At a push, not crush a scuttling roach
But the fly I hate to bits.
Brings out in me a deathwish.
Its.
I’m sorry, God, I cannot lie
This morning I a fly.
And it felt good.
Crocodile in the City
The crocodile said to the cockatoo:
Cockatoo,
A croc’s gotta do
What he’s gotta do
The crocodile said to the chimpanzee:
Chimpanzee,
I want to be free
The jungle jangles not for me
The crocodile said to the mosquito:
Mosquito,
I must quit, oh,
I must admit, I just must go
The crocodile said to the koala bear:
Koala bear,
What are you doing up there?
You should be in Australia
The crocodile said to the parakeet:
Parakeet,
I’m stifled by this steamy heat
How I long to loll on a stone-cold street
The crocodile said to the alligator:
Alligator,
À l’heure, alligator, mate,
See you at a later date
The crocodile said to the piranha:
Piranha,
I leave for London mañana
Disguised as a giant banana
The crocodile said to the hippopotamus:
Sharon,
Give my love to Karen,
Gary, Wayne and Darren
Dear Mother
London cold Earth hard
Buildings giant into sky
To and fro menwo scarry
as if time on fire
At great noise cars speed
trailing bad breath
Crocodile keep to gutter
where slidder undisturbed
Dear Mother
Prisons underground
for rats are many found
Cats and dogs cowed
kowtow to menwo
Birds are not radiant
nor celebrate lives in song
Are pavement-coloured
and scream
Dear Mother
During daylight sightsee See
sights for sore eyes
See eyesores soar
So far have sightseen
Buckingham Palace Tower
Bridge Houses of Parliament
Yesterday went to Madame Tussaud’s
and ate lots of famous people
Dear Mother
Night is best Moonlight
become crocodile
Stars dance in scales
asa hunting go
Late home-returner
beware puddle that move
Beware reflection that salivate
Moonlight that become crocodile
Dear Mother
Arched in pain
on pavement
Throat dry
as parchment
Parched
thirst saharan
Water water
sting of carbreath
Dear Mother
London hard Earth cold
Too tired now to hunt meat
Eat Coke cans McDonald’s cartons
Kentucky fried chicken boxes
Water is black Like swallowing
putrid snake Cannot see
Tongue is swollen Head is burning
Tomorrow crocodile return home
Kentucky fried snake
home is cold carton
chicken is swollen water
mother is putrid meat
coke is hard
McDonald’s is tired now
head is black box
tongue is swallowing
London is burning
crocodile cannot see
tomorrow
The Lake
For years there have been no fish in the lake.
People hurrying through the park avoid it like the plague.
Birds steer clear and the sedge of course has withered.
Trees lean away from it, and at night it reflects,
not the moon, but the blackness of its own depths.
There are no fish in the lake. But there is life there.
There is life…
Underwater pigs glide between reefs of coral debris.
They love it here. They breed and multiply
in sties hollowed out of the mud
and lined with mattresses and bedsprings.
They live on dead fish and rotting things,
drowned pets, plastic and assorted excreta.
Rusty cans they like the best.
Holding them in webbed trotters
their teeth tear easily through the tin
and poking in a snout
they noisily suck out
the putrid matter within.
There are no fish in the lake. But there is life there.
There is life…
For on certain evenings after dark
shoals of pigs surface and look out
at those houses near the park.
Where, in bathrooms, children feed stale bread to plastic ducks
and in attics, toyyachts have long since runaground.
Where, in livingrooms, anglers dangle their lines
on patterned carpets, and bemoan the fate
of the ones that got away.
Down on the lake, piggy eyes glisten.
They have acquired a taste for flesh.
They are licking their lips. Listen…
Curse
Cyanide in the forest
Dead fish in the sea
A loaded gun
Where the sun should be
May those who sold us
Down the river
As polluted
As the lies they told
Find their banknotes
Carcinogenic
Nuclear active
Their gold.
Pure Jaguar
Cut-up of a wildlife conservation leaflet and a sales brochure for Jaguar Motors
Dark clouds. The fresh smell of new rain. The soft hiss
of rubber on smooth, wet bitumen. A reflection in a window:
a powerful, deep-chested, stocky cat with a large rounded
head and short sturdy limbs. This is the most technically
well-endowed road-going jaguar yet.
The fur varies from pale gold to a rich, rust red,
and is patterned with a series of dark rosettes
that enclose one or two smaller spots. The body
isn’t just stunningly handsome, it’s also 30% stiffer
on twist than the previous class leader.
Being good climbers, jaguars often rest in trees,
but are believed to hunt almost entirely on the ground.
That makes it a superb platform from which to mount
an extraordinarily supple, yet at the same time,
tightly controlled suspension package.
Using urine, tree scratches and calls to mark their boundaries
jaguars are not, and never will be commonplace.
A jaguar is special and the X-type is more special still.
It will feed on almost anything including lizards, snakes,
turtles, front, side and curtain airbags.
The jaguar’s powerful jaws, robust canine teeth,
and the cool integrity of sculptured steel, enable it
to kill livestock weighing 3 or 4 times its own weight,
often with a bite to the back of the skull. The ambience
that is, quite simply, pure jaguar.
Five-car Family
We’re a five-car family
We got what it takes
Eight thousand cc
Three different makes
One each for the kids
I run two
One for the missus
&n
bsp; When there’s shopping to do
Cars are Japanese of course
Subaru and Mazda
And the Nissan that the missus takes
Nippin down to Asda
We’re a load of noisy parkers
We never do it neat
Drive the neighbours crazy
When we take up half the street
Unleaded petrol?
That’s gotta be a joke
Stepping on the gas we like
The smoke to make you choke
Carbon monoxide
Take a deep breath
Benzine dioxide
Automanic death
‘Cos it’s all about noise
And it’s all about speed
And it’s all about power
And it’s all about greed
And it’s all about fantasy
And it’s all about dash
And it’s all about machismo
And it’s all about cash
And it’s all about blood
And it’s all about gore
And it’s all about oil
And it’s all about war
And it’s all about money
And it’s all about spend
And it’s all about time
That it came to an end.
Stop All the Cars
(The Metro, 1980–1998, RIP)
Stop all the cars, cut off the ignition
Those who decide have made the decision
Muffle the exhaust, put flowers in the boot
Wear a black dress or a morning suit.
Let the traffic lights remain on red
Jam the horns out of respect for the dead
Sound the Last Post and summon the guard
For the Metro has gone to the knacker’s yard.
She was my rustbucket, my tin lizzie
She kept my garage mechanic busy
A tarnished icon of the Thatcher years
She ground to a halt as I ground the gears.
Traffic wardens openly break down and weep
Sleeping policemen stir in their sleep
Car thieves consider an easier trade
Ram-raiders can’t be bothered to raid.
Close the motorways with black-ribboned cones
Riddle the ashes and rattle the bones
Sound the Last Post and summon the guard
For the Metro has gone to the knacker’s yard.
Stinging in the Rain
Stinging in the rain
I’m
Stinging in the rain
My
Skin is peeling
I’m
Stinging in the rain
I
Don’t like feeling
I
Can’t stand the pain
It’s
Burning my flesh
And
Boiling my brain
The
Buildings are melting
I
Can’t take the strain
There’s
Blood on the sidewalk
I’m
Going insane
I’m
Crying and frying
And
Dying in vain
I’m
Stinging just stinging
In the stinking acid
(What a glorious feeling…
The City of London Tour
‘Along Leadladen Street
Into Snarl-up Close
Through Crosspatch
Into Coronary Circus
Past Foulmouth Gardens
Into Fetid Lane
Along Profligate
To the station at Charnel House
Up Dirtneedle Street
Into Destitute Square
Down Pacemaker Passage
(Nearly there)
A quick one in the “Half Lung”
(Leave your gasmask at the door)
Which concludes, ladies and gents,
The City of London Tour.’
Sheer
Cliff faces do not like the word ‘sheer’
Especially those who are afraid of heights.
One day, you are a rising upland,
a grassy ridge overlooking vales and hills
that roll gently toward the distant sea
And the next, the distant sea has crept up
behind you. A crack, an ice-pick
into the skull of your nearest and dearest
and there you are, thrust to the fore,
up to your knees in stinging foam.
Don’t look down. Keep your eyes fixed
on the horizon. Ignore the squealing,
dizzy flight of gulls. The squalls,
the gales that smack, the nails that scratch.
An era or two and you’ll get used to it.
Even come to enjoy your position. Looked up to
and admired, surveyed and photographed.
Until, when you least expect it, the earth sighs,
a fractal blip, and you sheer away into the sea.
Today, a proud headland, tomorrow, oceanography.
On Dover Beach
For one magical moment you imagine
you are at the wheel of a moon-blanch’d
powerboat, speeding across a calm sea
towards the white cliffs of Dover.
But no, you are here on the darkling plain
powerless, as it comes roaring in.
You shout its name into the wind:
‘Tsunami, Tsunami’, over and over.
Global Warming
In the Antarctic, an ice-shelf
Twice the size of Norfolk
Has broken off, and is melting.
People the world over are concerned
Especially those in Suffolk
Who always get the thin end of the wedge.
Fatal Consequences
I don’t believe that one about the butterfly –
The air displaced by the fluttering
of its wings in Brazil
causing a tidal wave in Bangladesh.
Mind you,
The day after I shook out
a tablecloth on the patio
there was an earthquake in Mexico.
(Or was it the other way round?)
Bad Day at the Ark
On the eleventh morning
Japheth burst into the cabin:
‘Dreadful news, everybody, the tigers
have eaten the bambanolas!’
‘Oh, not the bambanolas,’ cried Mrs Noah.
‘But they were my favourites,
all cuddly and furry,
and such beautiful brown eyes.’
Noah took her hand in his.
‘Momma, not only were they cute
but they could sing and dance
and speak seven languages.’
‘And when baked, their dung was delicious,’
added Shem wistfully.
Everybody agreed that the earth
would be a poorer place without the bambanolas.
Noah determined to look on the bright side.
‘At least we still have the quinquasaurapods.’
‘Oh, yes, the darling creatures,’ said his wife.
‘How would we manage without them?’
On deck, one quinquasaurapod was steering,
cooking, fishing, doing a crossword
and finding a cure for cancer.
The other was being stalked by a tiger.
Bad Day at the Ark (II)
One evening while the family were at vespers
From the deck came the sound of furtive whispers.
Impatiently, Ham waited for ‘Amen’
Then crept up to investigate with Shem.
Like phantoms in the moonlight, glistening with slime
Two giant slugs were ranting, horns swaying in time:
Sluggy deluge sluggy dark, Sluggy voyage sluggy ark
Sluggy seasick sluggy sneeze, Sluggy splinters slu
ggy fleas
Sluggy Noah sluggy wife, Sluggy boring sluggy life
Each feculent slug was as huge as a rhino
And smelled of old corpses rolled up in lino.
Clammy, putrescent, oozing mucus and goo
The Creator’s revenge locked one night in the loo.
Sluggy bellow sluggy bleat, Sluggy twitter sluggy tweet
Sluggy roar sluggy meow, Sluggy bow sluggy wow
Sluggy quack sluggy moo, Sluggy sink the sluggy crew
‘Not only ugly, out of tune and glutinous
These beasts are revolting,’ said Shem, ‘and mutinous.
Let’s do the deed and do it big time
You get the sea-salt, I’ll get the quick-lime.’
Sluggy quick-lime, sluggy salt, Sluggy human’s sluggy fault
Sluggy melting, sluggy pain, Endangered species down the drain
No one loves a sluggy slug, Gluggy gluggy glug glug glug
Noah, on hearing of the creatures’ cruel demise,
Summoned his sons and frowning said, ‘Now guys
Our job is to save life, so you’re way off the mark