Poem number 26
Blue Sky Bollocks
People in a circle
On ergonomic chairs
Wearing suits and blouses
And with very tidy hair
They haven’t got a table
Because tables are passé
They block the meeting aura
And they just get in the way.
The circle’s in a tiny room
All the walls are glass
So we can see they’re working
Not just sitting on their arse
They all look kind of awkward
With agendas in their lap
Trying to pay attention
Whilst the boss talks total crap.
Hooray for modern offices
Hooray for sculpted space
Hooray for daily meetings
Where you have to show your face
Hooray for ergonomics
And no desk to call your own
Hooray for half past bloody five
And going bloody home.
Poem number 160
Drawn To The Dragon
The old Civic Centre is dead,
Killed by asbestos, uneconomical office space
And the simple desire for a new, modern face
For the town council.
We watch through the glass stairwell
Of our adjacent building, drawn like moths to a flame
As the old Centre is torn down, all faces filled with the same
Look of fascination.
The Metal Dragon, fearsomely efficient.
Long necked, with rotating head and hydraulic jaws
Worries and rips at steel girders and concrete floors
Like a vulture at a carcass.
The Dragon toils all day
But we don’t. Casual trips up and down the stairs
Become an excuse to gawp, to gaze upon a corpse caught unawares
And productivity falls.
Authorised vandalism. Destruction
On an epic scale quickens the blood, brightens the eye
And we cannot help but enjoy that destruction as we pass by
On unnecessary journeys.
The old Civic Centre is dead
But our building thrives, feeding off its neighbour’s elimination
As the Dragon feeds off the girders, and we feel the elation
Of the voyeur.
Poem number 182
The roof leaks, the floor is wet
The walls are damp as they can get
The window panes are thick with grime
The kitchen sink is lined with slime
But what the hell, it’s cheap as chips
I’ll kiss the landlord on the lips
For times are hard, and rents are high
I’ll never save the cash to buy
A roof’s a roof, I must be meek
A roof’s a roof, ignore the leak.
Poem number 313
Ode To The Rooftops
Oh rooftops. You are pointy
With your chimneys and your peaks
If I fell from you down to the ground
My bones would hurt for weeks.
High above the shopping folk
Your gutters catch the rain
And sometimes, when they’re overfull
They spit it out again.
Oh rooftops. Lovely rooftops.
Please accept my fond regard
If I was a chap that went for roofs
I think you’d make me hard.
Poem number 375
There’s a church just half a mile away, I never even knew
Whilst the massive sixties high rise filled my eye
But now the flats are coming down a spire comes into view
And abruptly there is beauty in the sky.
It’s not a fancy church spire, just a pointy bit of stone
But to me it adds a sense of welcome calm
It’s history, it’s architecture raising up the tone
Of the neighbourhood, an old familiar charm
The spire points to the heavens, and although I have no Lord
I appreciate the notion none-the-less,
It gives me thoughts to chew on when I’d otherwise be bored
And it it lifts me when I’m overworked and stressed.
So I sit here now, a cup of tea beside me on the sill
Of the window in the early winter dawn
The day begins in earnest and my eyes can drink their fill
Of the spire which, just like me, is now reborn.