Poem number 96
Scatter Me On Balmore
When you’ve burnt my mortal body
And I’m just a pile of ash
I won’t want nothing fancy
And I won’t need nothing flash
Just scatter me on Balmore
On a lovely sunny day –
The view will be my heaven
And in heaven I will stay.
Poem number 139
Hold It In, Vicar!
Vicars never urinate on Sundays
They just tie their bladders up with bits of string
They hold the wee inside
As they tell how Jesus died
And they cross their legs discretely as they sing.
Vicars never defecate on Sundays
They’ve a holy cork they use to keep it in
They’re hiding writhing cramps
As they light the holy lamps
And they shudder as they speak to us of sin.
Vicars always urinate on Mondays
Then they defecate in simple silent bliss
That sweet moment of relief
Is God’s reward for their belief
Oh sweet Jesus it’s Divine to shit and piss!
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 172
Rest In Peace
Enjoy the silence
The absence of all noise
No loud distractions
Or disruptive girls and boys
No bangs no smashes
And no babies screaming through the night
Just total silence
You can concentrate alright.
The dark, the heavy space
The earth piled high above
No air upon your face
No words from those you love
The wooden walls so close
You can feel the splinters with your toe
You always wanted peace and quiet
But you didn’t want to go.
Suffocate in silence
The air is stale and sparse
You were only sleeping
Now you’ve got your wish at last
No noise, no screaming kids
Just muffled fright and silent fear
You’ve got your peace and quiet
But it’s you that disappeared.
Poem number 251
The Day We Burned Grandad
He burned in all his glory
On a Thursday, late in May
Not quite a viking send off
But impressive, in its way
A hundred people gathered
Men were men and women cried
Hands in laps and eyes on shoes
The birds still sung outside
We played some frank sinatra
And some jazz (his secret vice)
The vicar didn’t know him
But the things he said were nice
His sister spoke of childhood times
Of japes and scrapes and tears
The memories sharp and vivid
Through her own advancing years
Then we launched him, like that viking
To the sombre curtained sea
And we burnt him good and proper
Hankies twisted on our knees
And afterwards we gathered
In his garden, in the sun
With loosened ties and cups of tea
And sandwiches and buns
There was talk of golf and cricket
And the roadworks, and the news
Occasionally we spoke of him
And second guessed his views
Then eventually, as time moved on
The crowd thinned out once more
‘Til at last we waved the stragglers off
And gladly shut the door.
Just the four of us, alone again
The debris in the bin
A sherry and a cognac
One more toast to absent kin
It was done, this day of burning
And tomorrow we’d move on
To the thought that he had gone
But for now an early night, relief
We’d made it through the day
And he’d burned in all his glory
On that Thursday, late in May.