The Muse in tattered tutu

The muse in tattered tutu on a garlanded swing

Drives me to creation

The lark is on the wing

The other girls are pretty the other girls will do 

But nothing can distract me

I love her tutu too.

The muse in tattered tutu is hurt but not by me

Saves me from distraction

Rids me of ennui

The other girls have culture the other girls have pearls

But nothing can distract me

From her muskiness and curls.

The muse in tattered tutu, I’d save her if I could

Helps me count the pennies

Makes me feel quite good

The other girls have lippy the other girls have kohl

But nothing will distract me

When she plays the other role.

The muse in tattered tutu, tutu too too tight

Drives me from the bathroom 

In the middle of the night

Other girls have boyfriends other girls have girls

But nothing will protect me

From the insults that she hurls

The muse in tattered tutu, has left me so so sad

I drove her to the station

I wish I never had

Other girls have manners other girls have grace

But the muse in tattered tutu

Is now in some other place.

What I did on my holidays: The lion and the raven.

Just a few lines, notes for a bigger story, written amid the sea cabbage, yellow poppies, mallow and deadly nightshade. As I traded, like for like, wheezes and death rattles with the sea hassled shingle.  


Sitting quietly in the lee of a groyne I watched a lion and a raven fashion a raft from the tattered and decaying detritus of past lives. As they prepared to board their flimsy craft the lion hesitated.

"Why do you falter". Asked the raven.
"I cannot swim". He replied.
"Neither can I". Said the raven "If the raft falls apart we will drown together".

Reassured, the lion climbed aboard and they set off from the shore.

I heard no more of their conversation but watched in horror as, some 200 yards from shore the raft did indeed disentangle itself from self and that which mattered for purposes of buoyancy.

As the lion sank beneath the waves the raven spread her wings. The raven spread her wings to be snatched up, wheeling, soaring, heading skywards. Landwards.

The lion, consumed, unaware of the potency of his own magic, legs becoming fins, tail broadening and flattening, gill slits opening, swam down to join the mermaids in their salty songs.

Departments of love. (notes for a poem)

If only we could identify the Love DNA .There would be testing clinics in every town. A super clinic in Oxford Street Queues round the block



Testing their love:

The old men and their Bankok brides
Spotty oiks and village bikes
Ballerinas, ballerinas
Old lovers, new lovers, perhaps not lovers at all
Scientists with actresses
Barristers and rough diamonds
Artists and bank managers
Ghosts and priests
Goths and poets.

All testing.In the departments of love:

A tattoo parlour
Gown shop
Cake shop, florist
Wedding chapel, Elvis present daily
Hallmark card shop
white goods, bedroom sets
Lingerie and soft fruit.

Receptacle for redundant dildos
Viagra falls by the chocolate fountain
Cubic Zirconiums as big as the ritz.

Cinema screening non stop rom coms
Pretty girls with trays of condoms
Pretty boys with trays of condoms
Hotel rooms for love struck non doms.

Lines written in an Essex pub garden on the occasion of a wrestling match.

Years ago I took my young sons to a wrestling match at a local pub. I wrote this at the time.

In the churchyard next door the dead at their labours
turning in graves at the sound of their neighbours
A caccophany of kids and peroxided, curvaceous blondes
clashing happily, slapperly with the herbaceous fronds.

In an Essex pub garden.

'Hot Stuff' and 'Zebra King' are bout number one
The zebra from norwich finally won
Hot stuff distracted by falling down tights
King stripily pounced and put out his lights.

In an Essex pub garden.

Now is the time for the teams that play tag
muscles abounding and bellies asag
To a fanfare of whistles, boo's, cheers and hisses
They land spectacular punches like butterfly kisses.

(Stands the clock at a quarter to three and yes there is beer yet for tea)

As each half nelson half expects
A little more decorum from the fairer sex
A fat bald dwarf in turquoise thong thing
Does a sunset flip on the 'Rock n roll King'

then real screams of pain and genuine alarm
for the wrestling elvis has broken his arm
Ambulance called, The King wheeled off in a barrow
nothing left now but to get pissed to the marrow.

In an Essex, oh so Essex, pub garden.