The dads on the bus go, "Not right now,
Not right now,
Not right now,"
the dads on the bus go, "Not right now,"
all day long.

Primary to pastel
to lights, darks

to static and noise
to nothing.

The old man ice-axes
memory mountain.

Some echo, some glimpse
of all he's lost

is all he seeks.
But all there is

in unpictured void,
scuttling, spidering

denying the light -
a parasite alphabet

barring windows
spinning webs -

the words for which
he once was famous

******* the juice from
all they ever meant.

While lesser spectres
span the spectrum

dreams and photons
undrowned in ink.

In search of distractions from fractured reactions
to viral infections conflicting us all
The beast on my shoulder gets meaner, gets colder
gets thinking of things that could do with a fall
Collapsing contentment and rising resentment
As vicious suspicions maliciously twist
And virally spiral compiling with ire all
the lists of the villains who wouldn’t be missed.
It’s easy, a breeze, to believe this disease
is a key to relieve us of troublesome foes
Let karma disarm those who lead us to harm
in whatever the form that enrages you most
But I can’t let it happen, can’t fall for that pattern
and so I shall seek a superior spell
A quick incantation from nation to nation –
I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
Though losing my patience in self-isolation
my station is not to condemn or to curse
We’re scared, unprepared, we’re deserving of care
We are all of us human – no better, no worse
It’s easy to send all my prayers to my friends
to extend my concern to my own personnel
but when all’s said and done we are all of us one
and I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
The bog-rolling, bankrolling blinkered baboons
who believe that their need is more urgent than yours
The greedy, the needy, the selfish, the seedy
who’d climb over corpses to capture the cures
To wish them destruction, distress or dysfunction’s
to sanction the strife that’ll send us to hell
There’s only one thought that can stifle the rot –
I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
The braggard, the swaggard, the ****-stirring blackguard
who puffs and parades and proclaims it a hoax
However prophetic, profound and poetic
the justice would be if you choked on your jokes
You’re only mistaken, a place often taken
by me and by you and by everyone else
You may be a fool, may be callous and cruel
But I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
The fashion for passion has stirred us to action
Habitual friction, regrettable, crass
I know that I need just a moment to breathe
my rage can engage when the danger is passed
From Daisy to Doris, from Donald to Boris
we’re part of a chorus for good or for ill
We loathe and we love and we hug and we shove
And I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.

From the first blink of daylight,
the first breath of air
I will be cared for
and then I will care.

But he hijacks your mind, you see -
you start thinking
in pithy vignettes
and seeing ancient injustice
in a drunkard's bloodshot eyes

The universal
in the particular -
God, aye! Sheep
as avatars
for all society
and majesty in language
as it's spoken, and heard.

Then you imagine him
hiding other poets' books
behind his own
in Waterstone's in Dumfries,
and remember -
he's as human as you,
thank ****.

The jackdaws shared
their plans with me
in silver glances,
subtle gestures
quiet but relentless

The plans
were appalling
horrific
inhuman
and yet
made perfect sense

I bore
the burden
home
began to pack
but stalled
midway

There really is
nothing for it
but to wait.

Track 1: guitar - J. Connoly
                  engineered by Rodney Watson.
                  Do you even know what an engineer does?
                  Thought not.

Track 2: This one was written by our bass player who, quite frankly,
                    rather hoped that people would be dancing or making love to
                    it.  Not sitting on their fat backsides, stroking their chins and
                    stoking up on music trivia like you are.

Track 3: The big hit.  You're now old enough to realise
                    that this track was probably selected by
                    a record company executive, at the expense of another,
                    far more ambitious and rewarding track.  The track that
                  should have been here was so clear and concise
                    that no liner notes would have been necessary.

Track 4: This one doesn't sound as good as it did when you were 16.
                    Nothing is as good as it was when you were 16.
                    It wasn't the song that was good: it was being 16.

Track 5: The girl that this song brings to mind is not, however much
                   you may hope it, sitting in a living room somewhere,
                   listening as you listen, and thinking of you.
                   To be absolutely frank, she was never more
                    than slightly fond of you, and even if she had been
                   she would have got over it long ago.  Girls are better that way.

Track 6: You know, you could be outdoors right now, breathing in
                   the cool fresh air and having some new experiences.
                   Living in the past is very unhealthy, and you could stand
                   to lose a pound or two.

Track 7: Even the band think this one is ****: skip ahead.

Track 8: The violin is played by the lead singer's wife.  You never know
                    when that might come up in a pub quiz.

Track 9: By now you're regretting forking out for an album you
                  already owned simply because it is on a new format.  You are
                   wondering if your old pal would like this for Christmas.
                   He wouldn't.

Track 10: When you were a teenager were you keen a) to develop your
                      own identity, bond with your peers and get a grasp of the
                      zeitgeist or b) sit indoors of an evening and listen to your
                      dad's records?  If you answered 'a', then for god's sake turn
                      this crap off and let your kids listen to their own CDs.  If
                      you answered 'b', you probably never had kids, so don't
                     worry about it.

Aye.
There was no police brutality
when we had the vote.
Barely a punch thrown.
We do things right here.
We talk.
We spraff.
We shoot the ****.
We build momentum,
shake foundations,
come within
a midgie's whisker
of doing something amazing

Then we **** it up completely
and write poems about it
for the next couple of centuries.

At least we can still kid ourselves
that it's someone else's fault.