We are close to having soul

We are close to having soul
Turn off those automatics
Dampen those conglomerate suns
Let the ally-ways come alive
With Neapolitan ice cream

We are close to having soul
Crush those bombs in a mangle
Throw olives at the speaker
Send out your wine maker
To pan for Yorkshire water

It’s almost here, like they imagined
the Mediterranean lifestyle
Sun, sea and romance

A hard fried egg

Have you ever seen
A hard fried egg
Stuck to a wall
Have you tried to scrape it off
With a palette knife
And stab it with a plastic spoon
But it won’t move
It won’t move at all

Have you ever been down
To sunset reach
And seen hard fried eggs everywhere
Sitting around playing
Their tune-o-matic guitars
Or falling down your trouser legs
Or living under your driveway cars

Have you ever seen
A hard fried egg
Stapled to a chair
Talking by telekinesis
In their floral underwear
Do you look for them
On the ceiling
Or see them
Writing banners
In a dark car park
Or being on sale in Harrods
Or chasing after sharks

Did you ever have a hard fried egg
Crawl under your freezer
And fall asleep there
And start talking in its dreams

Did a hard fried egg
Replace your baby
Did Mr Punch
Chase it
Out of school
Did Mr Policeman hit it
With a truncheon
Did it have a wooden leg
And sit upon a milking stool

Once I saw one singing on telly
It made a sound like bubble and squeak
And it loved to hear the jazz of George Melly
And I’d wait in expectation all week

A group of cyclists

A group of cyclists
Grip their red-hot handlebars
They crash into one another
And from a pyramid of bicycle frames

The handlebars take off into the sky
And join millions of others
Flocking like birds with flaming wings

You go into the coal shed
Where an old bicycle has been left
It shrieks in pain and hunger
It rears up and drives over you into freedom

You are digging in the mud of a riverbank
When, emerging out of the gunge
A bicycle rears up in front of you

The peddles begin to creak as they turn
The flashlight becomes like a bright midday sun
The wheels turn and splatter you with mud
And it rises vertically into the sky
It’s handlebars snorting

A surrealist object

A surrealist object
Has to be responsible
For the unseen manipulation
In the atmosphere

They take a gun
And call it a bicycle handlebar
And they rain rose petals
Over marching armies

The ghost train in a fairground
Travels through several doorways
Until it reaches the one
That connects to the horror show

You see many mirrors and, in the mirrors,
Visions across time and record
Of slaughter and mayhem
And you hear the laughter

Of the one upon a black horse
In the ruins of the wilderness
Veiled under a coat of invisibly
A threat with a bicycle handlebar

Heavyweight European champion

What do you want to do?
Oh, heavyweight European champion
Quick before it all goes cold
And the engine rusts into oblivion

Should I put you in a pram
And deliver you to Spain
Should I let the vultures operate on you
To remove the rocks

Quick, do you see the ring
Where the rain gathers
Send it by box to father Christmas
And his walrus shopkeepers

Oh, she puts her hand inside
And pulls out a boxing glove
Oh, she puts her hand inside
And finds a bottle of shampoo

Sonnet to the two kings

The king of the north
Was talking to his horse
The king of the south
Was moving about
The tomato ketchup
Was poisoned by warfare
The sky tried hard
To protect the child

The king of the north
Went all the way
The king of the fence
Sat on his tweezers
The clouds walked down the tunnel
And came out as seas
The knave with his halybard
Poked at a glass rabbit

The king of the north
On his mountains of seaweed
Ran like an avalanche of birds
Into the burning earth
The king of the south
Galvanised his roof with custard
And spread his pools of water
At the foot of his statues

And so, we wait
With half a binocular
To view the transparencies
of history