"Now, now lads! I've seen the numbers and the
picture is bleak. They haven't even got the cash
to last another week!"

He is telling the truth. At least one truth. Well.
More or less. It's "official" that the finances are
"a right bloody mess".

But a week can last a long time. It might just be
worth a bet. With snow upon a cold North wind we'll
sing White Christmas yet.

As a man here once said to me, although not
a man I trust. Sometimes you have to go right down,
before you can get back up.

It is of course only my recollection of a series of events and not necessarily more truthful or factual that any other account. This is a frequent theme for me: the contrast between different perceptions of a situation, an event, a recollection. There is no such thing as truth. No such thing as facts. Everything stands in the shadow and distortion of our memories.

BEATNIK VALENTINO

2011-10-19T07:16:00.000-07:00

Fastand basic this glorious trilogy,
ashooting destination, a star called malice,
awaxen green dream, a lizard extreme
withdaffodil toast un-mailing the post

anAdidas halo is sugar free and weightless
Agathathe go-down girl is minty faced and breathless,
nowaste of time, no movie mine,
novintage plaice and rhubarb wine,
notrigger bending wayward wending
SteveMcQueen dream the editor is sending

It’sPuma Dior. A one legged whore:
redtied in Calvin Klein,

aRobby Burns Cigarillo
burningin his swollen eye

Sotake your time my Beatnik Valentino,
boildown some riot art stuff
cookit down and keep it rough,
withSemtex in your pockets
seatswill always be available in First Class

Royal Wootton Bassett

2011-10-13T07:45:00.000-07:00

ROYAL WOOTTONBASSETT

Unaskedthey come. No matter what day.
Nomatter what time. When the tenor
bellchimes.

Tendeep, they stand. With silent heads
bowed.Heroes for heroes. Resolute.
Tosalute. To mark.

Theflag shrouded warriors’ final homeward path.

Poem On The Back Of An Envelope

2011-10-12T09:23:00.000-07:00

The tale is / fill the pipeline / develop your own / the lighter side
more durable wind / with you when / every day the / its lightweight body
go inside minds / the luxury being / motivator in chief / take your time
your client advisor / will not rest / price and value / the unselfish gene
are dead wrong / thrusts and turns / for frequent travellers
staying positive afterwards / by being honest / life-threatening trauma
wallet allocation rules / stop watching your / math scare you
start paying attention / understand the impact / all about me
away from commonality / tell you're toying / bonus structure typically
lab game metrics / number of keystrokes / lightweight walls make
today's most successful / you don't get / transport, energy, Art
cure for horrible / but rather callousness / build genuine systems
the world moving / Heinz vital statistics / with an emphasis
ecosystem service valuations / price the priceless / most holy grail
value chain index / ipad or android / reduced flock sizes / the right CEO
neglect this key / my first Dick / times of crisis / the spotlight Artist
after every trip / over more out / measure people against
run closer funnier / is slightly better / fewer than 30%
choosing candidates carefully / harder to change / job rotation job
stupid career limiting / Tom could tell / collaborates and fosters
our non stop / floating offshore facility / up at Coca-cola
computers are down / in operations involving / wipro's lean journey
tacit knowledge explicit / look repeatable parts / method to solve
your next move / blaze the trail / in unexpected places / the three meanings
pursue technological epiphanies / manage cognitive collocation
the underlying science / Torres Torres wine / outside Oak Brook
stop bluefin tuna / mission against profits / breaking the rules
openly gay innovation / the local boys / finding each other
the protege's part / same day appointments / when it comes
continue to expand / back in California / beyond the vanguard
her answer tonight / must identify nurture / it would Gretchen
model is working / Troy said "both" / with perishable products
you are invited / via webstream by / triple threat speed
a smarter planet / legendary dragon hotel / the American flag
domestic and enquiries / Francis Ford Coppola / nobody's fool 41
mileage will vary / a contradiction hybrid / moon phases alligator
mechanical self winding / Arceau Grand Lune / 1.800.441.4488 Hermes.com

(created by taking random three word sequences from HBR October 2011)

More Headline Poems

2011-09-22T08:27:00.000-07:00

Not The Only Way but...

2011-07-14T13:22:00.000-07:00

ESSEX

Essex,
Concrete and country
living side by side.

Essex,
The estuary ebbing
to ankle deep
at Shoeburyness.

Essex,
A kick in the balls.
Unwarranted.
Unasked for.
Unexpected.

Essex,
A bloody nose,
the cold bludgeoning crack.
Blood snot soil and tears.
A kick in the head.
"Want some more?"

Essex,

A massive fight
at the disco. five
hundred fists flying.

"I'm not having this"
Says my brother,
going to sort it out,

and him only 5ft 2.

Essex,

Digging up contraband
from an industrial dump
to sell to kids at school

for a quid.Fags and porn.
You won't believe the stuff
you can get in Holland.

Foreign Holland that is, not Clacton on Sea.

Essex girls:
Short skirts, high heels
and corn beef legs.

Busty and lusty.
A bit mouthy.but
no easier than anyone else.

They just don't give a fuck what you fink!

Essex,
I love you and I hate you.
You are in my head
and up my arse.

Essex,
Where my dead are buried.

Essex,
Getting an old boy to row
us across to Point Clear Arcade
for 50p.

Essex,
When winter was colder.
Snow drifts as high as the station roof.
Hood up, head down first, backwards
sled-free tobogganing
in the gravel pits.

Essex,
Where the kids from Grays
tried to stop me leaving
the train at East Tilbury.
Me, kicking one in the head
as my English teacher
alighted from the next carriage.

Essex,
First kiss. First fondle.
First finger. First fuck.

Essex,
When West Ham won the cup,
everyone was blowing bubbles.

Essex,
The ever burning flame
over the oil refinery at Coryton
always visible from the 3 bed-bungalow
where my uncle Ted died
and we all lived for two years.
Nine of us.
And two dogs.

Essex,
Me and Lawrence Preston
walking to the station from school.
Him getting roughed up
because his dad is from Trinidad
and his mum from round here
so his skin is a half way blend.
Naive, I asked,
"What was that about?"
"Dunno." He lied.

Essex,
The Basildon Peace Festival 1986.
Me, kissing a girl who
looked a bit like Fergie.
The Princess. Not Sir Alex.

Essex,
Brian Patten reading at the Towngate Theatre,
before the Tory council shut it down.
Me, too shy to talk to him

in the bar
at half time.

Essex,
Getting blown in the library
at Thurrock Technical College.
Not handing in the crucial essay
because the pages
were stuck together.

Essex,
Playing cul-de-sac cricket
in the street.
The curb at the end of the road: four.
Over old Maggie's fence:
six and out and you had
to knock and ask for the ball back.

Essex,
Tits first, she said,
putting down her chips.

Essex,
Colchester nil
Brentford nil.
One miserable January Saturday
in nineteen seventy several.
Freezing on the terrace.
Boredom. Bovril at half time.
When we got home,
the dog had died.

Essex,
The next time you tell
an Essex girl joke.
Remember this:
one great aunt
two grandmothers
one mother
ten aunts
three sisters
six cousins
and two nieces.
And me and Billy Bragg
might just come round
and do you.

Essex,
Twenty years in the West
and I am still an ex-pat.

Essex.
I am never going back.

Essex.

New Poem: A Sevenling Called Tuesday

2011-07-06T05:16:00.000-07:00

People who knew him,
really knew him,
all called him Tuesday,

because years, and
bitter experience
had taught them, that,

Tuesday was when they would prefer to see him next.

Help Stock A Library In South Africa

2011-05-22T04:11:00.000-07:00

I don't think there has been a day in my life since I learned to read when I have not held a book in my hand. More often than not those books would have come from a library. I have lived in eight different towns and cities and have always had access to a library right there on my doorstep. A library bursting with possibilities and wonder. Shelf upon shelf of books packed with the poems and stories that are the amazing product of the human imagination. I find it hard to imagine a world not illuminated by books. Impossible to imagine a world without libraries.

But for the people of the Nkomazi region of South Africa this is the reality. Aside from the books they see in school they have no access to books. No access to the wealth of poetry and stories that we take for granted.

Imagine your only access to books is 30 miles away. Imagine for your children to discover what happened to the hungry caterpillar they first had to walk from Bristol to Stroud. To find out whether there really is a Gruffalo in the woods you first have to walk from Norwich to Thetford. Voyage Of The Dawn Treader? York to Leeds. Treasure Island, Swallows & Amazons, and Harry Potter can be found if you first walk from Anfield to Old Trafford.

I think it is easy to under estimate the impact that access to books has on our lives. Reading enhances formal education and opens our minds to the possibilities of life. Books set our imaginations free and feed inspiration. There are three things the Za Foundation needs to help it put access to the magic of books right in the heart of the Nkomazi community.

1. A forty foot export container. Which they will ship to South Africa, transport to Nkomazi and adapt into a permanent library building in the community

2. Books. Books. And More Books. A whole library's worth.

3. The furniture, fittings and all the necessary materials to facilitate the conversion of the container. All of which will be shipped to South Africa with the books in the container.

Think of it as a plan for an instant library. The Za Foundation needs your help to make this happen.

How can you help?

By sending the Za Foundation a copy of one of your books. Many books have already been donated but the Za Foundation need more and I want to ensure a good selection of Poetry (although ANY books are welcome!) for both Children and Adults is in incorporated in the library.

The address of the Za Foundation is 36 High Street, Portishead, Bristol BS20 6EN. Do your best, send them your book and make sure your book is part of the project.

THANK YOU.

Unintended War Poem

2011-05-12T04:48:00.000-07:00

THREE SMOKERS

2011-02-28T03:08:00.000-08:00

A chord, a riff, a hanging cig' with a
glowing tip. A leer, a sneer, a stare,
hooked under the lids of smack addled eyes.

A smoking man with a Gitane in hand.
Running down a melody, he growls. The iconic
beauty of an epoch on his arm. On her
knees. You see these bed-post scores? They
are mirrored in his heart. Outside: a riot.

And you. Though you never smoke now, of course.
Plumbed into an oxygen tank in that
grim hospital with beds that set new records
for death. Your stubborn heart persisting. Just.

Still craving the addiction that dragged you down,
although it's mad, you're dying for a fag.

Teenage Exhibition Reading

2011-02-18T03:22:00.001-08:00

The Exhibition of The Teenager at Taunton's Brewhouse Theatre opened last night with a live music and poetry night. As I mentioned here before I had been commissioned to write seven poems for this event exploring the changing experience of the Teenager since the 1950s when the term was first used. Between each poem young (all under 20!) local musicians played songs from each decade (50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s) and I rounded things off with a final poem "The Teenager Of The Future". The event drew a good crowd of 50 odd people.

I'll be honest, everyone was there for the music and the exhibition. Apart from the three people that came with me no one was there specifically to hear some poetry and certainly not specifically to see me. There was more than an element of waryness in the air. "Is this guy about to stand up and bore us tears?" people were asking themselves.

I started with the 50s poem "Shotgun Wedding" which was the most serious poem of the set. It is just the way it fell when I wrote it. No matter. It went ok. Within a few lines everyone was listening & I had their attention. A good start. Poem 2 "Manifesto of a 1960s Teenager" went across well. Both earned some applause that I would call "polite plus". Number 3 "Haircut 77" was the first hit. Genuine laughter in the right places plus enthusiastic applause and then I bowled the 80s poem "1980s Teenage Love Drama" down the wicket. I knew I was on strong ground with this one and it was as solid as I thought it would be. Featuring over 100 1980s song titles woven into a narrative there were groans when there should have been groans and belly laughs when there should have been belly laughs. Perfect. On to the 90s with "Generation Exceptional" a good follow up with a few easy laughs and I don't think anyone was too offended by the reference to anal sex! The 00s poem "Scenes From A Comprehensive School Prom 2009" was probably the poem that connected the best with the younger end of the audience. It was a lighter companion piece to the first poem exploring similar themes 5 decades on. The final poem "The Teenager Of The Future" was the perfect end-piece. Tidied up the loose ends and left people smiling. The applause was genuine and voluminous. Phew. Job well done and a pint well earned. The twenty pamphlets of the poems I had bought with me were quickly snapped up.

I will post all the poems tomorrow and maybe even some video. Watch this space.

Exhibition Of The Teenager Poetry Commission

2011-02-05T09:46:00.000-08:00

Following my open mic participation in the regular Fire River Poets meeting at The Brewhouse Theatre in Taunton back in Nov I was approached by the Brewhouse's arts apprentice Kelly Smith. Kelly was in the process of putting together her first exhibition which was to include an opening night performance event featuring a series of local bands who would each play a teenage anthem from either the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s. She asked me whether I would be interested in acting as compere for the evening and more importantly writing a poem to preface each song on the night plus a final poem to round things off, so a total of seven poems.

I jumped at the opportunity and accepted immediately. At the time of writing I have 6 out of the seven down, in need of a polish maybe but more or less there. One more to go.

The brief from Kelly was to examine the changing experience of being a teenager in each decade.

I have approached the poems in a number of ways. Each is quite different as I attempt to reflect the era of each decade. The 50s poem is the most formal in structure, the 60s borrows a manifesto format from Adrian Henri , The 70s is a three chord blast, the 80s a cut up featuring 100 1980s song titles, the 90s a fluid performance piece, the 00s well that one is still taking shape... As for the content of each poem, well come along on the night and find out!

I will be reading all the poems at The Teenage Anthem Gig at The Brewhouse on Thursday 17th February from 6.30pm. Entry is FREE.

Content warning: some poems include swearing and scenes of a sexual nature - so as good a reason as any for coming along!

The Delinquent no.13

2010-12-13T01:22:00.000-08:00

The Delinquent 13 is out today and includes two of my Flash Fiction stories "How Twitter Stole His Life" and "The Identity Thief" and a poem from my late 90s cut up project which goes by the name of "Diet Drugs".

Vailable for only £3.75 direct from Delinquent HQ or from Lulu. There is also a digital download option on Lulu for only one of your English Pounds Sterling. A bargain so you may feel it is wise to give all 392 of your extended family members a copy for Christmas!

Dublin Cut Up Poem no.2

2010-12-05T03:53:00.000-08:00

Full size Twitpic version here.

Dublin Cut Up Poem no.1

2010-12-04T11:40:00.001-08:00

Full jpeg of the poem from post below:

Perhaps easier to read here

Portrait Of The Cut-Up Artist As A Young Man

2010-11-27T11:26:00.001-08:00

Between 1994 and 1998 I worked on a series of poems using variations on the Cut-Up technique. It started during a business seminar in 1994. I randomly jotted down things people said around the room day after day. Sometimes a single word, sometimes a phrase and sometimes full sentences. I then took random excerpts from these pages and assembled them in loose narrative poems.

By August 1995 when the picture was taken during a holiday in Dublin (the picture was taken by my wife Kate in the apartment we had rented for the week) I was cutting up magazines and newspapers. Headlines, advertisements, classifieds: the works. Often single words, sometimes more. This time the assemblage phase involved literally pasting the clipped pieces into a notebook. Such as this one which started life under the title of:

By the third and final stage around 1997-1998 I was no longer collecting words and phrases but simply riffing off any available stimuli. Pictures, TV, Films (one poem "Cigarettes and Genitals" was written watching the movie Body Heat), anything. I would simply jot down a semi-stream-of-consciousness word montage that both described the stimulus material and yet formed a narrative of its own.

The final poem came together during the 1998 World Cup Finals and then I stopped. It just ran out of road. I started a new job the day after the final and suddenly had less time for writing and without consciously thinking about it stopped writing poetry all together.

I didn't attempt to have any of the series published a) because I assumed they were unpublishable and b) because I just wasn't paying attention to such things. Actually I was woefully ignorant of the mechanics and realities of seeking publication. The few poetry magazines I was aware of certainly did not publish anything like the poetry I was writing/creating at the time. I have to admit that I had not heard of things like Eric Gregory awards until I read about them in the biographical notes in Identity Parade this year. I knew no one else that read poetry never mind wrote the stuff.

During the summer of 2010 I picked the project back up. I brushed up on editing techniques at the suggestion of Neil Astley (via a one on one session booked during the Ledbury Festival) in the form of a Pascale Petit download from the Poetry School (did such things as poetry festivals and the Poetry School exist in 1998?), and in I went.

I edited a little here and there. Re-cut some longer pieces into short segments. Completely re-assembled one or two. The results are the results. A few have been sent out into the world and so far one Diet Drugs has been accepted and along with two flash fiction pieces for the thirteenth installment of The Delinquent which is out in early 2011.

If there are lessons here it is a) we are not necessarily the best judges of our own work b) the internet has made it a whole lot easier for outsiders to make sense of "The Poetry System" (by outsiders I mean those of us who did not go to university never mind continue with creative writing masters followed by poetry apprenticeships of some kind within the walls and therefore do not routinely encounter in life the people with the knowledge) and c) never give up on old work, a revisit after a cooling off period (OK 12 years may be excessive!) and armed with the editor's scalpel may yield fruit.

An Audio-Boo Reading Of The Receiver

2010-10-02T03:08:00.000-07:00

The Receiver was first published in Popshot issue 3 The Liberate Issue. Now that issue 4 has landed in the finest booksellers of the land not to mention many a doormat I thought I would upload a reading via audiboo.

Listen!

I plan to post more readings in the coming months. You can subscribe to all my audioboo readings via itunes by clicking the itunes link on my audioboo page: here

Message In A Bottle

2010-10-02T02:59:00.000-07:00

I stumbled across Message In A Bottle a few months back and liking what I saw decided to chance my arm with a submission. Editor Fiona Sinclair duly accepted Dead Cat Poem for inclusion in Issue Five which went live on line a week or two ago.

If you haven't discovered Message In A Bottle yet it is well worth a visit with all five editions remaining available, every one packed with fine poetry.

Qarrtsiluni

2010-09-03T03:14:00.000-07:00

On line literary magazine and chapbook publisher Qarrtsiluni kicked off their new edition this week. The theme is The Crowd and I can proudly report that the first poem up is my very own The King's Shilling. You can read and listen to the podcast here

THE UNION RALLY

2010-08-05T05:17:00.001-07:00

In a crumbling factory where three hundred
make a wage, a Union Official tests the PA
as he lumbers to the stage.

"Now I'm not saying my mother in law is fat...
Can you hear me? Can you hear me?
Can you hear me at the back?"

The message he conveys is not one his members
want to hear. "No one wants to see jobs being
cut, not at this time of year."

"We don't trust you!" Voices cry. Fists punch the air.
"You're a bloody liar!", "You're on their side!",
"You just don't bleedin' care!".

"Now, now lads! I've seen the numbers and the
picture is bleak. They haven't even got the cash
to last another week!"

He is telling the truth. At least one truth. Well.
More or less. It's "official" that the finances are
"a right bloody mess".

But a week can last a long time. It might just be
worth a bet. With snow upon a cold North wind we'll
sing White Christmas yet.

As a man here once said to me, although not
a man I trust. Sometimes you have to go right down,
before you can get back up.

An AudioBoo Reading of Immigration Blues

2010-06-26T04:59:00.001-07:00

Listen!

IMMIGRATION BLUES

2010-06-17T04:51:00.000-07:00

The Poles are going home.
95 of 100 jobs,
but still they are going home.

Fruit left unpicked on the trees.
Cabbages rotting in the fields.
The floor: un-scrubbed,
my aching shoulders: left un-rubbed.
The Poles are going home.

Mattias, he saved up. He's off
to open a little shop.

Sylvia who smiled as she cleaned my phone,
Her boyfriend left so she's heading home.

Young Thomaz has set his fork truck aside
and said farewell with Hannah, his bride.

They are going home, going home,
all my Poles are going home.
We'll miss their Eastern diction
and their little quirks,
the love of a sweet latte,
and a thirst for work.

They keep good time
and don't make a fuss,
but a weak Pound means
that work pays less,
as living goes up.

So they are going home.
They have had enough.

So I shake them by the hand.
Say "Thanks" and "Goodbye",

And now I have some vacancies...
if you would like to apply.

An audioBoo reading of The Union Rally

2010-05-23T07:07:00.000-07:00

Listen!

SONG FOR A WORLD DEPARTED

2009-12-08T04:34:00.000-08:00

Another one from the archives. 1993 I think, given the Emma Thompson reference as that was the year she won the Oscar for her role in Howard's End. Written for a former colleague after her departure from Bristol with a greyish cloud overhead...

Song For A World Departed

Free range eggs
laid the day you left
are still fresh.
It hasn't stopped raining.
Joggers knee deep on the downs
and the suspension bridge is sinking.
Locals gone crazy:
Headless motor madness.
It's some April obsessed water fest'
and the nights are as hot
as Emma Thompson.

There is a hint of conspiracy in the air
trying to stop us breathing,
but the Clifton boys are surfing
wild waves on Park Street
and the Broadmead slaps are
dancing dark in white heeled hell.
Some things you can't change
with a pickaxe!

The midget directing corpses
by the BRI has a fine new beard
but the palm trees look real sad,
and the slim young thing in
the white bikini
borrowed Brunel's clothes,
left him standing bare
with a traffic cone
on his Union Flag pole.

So "Coopy on down!"
And "Get you hair off!"
"She's got it about her tonight!"
And Jacob the loon is lost in the mist
I don't think he'll ever come down.
His bag's imploding,
tower exploding,
totally bogus,
Bristol eroding down.
Sinking to the mud banks
of the rivers swarming
beneath the city,
to the sewer rat city,
under the ground.

Dream on.
The city has gone.
Find yourself Tuesday morning 4 am
with the finest view of a sunrise.