on toilet paper
signs a decree
deporting immigrants en masse.
Salutes the mob
then wipes his ass.
There are fascists
there are
fascists
pretending
to be
humanitarians
like
cannibals
on a health kick
eating only
vegetarians
Vegetarians
Vegetarians are cruel, unthinking people.
Everybody knows that a carrot screams when grated.
That a peach bleeds when torn apart.
Do you believe an orange insensitive
to thumbs gouging out its flesh?
That tomatoes spill their brains painlessly?
Potatoes, skinned alive and boiled,
the soil’s little lobsters.
Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt
when peas are ripped from the scrotum,
the hide flayed off sprouts,
cabbage shredded, onions beheaded.
Throw in the trowel
and lay down the hoe.
Mow no more
Let my people go!
There Was a Knock on the Door. It Was the Meat.
There was a knock on the door.
It was the meat. I let it in.
Something freshly slaughtered
Dragged itself into the hall.
Into the living-room it crawled.
I followed. Though headless,
It headed for the kitchen
As if following a scent.
Straight to the oven it went
And lay there. Oozing softly to itself.
Though moved, I moved inside
And opened wide the door.
I switched to Gas Mark Four.
Set the timer. And grasping
The visitor by a stump
Humped it home and dry.
Did I detect a gentle sigh?
A thank you? The thought that I
Had helped a thing in need
Cheered me as I turned up the heat.
Two hours later the bell rang.
It was the meat.
Cabbage
(after ‘I like that stuff’ by Adrian Mitchell)
Humphrey Bogart died of it
People are terrified of it
cancer
I hate that stuff
Peter Sellers was laid low with it
one in five of us will go with it
heart attack
I hate that stuff
Monroe’s life turned sour on it
Hancock spent his last half hour on it
sleeping pills
I hate that stuff
Jimi Hendrix couldn’t wait for it
Chemistshops stay open late for it
heroin
I hate that stuff
Mama Cass choked on it
Blankets get soaked in it
vomit
I hate that stuff
Women learn to live with it
No one can live without it
blood
I hate that stuff
Hospitals are packed with it
Saw my mother racked with it
pain
I hate that stuff
Few like to face the truth of it
We’re all living proof of it
death
I hate that stuff
Schoolkids are forcefed with it
Cattle are served dead with it
cabbage
I hate that stuff
Soil
we’ve ignored eachother for a long time
and I’m strictly an indoor man
anytime to call would be the wrong time
I’ll avoid you as long as I can
When I was a boy we were good friends
I made pies out of you when you were wet
And in childhood’s remembered summer weather
We were very close
just me and you and the sun
the world a place for having fun
always so much to be done
But gradually I grew away from you
Of course you were still there
During my earliest sexcapades
When I roughandfumbled
Not very well after bedtime
But suddenly it was winter
And you seemed so cold and dirty
That I stayed indoors and acquired
A taste for girls and clean clothes
we found less and less to say
you were jealous so one day
I simply upped and moved away
I still called to see you on occasions
But we had little now in common
And my visits grew less frequent
Until finally
One coldbright April morning
A handful of you drummed
On my father’s waxworked coffin
at last it all made sense
there was no need for pretence
you said nothing in defence
And now recently
While travelling from town to town
Past where you live
I have become increasingly aware
Of you watching me out there.
Patient and unforgiving
Fidgeting with the trees.
we’ve avoided eachother for a long time
and I’m strictly a city man
anytime to call would be the wrong time
I’ll avoid you as long as I can.
and the field screamed ‘TRACTOR’
harvesttime
the sky
the inside of a giant balloon
sky blue
someone’s yellow finger sticking through
late birds screech
wormless
waiting to be threshed
within an inch of its life
the field trembles
the pain
ohthepainoh
the pain
The Scarecrow
The scarecrow is a scarey crow
Who guards a private patch
Waiting for a trespassing
Little girl to snatch
Spitting soil into her mouth
His twiggy fingers scratch
Pulls her down on to the ground
As circling birdies watch
Drags her to his hidey-hole
And opens up the hatch
Throws her to the crawlies
Then double locks the latch
The scarecrow is a scarey crow
Always out to catch
Juicy bits of compost
To feed his cabbage patch
So don’t go where the scarecrows are
Don’t go there, Don’t go there
Don’t go where the scarecrows are
Don’t go, Don’t go…
Don’t go where the scarecrows are
Don’t go there, Don’t go there
Don’t go where the scarecrows are
Don’t go…
The Birderman
Most weekends, starting in the spring
Until late summer, I spend angling.
Not for fish. I find that far too tame
But for birds, a much more interesting game.
A juicy worm I use as bait
Cast a line into the tree and wait.
Seldom for long (that’s half the fun)
A commotion in the leaves, the job’s half done.
Pull hard, jerk home the hook
Then reel him in. Let’s have a look…
A tiny thing, a fledgling, young enough to spare.
I show mercy. Unhook, and toss it to the air.
It flies nestwards and disappears among the leaves
(What man roasts and braises, he too reprieves).
What next? A magpie. Note the splendid tail.
I wring its neck. Though stringy, it’ll pass for quail.
Unlike water, the depths of trees are high
So, standing back, I cast into the sky.
And ledger there beyond the topmost bough,
Until threshing down, like a black cape, screams a crow!
Evil creature! A witch in feathered form.
I try to net the dark, encircling storm.
It caws for help. Its cronies gather round
They curse and swoop. I hold my ground.
An infernal mass, a black, horrific army
I’ll not succumb to Satan’s origami.
I reach into my coat, I’ve come prepared,
Bring out my pocket scarecrow – Watch out bird!
It’s cross-shaped, the sign the godless fear
In a thunderflap of wings they disappear.
Except of course, that one, ungainly kite
Broken now, and quickly losing height.
I haul it in, and with a single blow
Dispatch it to that Aviary below.
The ebb and flow: magpie, thrush, nightingale and crow.
The wood darkens. Time to go.
I pack away the food I’ve caught
And thankful for a good day’s sport
Amble home. The forest fisherman.
And I’ll return as soon as I can
To bird. For I’m a birderer. The birderman.
The One About the Duck
This duck walked into a pub
and went straight up to the bar.
The barman made a joke about
not serving ducks under eighteen
and tried to shoo it out.
But the duck would not be shoon.
It waddled around to the back bar
quacking as it were last orders
to the few remaining customers
in the Sun Inn that afternoon.
So the barman fetched the barmaid
who tried to show the duck the door.
But the duck would not be shown.
So the barman fetched the manager,
but the three of them had no luck.
Seeking guidance from above, the manager
brought down the landlord and his wife,
and all five, armed with tea towels,
cornered the duck between the Ladies
and the fruit machine and overpowered it.
They were gentle, they were kind,
and their concern was for the welfare
of the web-footed intruder, the green-headed
alien away from his loved ones
and longing for home, Quack Quack.
So the landlord, followed by the landlady,
the manager, the barman and the barmaid
carried the duck, swaddled in tea towels,
across the High Street to the pond
that lies in the middle of the green.
‘There you go, Donald, you naughty duck,’
said the landlord setting it free.
And his staff were pleased with their good deed,
and so, totally unprepared for the commotion
that followed. The sudden violence and murder.
Angels at four o’clock. While two fastened
on to its bill keeping it closed, the others
pecked and stabbed, turned it over
and dragged it under. Helpless, the rescuers
watched it drown in a bullseye of bubbles.
Stunned, they returned to the Sun
and tried to make sense of it all.
Synchronized drowning, bloodlust or justice?
Heads down, tails up, dabbling free.
Have you heard the one about the duck? No joke.
Honey and Lemon
Jogging around Barnes Common one April morning
when a rat crossed my path twenty metres ahead.
A fat, furry fist spelling danger from the tip
of its pointed nose to the end of its pointing tail.
Dogs daily, magpies frequently, rats? Never.
So, curious, I swerved left into the undergrowth
and took the overgrown path back to where
the beast (it had doubled in size) had scuttled.
Three strides along and there it was, barring
my way like a rival gang of football hooligans.
Red-eyed and snuffling, PLAGUE written all over it.
Motionless, I tried to stifle the fear rising within.
Having read in one of those survival handbooks
that rats love lemon, I spat the honey and lemon
pastille I was sucking straight into the bushes,
and sure enough, the brute dived in after it.
Unfortunately for the rat, a huge grizzly bear,
mad for honey, came crashing through the trees
and tore the creature to pieces with its iron claws.
By then, I was back on the road sprinting for home.
Five Ways to Help You Pass Safely through a Dark Wood Late at Night
1. Whistle a tune your father whistled
when you were a child
2. Cross the first two fingers
of your left hand
3. If you lose sight of the moon
hold it in the mind’s eye
4. Imagine the colours that surround you
waiting for the first kiss of morning
5. Keep a Kalashnikov in the glove
compartment
a cat, a horse and the sun
a cat mistrusts the sun
keeps out of its way
only where sun and shadow meet
it moves
a horse loves the sun
it basks all day
snorts
and beats its hooves
the sun likes horses
but hates cats
that is why it makes hay
and heats tin roofs
Trees Cannot Name the Seasons
Trees cannot name the seasons
Nor flowers tell the time.
But when the sun shines
And they are charged with light,
They take a day-long breath.
What we call ‘night’
Is their soft exhalation.
And when joints creak yet again
And the dead skin of leaves falls,
Trees don’t complain
Nor mourn the passing of hours.
What we call ‘winter’
Is simply hibernation.
And as continuation
Comes to them as no surprise
They feel no need
To divide and itemize.
Nature has never needed reasons
For flowers to tell the time
Or trees put a name to seasons.
Sap
Spring again.
No denying the signs.
Rates bill. Crocuses on cue.
Daffodils rearing up
Like golden puff-adders.
Open to the neck, voices
Are louder. Unmuffled.
The lid lifted off the sky.
In the air, suddenly,
A feeling of ‘je sais quoi’.
I take the dog into the park.
Let myself off the lead.
Conservation Piece
The countryside must be preserved!
(Preferably miles away from me.)
Neat hectares of the stuff reserved
For those in need of flower or tree.
I’ll make do with landscape painting
Film documentaries on TV.
And when I need to escape, panting,
Then open-mouthed I’ll head for the sea.
Let others stroll and take their leisure,
In grasses wade up to their knees,
For I derive no earthly pleasure
From the green green rash that makes me sneeze.
Green Piece
Show me a salad
and I’ll show you a sneeze
Anything green
makes me weak at the knees
On St Patrick’s day
I stay home and wheeze
I have hay fever all the year round.
Broken-down lawnmowers
Bring me out in a sweat
A still-life of flowers,
in oils, and I get
All the sodden signs
of a sinus upset
I have hay fever all the year round.
A chorus of birdsong
makes my flesh creep
I dream of a picnic
and scratch in my sleep
Counting pollen
instead of sheep
I have hay fever all the year round.
Summertime’s great
(except for the sun)
Holly and mistletoe
make my nose run
Autumn leaves and I swoon
it’s no fun
Having hay fever all the year round.
Behemoth
Be he moth
or be he not
He be noth
ing when I swat
The Fly
I’m sorry, God, I cannot love
The fly
No matter how I try.
Floaters, bloated on dead flesh
And faeces
Lovers of the stale and the excreted
A species
I wish could be deleted.
I’m sorry, God, but why oh why
Did you create
The common fly?
Spiders I can abide when they approach