Saturday, 31 March 2012

The Devils Advocate

A woman of convenience, by convenience, that’s her trade.
Face of evil, hair of scarecrow straw, invented, not made.
Parades her wanton wares as every Jezebel might
The sun her enemy, she plies her trade by night.
Plastic face, plastic arse like a blown up doll
Nightmare on any street, no scruples at all.
Satan’s novitiate, red and black walls of her cell
Reminder of home and Daddy watching from Hell.
Plies her tainted trade, a painted inch at a time
To the highest bidder, any soul,sole investor in slime.
Spindly legs, man made bust, lust of desperate and low
Use and abuse, jackdaw, magpie and crow.
Private enterprise in pollution, that’s her game
Black, white, rich or poor, payment delivered the same.
And the children don’t matter, collect them up in a ball
The taxpayer pays and feeds and clothes them all.
And blackmail’s a bonus, a look of “I don’t forget”
Revisit that Pandora’s Box of fear and regret.
A virgin at nine, a harlot at ten, at twelve a nakker complete
The world was her orchard and Adam a fool at her feet.
And she went on her mission of conquest and pain
Each man a target resisted her magnet in vain.
She fooled them and ruled them and promised the world to each
But they all were shipwrecked on petulant promise’s beach.
And John he was there and Thomas was too
and every man in the Shire,
And many compared their notes of this harlot for hire.
And each one would claim it was an adventure in vain,
Yet each one would say in his turn “I’d do it again”.
She’ll rise with the dusk and sally, sure of her mark.
The dogs in the street know she’s one of them, won’t even bark.
Jezebel’s sister in hand-me-down gowns of the trade,
Eyes like a primitive lizard, tongue like a butcher’s blade.
Her babbies like liquorice allsorts; take what you get,
With a small bit of luck Daddy might hear of you yet.
With thirty approaching she switches the mirror in vain,
And orders the wrinkles to go into hiding again.
Change hair and change face, try changing disgrace
and you’ll get what we think you’d get in our place:
A ticket back home to hell and to Pops and a low stool by the hob,
With special attendants, the morons you’ve serviced; each one devoid of a knob.

Thursday, 22 March 2012

Fraxinus ash

Where does a seed fall?
where will it lie?
In the bed, function junction
between navel and thigh.
What makes a man whole?
What sets him free?
When he learns how to fall
in love with a tree.
I tried to pick it
from briary thicket
From dense forest black
and green woody glen,
From elegant copse
and dark shady nook
to mountainy slopes
and damp furtive fen.
I sought my loved one
this pale elusive bitch
At long last I found her
standing guard at a ditch.
And “what is your name?”
I asked of this lass,
“Check with the grapevine
or my carpet of grass”,
she said with distain,
or scorn or which,
“Maybe you’re Elm?”
“She said I’m no Wych”
“Could your name be Hazel?
Or Holly or Peach,
Olive or Poplar
Or Cherry or Beech?”
She said “they’re all cousins
When you’re having a bash
For shame sir, My name sir
Is Fraxinus Ash”.

I confided “I’m thinking
Of wedding a tree,
But I must be supplied
with a recent CV”.
She said, “my nephews
Are hurleys, pliant and strong,
My branches a stage
For blackbird’s sweet song,
My uncle a table
To show off your fare
And aunties a handle
Her sister a chair.
My fruit’s a samara
Like my best friend Maple
‘Spinning Jenny’ in England
My religion is Papal.
I supply the wan colour
When you’ve been disgraced
You’ve heard of the phrase
‘now he’s ashen faced’.
My shelter and colour
A lifetime will last,
I provide my own wardrobe
When winter is past.
I love my friend, day,
And the dark blessed night
My bark is Gods gift
I don’t have a bite.
Every artist can paint me
I know how to wait
And when my life’s over
I’ll brighten your grate.
Please sir search where you will
And spend all your cash
But you’ll always come home
To Fraxinus Ash.”
When no one was looking
On left bended knee
I appealed to her leaves
and proposed to my tree.
I still guard my Fraxinus
From saw, fire and stack
And from that day to this
I’ve never looked back.

Wednesday, 7 March 2012

The Asses Back

The dusk slid easily down, like the britchen
And the hames from the asses back.
My father gave a nuzzle to the weary mare
And slapped her flanks, got a nuzzle back.
Sacks of new spuds, golden wonders,
Traces of lime, streaky chalk,
Stored in the back house, dark and cool,
Newly risen from their mother, withered stalk.
A handful of oats, a draw from the well,
Locked loose in the garden, watered and fed,
Mother had the table cloth out for tea
Smell of linseed, fresh butter, brown bread.
And father reliving the feats of the field
Post mortem slice of a fresh killed pig,
He told the mother how we worked as a team
That next year I would have to dig.
And the old man dug all the drills again
And I filled the hempen sacks,
mother was told of our Trojan work
And the humps upon our backs.
The ass nibbled the shoots of green
And never once complained
Every day of toil was the same to her
Like the garb of the newly ordained.
Herself gave us a slice of currant cake
A dessert of sorts, I suppose,
And the mare fell asleep in the garden
With the dew settling on her nose.
I recall that day of the first of the crop
How my Dad and me were the men
Providing for the hungry horde,
I still think of the ass now and then.