The Banker's Crisis

We plumb the depths of degradation
We surf to supplement flagging imaginations
We leave deposits in the bank
So when you're buffering or offline
You've got your memory to thank.

The King

Gaddafi,
Colon-El, Muammar
In his shiny, shiny Ray-Bans.
He's the first dictator-cum-rockstar.
Like Elvis. The King.

So if Gaddafi is King
Then Mubarak is Judas.
And if Mubarak is Judas
Then Silvio is the Priest.
And if Silvio is the Priest
What does that make David Cameron?
James Blunt.

At Mark and Charlie's

I am the epitome of mobility
Riding hands free along the canal
High-fiving low-hanging trees
Cat's eyes watching me
Knees pumping like pistons
As I breeze through the breeze
Terminal velocity as my
Velo
Extracts me from the city
My olfactories spy the genesis
Of good old Scottish whiskey
Half Moon pricks the sky
With perfect geometry.

The Bus Stop

Stood in my spot
At my squat
I'm the big shot
Looking down from atop
My high rock
To the Bus Stop
Where I wave at you lot

With my willy.

The Last Clap

Clapping is competitive
Rewind, relive being sat with contemporaries
In assembly when I was six
We would sit in
rows
and
rows
of
single-file
rows,
Cramped and crammed in cross-legged
Elbows sunk like achilles heel stilettos into laps
As one hand hides slacken jaws
And one hand holds heavy heads.
Heads heavy with lofty ambitions
Of playing up-front for Arsenal
And of one day getting a good look up Sarah Marshall's skirt.
Early doors dreamy detour and general torpor
SONIC-BOOMED into oblivion
I'm back in the room.

Mrs Thornton annouces the introduction to the stage of the Year 5 Wind Band!
What came next? Recorders!
My bleeding ears go through the mill to
Play host to music that soundtracks
A Chaucer-age cuckold getting hen-pecked by his aggressively amorous wife.
If this is what passed for pop music in Tudor times then
No wonder Henry VIII killed all his wives.

Being a hipster even aged 6
And able to grasp the concept
I clapped ironically, enthusastically
avowedly, unashamedly, ironically.
The clapping receded
But still smatterings
Around the gym hall.
I clock Tommy McCall and he's clocked me.
He's doing the same thing!
No-one could be as sardonic as me!
I hate Year 5 Wind Band more than anyone else in the world and I'm determined to show my unappreciation by getting the last clap.
Mrs Thornton carries on her daily sermon
Of shepherds and flocks
Of outbreaks of pox
And of how we're not allowed to play bulldog at lunchtime anymore because Danny Wilson's mum rang up the school because all Danny's shirt buttons got ripped off.
I clap sporadically
Tommy McCall claps sporadically
I clap steathily
Tommy McCall claps stealthily.
Problem: Mrs Thornton has clocked the game and says
'don't think I haven't noticed and the next person to clap is getting detention'.
Assembly is competely still.
I haven't the gumption
Tommy McCall has the gumption
The detention and most importantly,
The glory.
Hands sore, I walked out of assembly with my freedom
But left behind my dignity.
I lost the Last Clap.

Swordfight!

Butter the pen and flick the Stan
But on religious grounds, allow the kirpan,
Gentlemen and gentlemen
Boys and boys
Fuck the knife and resurrect your swords!
Take this not as the phallic dribblings of a priapic prick
I AM DEADLY SERIOUS
I'm no coward
I am waaaay past the oral fixation stage.
Back-stabbing is so passé
If we're gonna fuck each other
Let's do it like missionaries
Not like mercenaries
Look each other in the eyes and fuck
Face to face.
A shank is like a wank -
It's very impersonal and it's over too quick.
A swordfight! A fucking swordfight!
With it's
clink
clink
swish
slash
clink
clink
swipe
jump
left
right
bob
weave
clink
swish
clink
swish
clink
swish
clink
clink
clink
clink
clink
clink
clink
clink
clink...
Well, that's just poetry in motion.

Cross

It’s twilight, the special sort of twilight where the low slung Sun sits impotently in the sky like a paper tiger, it’s stellar rays still magnificent yet it lurks behind cityscapes sans the anger that earlier forced you to ‘low a jacket.

Down below, on street level are the most successful animals on the planet all about to go home after a hard day’s winning. Some have been shopping, some have been at work, some are on the way to drink in a pub to unwind before they go home, others to a show, to a funfair, to a private gallery exhibition premiere, to meditation, to speed-dating, to the gym, to self-defence class. Each of the animals busybody about until they have to negotiate a pelican crossing.

One man gets to the crossing first and presses the button. He likes the fresh click of the first press, the press that activates the red man on the interface above where his finger had pressed. Slowly but surely, the crossing fills up with people desperately wanting and capriciously needing to get to where they’ve got to get to. The animals hustle and bustle, bump and grind, elbow and winch themselves into perfect position ready to attack the gaps as their counterparts copy them across the way.

Traffic is sporadic. Sporadic enough that there are windows of opportunity for an illegal cross but busy enough to deter anyone attempting one. One animal does make a break for it, the other animals watching, collective breath completely still, watching him just make it to the other side. A car toots as he whizzes past.
The countdown starts and the panic, though still heightened, is muted for a few moments before they begin again.

Three.

Two.

One and the warring herds rush toward each other with a ferocity and intensity that could power cities. The two tribes hit each other and the lines melt, the demarcations between the two are gone, the frenzy commences. But ho! Wait! On closer inspection, the two tribes are not killing each other. It appears they’re making out in the street.