Thursday, 29 March 2012

Is Britain Broke?

Luton Town is very much a town.
As I look out from my window
The buildings don't so much headbutt the skyline as shy away from it
Negative stories fill national newspapers

From the Extreme to the Far Right
And Paddys Day gave us all a break
With some cultural positivity
But I still woke the next day with a head-ache

The town's not so much grey as multi-coloured
And as the High Street closes down
You can't help but frown when you hear rioters had to travel
To the next town for something worthwhile to rob

There was no looting in Luton
But the train got smashed up
By a mob, mashed up on cheap booze with nothing to lose
But a bag full of free stuff

Is Britain broken?
Because no one seems to be broke
They still watch widescreen T.V. and it must be a joke
Because no one is going cold turkey over a tax hike on hot food

Is Britain really broke?

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

It's not actually a concrete JUNGLE

You're not really from the concrete jungle, it's just a grey forest
The only thing concrete about you
Is those big clumpy shoes
You wear on lazy feet

I say lazy because you like to talk, to brag, to boast and come BIG
But you act small...and unless you're backed
By an angry mob,
You don't act at all

Any chump can wield a knife, But it takes a low kind of low-life
To wield that knife
And take a life
It's not a concrete jungle

Just an excuse for youths to revolt and roam wild
It's bleak,
Urban grey
On the brink of civilised.

Sunday, 25 March 2012

A kind of dry wit

No place is more evident of a changing face
Multi-cultural advertisement watch this space
I was king of the night...I knew it only too well
But now I too conform to a changing face

I knew it only too well
'til bang, new years and the strike of the bell
I turned old, or grey,
And new years day found a change in ways
From king of the night to a participant of day

I was only learning, and I fell of my imaginary perch
Debauchery's not religion...nights not a church
Now Sunday morning I'm awake when the church bell chimes
But all Sunday morning means is Sunday Times
Instead of the beat of a drum and a mouth full of grime

It's nice to wake with a mouth still moist
And participate through my own free choice
I jump out of bed and without even yawning
I nip outside and participate in morning

I zigzag down dodging the past nights puke points
And arrive in town slightly smug with my viewpoint
With a clear head there's room for inspiration
Without fear of failure for my aspirations

My sheets don't stink, there's no sick on my shoe
My heart still beats at a normal rate
I'm not fiddling around with a pocketful of change
Stomping around in a world of pain
Cursing my choice to live life lagging in the bus lane

Wednesday, 7 March 2012

Britain...A Country in Recession

FB Mob

Now they no longer
Run, when you stamp your foot, they
Puff out their chests, I'd call it a strut!!!
Smashing and looting, they no longer take flight
Uniform riot, scarf covered face and hooded head
Hoards of obese pigeons, shamefully scrounging
Can't afford nuffink, posing for pics
With their swag, the sorry state
Of the FB mob

Almost Multi-Coloured Boy

I saw an almost multi-coloured boy

The only colour about him true
Were sparkling eyes of deepest blue
With a nose and mouth of almost red
From sniffing glue to numb his head
Skin almost green, hair almost white
From malnutrition and sleepless nights
More problems than most, with bruises to
Beaten almost black and almost blue
Feeling of shame, I'm taken aback
He revealed my own heart to be black
For upon seeing him I must say

I just wished he'd go away.


I miss
The annoying ping.
Elastic has stretched,
Gone are
The stomping days.

They clip
Onto my trousers.
They could,
Make me look,
Like a scruffy skinhead,

Or a smart Grandad.
They were
I don't feel Special anymore

They got
At fancy dress.
The worry
Is turning me grey.

Saturday, 3 March 2012

Camden Town

Graffiti'd walls never seemed so at home
Snarling punks
Congregate on the brige

More than content
To wander alone
Doc's for the skins, Cons for cool kids

Dublin Castle to Dingwalls to Loch 32
Speed or weed
From the man on the street

Eyes aghast
A human zoo
Pricked ears search for familiar beats

Thinking or Drinking?

I'm a worrier and a thinker
I worry and I drink
About day's gone,
And what the day will bring

Time flies
And worries disappear
More oft than not replaced with beer
It's hard to think
After a night on the drink

I'd rather feel a little bit queer
Than be sober and worry
As I lie here
So I say as I think

It's worrying and thinking
That drives us to drinking
So fill up your glass
And empty it fast
And let them all disappear

Upside Down

The wind beats down upon my back
The sun is howling through my ears
The snow is warming up my hands
The rain is drying up my tears

In Autumn the world begins to flower
To get nice and dirty I jump in the shower
The poor eat, and live like Kings
Birds sleep, while people sing

Children fight, parents get along
And kids teach adults right from wrong
Feelings of joy, expressed with a frown
Or am I just upside down

Sober Judge

Is it fair to be a sober judge?
And tell a drunk he's had too much?
'I don't care if I see the 'morrow,
So please just let me drown my sorrow!'
Or is it fair for him to sit there,
Smelling like shit, dressed like a bum
And why indeed should one hold one's tongue
When plain as day, or a pretty penny
He's had a skinfull more than one too many