a one hundred and twenty sixth new poem ... 'southern rail'

Southern Rail – the franchise

For your ordinary

Common-sense kind of man,

What’s the point of bloody

Sitting anyway, when we’ve two

Churchillian legs to stand?

Air-conditioning is for

Conchies and working toilets

Should be a treat… but you’re

All a load of fucking whingers –

What else d’you want, passenger

Ejector seats?!

Good old Southern Rail – the

Franchise for you ordinary

Common-sense kind of chap,

Bullet trains, TGVs are all

Foreign made death traps.

What could be better than

Trundling sedately through the English

Countryside, or staring at a

Bramble hedge, a brick

Yard, waiting (hours) for a ride?   

So here’s to Southern Rail –

We decent men hope you make

It through
Your current malaise

To better days,
We few

We very few!  

a one hundred and twenty fifth new poem ... 'bank holiday, newquay'

Grey rain clouds - lost - roll

Across Newquay sound,

No souls around;

6AM silent on the streets

Sticky with spilled Radler

Save for seagulls

Scavenging at tits/bits off a passed
Out Teenage Paddler,

Sicked up shots of Jaeger,

Stilton Cornish Pasty,

The whole drab town vastly

Slumbering smashed in

Lumbering wet dreams,

Broiling, roiling, oiling

Puke encrusted pillows

With grease from fish,

Chips, fingers, unwashed n' braided hair;

A stained curtain billows in

The fetid sea-salt-sweat

Melched air - at the Escape

Surf Hostel Europa

Not a single nostril twitches,

No one has life enough

To care.

a one hundred and twenty fourth new poem ... 'breakfast blubber'

As the camera cut

Back to Studio Boohoo

The two

Whimpering presenters

Were caught hankies out,

Trousers down, in

A piteous metaphorical 

Paddling pool of

Their own bathetic

Blubber.   

a one hundred and twenty third new poem ... 'breakfast sofa'

The puppy weed all

Over the BBC Breakfast

Sofa and then, 

Moments later, did its

Second business on an

Olympian’s shoe.