At School I Was Eleanor Rigby!

At school I was Eleanor Rigby,
A lonely schoolboy in the dark.

Then with some kind of will
I dragged myself from the well
To become the fool on the hill.

I suffered the pain of those people;
I felt the same kind of hurt inside.
Whenever I heard those melodies
I just wanted to run and hide.

For the sixties sent me spinning
With promises the decade never kept.
For free-love was as fast as the bulletproof glass
Of the rich limousines of those stone-day-steps.

No ideology could save me;
No promises could ever be true;
I was father Mackenzie’s ghost
And the alienation of it just grew.

I found ways to hide the feelings inside
With drink and with many a disguise:
But you could know the real man I was
By looking in my unshaded eyes.

Pop music moved and changed me:
It also opened the wound
That lonely children feel, vulnerable and real
Under the tread of a relentless wheel.

I changed, but in vain I was altered,
To sit on that windy hill,
Helpless and hopeless with vertigo
And I carry that sadness still.

I cut myself off from my feelings
I was found by spirits in the night.
I dreamed the non-dream that lives in the heart
That you only imagine in blind sight.

Hope was my quest in years of loneliness
Hope grew from a flicker to a flame
Hope kept alive the good things inside
That the world nearly sent to the grave.

1995 Nov 10th

I’ve Learned To Live With The Pain

I’ve learned to live with the pain
I’ve learned to make it seem normal
Though I feel broken inside
I’m able to act quite informal

I’ve learned to think like the rain
To fall and make it seem normal
And though the ground may be drenched
I’m able to seem quite informal

I’ve learned to see like the sun
I’ve learned to see it all normal
To illuminate the good and bad
I’m able to be quite informal

I’ve learned to shine like the moon
I’m able to shine quite normal
When the homeless child is bathed in its light
I’m able to be quite informal

I’ve learned to hold back the stars
The starlights that seem quite normal
When people are violent in war
I’m able to be quite informal

I’ve learned to be silent like space
In the silence you think quite informal
But I loathe the suffering I see
And the selfishness they all think is normal

Nov 9, 1995

Ladybird, Ladybird, Fly Away Home

In October the days were shorter;
By November the days were colder too.
Ladybird decided she didn’t like it outdoors
So in through the backdoor she flew.

Indoors, was a little warmer,
But there were no aphids to eat.
She foraged and to her amazement she found
Creepy creatures to serve her as meat.

She slept under a cheese plant.
She made friends with the tenant inside,
Who liked her to walk on his fingers,
While he separated her spots from her eyes.

But the tenant got ambitious,
He said if you want to stay here,
I’ll put your name on the rent book,
At this, she shed a sad tear.

If you don’t sign a tenancy agreement,
Or help me pay half the bills,
You’ll be turfed out into the garden
Where you’ll probably die from the chills.

“But how can I get the money”
The ladybird wailed in angst,
“The last time I tried for a bank loan,
I was whacked by a cashier in the bank”.

So the tenant opened the backdoor,
Such a mean old tenant was he,
“Out you go now, don’t argue,
Go and sleep under the tree”.

She knew in the cold air she’d perish
And the idea to her seemed dire,
The only way to keep warm outside
Was to set the house on fire.

She whispered to the pigeons,
They all seemed to like the idea,
To drop their old nests down the chimney,
To roll burning from the fireplace clear.

Onto the carpets rolled the burning nests
The living room soon set alight.
The tenant panicked in terror
And fled out into the night.

The whole house soon went up in flames
And the ladybird got warm again.
Then into winter the ladybird flew alone
Without an invite for her to fly away home

The First Time We Met (Break-Up)

Thinking about the first time we met when I was –
Thin kinga bout the fir sttim ewe emet when I was
Thin kings out the fir sitting ewe emit hen I as
Thin kings sitting in the fir emit ewe wenas
Thin kings sit on the ewe as when remit

leaving the hall on my bicycle and you were –
lea ving heha llon mybic cycle andy ou were
lea vingt heh allon myopic cy eland ouwer
myopic eland you were ha alone vingt lea
you were myopic eland alone he ha in tea

on your way home too and you made a –
ony ou way h ometan dy ouma dea
only you wait on do ma de
you wait only on a mod
onily you wait on a mod

a joke about riding on my crossbar –
ajo kab outtri ingot my cro
kebab try out ingot micro
try out kebab micro ingot
kebab trout micro ingot

I smiled nervously and replied –
I mile vous lyander lied
one mile lysander you lied
you lied lysander one mile
one lied you lysdander mile

that you were welcome too and then we parted ways –
hat we rewel comet hen days
hat we jewel comet hen days
hat way comet jewel hen we
we jewel hen comet hat way

Thinking about the last time I saw you.
You called round to use the phone.
You placed an ad in The Loot for housework
Giving my address.

Of Serious Russian Poetry, (Cubist Poem)

I am reading serious Russian poetry in the bath.
A drip, drip, drip from a cistern.
The noisy builders drive a steam roller
As the summer sun melts the tarmac.

Serious Russian poetry drips in a cistern/
Where noisy builders drive their steam roller/
As the summer sun melts the road /
A Bengali mother harangues the children/
While a neighbour slams the toilet seat/
Under the noisy builders truck.

The Bengali mother harangues/
The noisy builders in the bath/
As a serious Russian poet/
Melts the truck like a chocolate cake.

Serious Bengali children/
Harangue the builders with Russian poetry/
And stick to the melted summer road/
Like dripping drops of haranguing mothers.

Serious builders read Russian poetry/
On the summer streets into a cistern/
As Bengali children sing in the bath/
To the drip drop of water from the washing line.

A little Bengali child drives a builder’s truck/
Reading serious Russian poetry/
As builders empty the melted street/
That drips into the sunny cistern from a washing line.

A grim neighbour reads Russian poetry/
As his breakfast drips into the builders truck/
Bengali children melt in the sun/
That drips, drips, drips in a summer cistern.

A Bengali mother with a bath of water/
Puts out the fire of the melting cistern/
As flakes of serious Russian poetry/ Drip, drip, drip over the balcony.

The serious Russian builders reading poetry/
Melt like plastic in a dripping cistern/
Where fire and cornflakes are flying from a balcony/
As Bengali mothers hang the children out to dry.

Bengali mothers read serious builders poetry/
As Russian cisterns drip from washing lines/
The neighbours flattened bodies melt in the sun/
Like plugholes draining the noisy cornflakes:)

Sat July 22nd 95

The Little Princess

The little princess was the only one left of the family
Found in a wood, covered in blood, by the peasantry
Who did this? Who did this, to the little princess?
– He lives in a castle on top of the hill – the evil one.

The peasantry arose, in their ragged clothes to destroy him
They circled the keep like a herd of sheep with withered skin.
You have no chance to dethrone me, said the Evil One from his high tower
Why don’t you go home, you’re all alone, you foolish shower.

It’s true what you say, we should be on our way –
But for the little princess we must make our stand
We must free our land from the evil hand
And put the little princess on the throne

Just then, a light blinded their sight and the tower fell down
The castle fell and down a deep well fell the evil one
The peasants all cried it’s the end of his lies
Now let’s put the little princess on the throne

And now it is done, Cheers everyone
Now we can go home