Number

The November Pub Poet's poetry theme was "I want to be in that number", intended to be a "When the Saints come marching in" reference, it being around All Saints Day. I decided to interpret the word "number" differently. As in numb. So inspired, I wrote the following.


Number

I want to be in that number state
that stops me getting so irate
at news reports I read on-line,
events that seek to undermine
the way of life we now expect,
injustices and disrespect
that make me mutter, shake my head
and read beneath what others said
and find the comments that concur
with what I feel, make my heart stir,
but then I see a few replies
by people blinded by the lies,
and I despair how this can be,
and then I wonder, is it me?

I want to be in that number state
where one ignores the sorry fate
of all those people who have lost
their homes because the extra cost
of payments banks so sorely need
outweigh compassion, didn’t concede
that when they lent the money out
(smiling sweetly without doubt)
they didn’t care that markets change
and now refuse to rearrange
repayments to traverse this blip.
Instead they say “abandon ship”.
Is this the Big Society?
I doubt it though – perhaps that’s me.

I want to be in that number  state
where stomachs do not ulcerate
from worry prompted by the news
and over-dramatic interviews
with talking heads who talk too much
exacerbating such and such
to vilify minorities
and bring them firmly to their knees,
discrimination to ignore
until there’s change within the law
to move us to another phase
as done with women, race and gays.
But for now we cannot tolerate.
So tell me, is it right to hate?

I want to be in that number  group
That will accept the bovine poop
as spoken by that Minister
and not see all the sinister
decisions and precise incisions
cutting us in fine divisions,
whilst reducing key resources
“competition” – this of course is
divide and conquer, tried and true,
diverting us from what they do;
manipulation of the press:
a new pariah to address.
Surely other folk must see?
I wonder then, perhaps just me?

But apathy is wearing thin;
More people discarded in the bin,
It’s tempting to avoid the strife –
I don’t like conflict in my life –
but maybe we’ve not long to wait
to break free from the maiden aunt
I want to be in that number state –
but conscience says, “Me? No I can’t.”

If You Were A Pirate

Some friends and I have just started rehearsals to learn some Sea Shanties that we're intending to perform for charity at one or more local festivals next year. 

This poem comprises the lyrics for a shanty I wrote today, given a modern day slant. 

The parts in italics are sung by the entire group, the rest being for the soloist. Please forgive the inexact rhyme in verse four

If You Were A Pirate

I spend my life behind a desk and do the work of three
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
The management ignore us yet they will not let us be
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

CHORUS 1:    For if you were a pirate
    We’d make ‘em walk the plank
    You’d watch ‘em sink beneath the waves
    And we would watch your flank.

REFRAIN:    Yes, if you were a pirate
     You'd do just what you please
    We'd raise the Jolly Roger
    And we'd sail the seven seas.

They change their minds incessantly and then they change ‘em back
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
And we are left to clear their mess and cope with all the flack.
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

CHORUS 2:    For if you were a pirate
    We’d hang ‘em from the mast
    You’d watch ‘em swing and leave behind
    That old life in your past.
REFRAIN

The figures that they say they want increase from week to week
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
And yet they never use the stats but say the future’s bleak.
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)
   
CHORUS 3:    For if you were a pirate
    A cutlass in your hand
    You’d lay ‘em waste before your blade
    And leave this stinkin’ land.
REFRAIN

They hint at new redundancies to keep us all in line
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
And want us to work extra hours but won’t pay overtime
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

CHORUS 4:    For if you were a pirate
    We’d haul ‘em ‘neath the keel
    And as they scraped the barnacles
    Just think of how you’d feel.
REFRAIN

They want our corp’rate loyalty and yet it’s all one-way
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
Regrade our jobs so we do more but want to cut our pay
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

CHORUS 5:    For if you were a pirate
    You’d gut ‘em with your knife
    You’d spill their innards on the deck
    And make the sea your wife.
REFRAIN

They don’t think they’re responsible for any of this mess
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
If only we could find a way so they’d pay for such stress
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

FINAL CHORUS:    Well, if you were a pirate
    We’d make ‘em walk the plank,
    We’d hang ‘em from the mast,
    A cutlass in your hand,
    We’d haul ‘em ‘neath the keel,
    You’d gut ‘em with your knife…
    …Just leave that life behind, me boy
    And make the sea your wife.

The Case Against Elmer Fudd

Another Pub Poets event, and this time the theme is "Legless". From this I used the phrase "Haven't a leg to stand on" to inspire the following. I'm not exactly sure when the Looney Tunes characters came into the mix, but Warner Bros cartoons were always on TV in my childhood. Perhaps it was the Family Guy skit with Elmer offing Bugs Bunny. Anyway. No copyright infringement is intended - and I thought I'd include an allusion to #Piggate for good measure.

The Case Against Elmer Fudd

That day Elmer Fudd was brought up from the cells
he’d lost hope that he’d ever go free.
But the man that he met in that small dingy room
made him think “that’s the lawyer for me.”
The lawyer oozed confidence out of each pore
saying “This is a case they’ll abandon.
It’s all circumstantial and built upon sand.
There isn’t a leg it can stand on.”

When faced with such confidence, Elmer relaxed
but then he remembered his gun.
“The wabbit was shot,” he said, “what about that?”
but the lawyer smiled, saying “Point One.
Ballistics had nothing to give the police.
They were calling the wound through-and-through.
If the bullet is lost in the lake as they say,
they can’t tie the shooting to you.”

“Point Two is your gun was illegally seized.
The warrant was just for your shack.
It did not extend to the trunk of your car
The cops will be facing some flak.
So don’t give a thought to the gun the cops took
It’s lost to the District Attorney.
They’re not very pleased but they’ve now come to terms 
Adopting a different journey.

They’ve given up looking for Porky the Pig,
a character witness they wanted to use
They thought he would highlight obsessions you had
Regarding the victim, and trigger new clues.
He went overseas in the Eighties, I hear,
much to the DA’s anxiety
They found out he disappeared round about then
In an Oxford based secret society.

On balance, that’s good news, although I had hoped
We could use him as reas’nable doubt.
He hunted the bunny as well, you recall,
but that option we have to rule out.
Don’t worry, there’s plenty of others out there
The rabbit had enemies – many.
I have checked where they were when the victim was shot
And alibis? No. There aren’t any.

The rabbit’s main rival was Daffy the Duck.
As crazed as a loon, and with greed he can’t quench.
The xenophobe’s choice is one Pepe le Pew:
His love was rejected. A stalker. And French.
The psychopath known as the Tasman’ian Devil
Just wanted to eat him. That’s known far and wide.
Yosemite Sam - that gun-totin’ bandit
wants Bugs full of slugs. He just loves homicide.”

A thought came to Elmer. His shoulders slumped down.
He said, “I appweciate all that you’ve done,
but Warners were filming the hunting that day.
They have it on wecord just who fired the gun.”
The lawyer sighed, “Mister Fudd – pay that no heed.
I know you are worried and feeling quite tense,
but there is no reason for worrying, man.
Who d’ya think's paying me for your defence?

The film is destroyed and the cam’raman paid
So there’s only you they don’t want to neglect
They didn’t want snuff films – it was a mistake
Having Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall there to direct.
So - as long as you don’t say that ‘you hate that wabbit’
where folk for the state’s prosecution may hear,
I repeat that they haven’t a leg they can stand on
and you’ll leave this jailhouse; your name in the clear.”

I Don't Need An Education (In This)

Wow. I didn't realise it was so long since I last posted anything here. To remedy this omission, here is a poem that I wrote for the September open mic event for the Pub Poets group. On the theme of "We Don't Need No Education", presumably because a new school term was due, I forced myself not to write something with lots of Pink Floyd puns. Instead I thought about subjects in which I definitely DO NOT want an education.

I Don't Need An Education (In This)

Now ev’ryone knows David Beckham
with his perfumes, his wife and tattoos;
Gary Linneker’s seen
with his crisps on the screen,
and Cantona’s marketing booze.

But after those three are discounted
there’s not many others, although
Vinnie’s one of the lads
in his films, and in ads
there’s that French bloke whose name I don’t know.

It isn’t just football I’m vague on:
all sports are the same in my view.
There are some folk whose fame
lifts them clear of their game,
but their history? Haven’t a clue.

So.    I don’t need an education
in who plays what for who and where
at home, away, from other lands:
it makes no diff’rence – I don’t care.

We’ve had several years of X-Factor;
the wisdom of Cowell and co,
but for all of those years
and the crocodile tears:
who has won? Well I don’t really know.

When it comes to those numpties in jungles,
the ones mocked by Ant and by Dec,
I don’t know who’s playing,
who’s going, who’s staying,
who’s shoving some bugs down their neck.

And what can I say of Big Brother?
Contestants? When all’s said and done
I cannot identify
any. Makes sense if I
put them in Room 1 0 1.

So.    I don’t need an education
in those with transitory fame.
The mayfly’s dead within one day:
I don’t need to know their name.

Acronymonious

For this poem, I think a passing Facebook post started me thinking. Sometimes the appropriate insult or concise description isn't instantly available. We either need assistance at the relevant time, or be prepared to do some decent work beforehand to have those words at our instant beck and call.

Acronymonius

We are blessed with a wonderful language
with words that are varied and deep.
Some just roll of the tongue, ...
some are short, some are long
and some that a censor may bleep.

But there are those times when the right word won’t come,
when you’re faced with new kind of fool.
You don’t get results
with the usual insults;
You need something diff’rent - a tool.

A tool that assesses the object of note
Assessing the faults it portrays,
choosing each syllable,
something distillable,
making a word or a phrase.

It could start by defining some attributes
And forming a phrase or a clause
then, using synonyms
It could form acronyms –
a way to condense all their flaws.

Until there’s a unit out there we can use
we’ll need to do prep on our own.
Take some time; be reflective
for future invective.
And prepare to enjoy a good moan.

Examples (no doubt you can do better)
GUDANSOR: Grammatically Unsound, Derivative And No Sense Of Rhythm
SCRIT: Supposed Celebrity Requiring Immediate Termination
TWACS: Totally Without Any Common Sense
PEFAHB: Poor Excuse For A Human Being
OMARIJ: Opens Mouth And Rectum Is Jealous
VATCH: Vindictive Acid-Tongued Corrupt Hag/Heel

My Favourite Holiday

The most recent "Pub Poets" open mic gathering had a dual theme of "We're all going on a summer holiday" and "Holidays from hell."

I had written one poem, but I wanted something a little more upbeat, so wrote this on the day of the gathering, finishing it half an hour before I left home.

Oh, and it's not a true story!

My Favourite Holiday

I would not argue with my wife
as she was one to hold a grudge.
It simply was not worth the strife
for when proved wrong she would not budge.
Facts did not matter in her view
and when they contradicted her
a stubbornness inflicted her;
you saw her eyes and then you knew.
And that is why I let things slide
and let my darling have her way,
and it worked fine, ‘cept when my bride
would come back from our holiday.

She’d leaf beforehand through brochures
to find the place where we would go;
the final choice was always hers
and when she’d made it I would know.
Some naff resort, hotel she’d choose
and each year it would be the same
and each year I would take the blame;
it wasn’t worth it to refuse.
I’d take it with a pinch of salt
and marvel how her mem’ry blurs.
Of course it had to be my fault
because, of course, it wasn’t hers.

Eventually I’d had enough –
that Chinese water torture thing;
incessantly that slagging off,
the prospect next year’s trip would bring.
I’d need to bring it to an end;
this annual apology –
I’d need to use psychology
to get my way and not offend.
By chance I found a magazine
that fit in with her fantasy
as Johnny Depp upon the screen,
he was her fav’rite man to see.

A Caribbean cruising ship
set up to have a pirate theme,
and when she caught sight of this trip
I’d got it right, it was her dream.
Last minute I said “I can’t go,
as Work has this emergency.”
“I’ll go there on my own,” said she,
whilst giving me the old heave-ho.
It’s been two years since off she sailed
Towards the Car-ib-be-an Sea
It isn’t that our marriage failed
The ship sank there. It wasn’t me.

Too Much?

A quick poem reflecting on my recent television viewing.

Too Much?

I've known it for a fair few weeks:
I'm watching far too much TV.
The weekday broadcasts shown by Pick,
their shows have dominated me.
Stargate had ten seasons.
It's sequel had some more.
Andromeda followed after these
(What did I watch that for?)
Eureka supplemented this -
that's two hours ev'ry night -
and yet I didn't miss the soaps;
there's video and catch-up, right?
I watched some other dramas too,
like Gotham and the one 'bout SHIELD,
and Law & Order SVU
and still I was not forced to yield.
When Breaking Bad began on Spike
I wondered how I'd manage it,
but yes, I did, with some late nights
and later breakfasts, I admit.
But now their runs have reached their ends;
two weekly shows, so no more moans.
I've now got time for other things:
those DVDs of Game of Thrones.