a man of letters
who pens
upon
trivial matters in convivial inns
where his life is spent
almost invariably
in tatters       ..

aren’t as many second hand
bookshops on the charing cross road as
there were when I was younger
of course, so were they   ..

this is all knew
I’d find it odd
my dear

as I get older people
get fewer and fewer

this is where I live
I’d ask you in
but it’s a mess

dressed to ****
and well yes there was
blood on her
skirt but I know
that’s not what
you meant

“I’ve had enough,” you
said, pushing away your plate,
but looking at me     ..

threw it aside
thinking of course
a poem is never

as good as
it might have been,
though    ..

some days my legs work better
than others look at me oddly
as I clutch onto the railings, the wall
and you, you most of all  ..

frightfully british but
also roman catholic
ate no meat on a friday
was always fish and chips

do I hate the rascists
or the immigrants
I hate the rascists

got a couple of tickets for
the theatre if you’d
like to go? yes I would, actually.
goodbye

café society meant
a bit of a natter
over a cup of tea -
we’re not french

hid a poem in a tree in
the woods
but they cut it down
to just a couple of words

of course, looking on
the bright side can
ruin your eyes  ..

wanted to write something upon
westminster bridge
but since wordsworth had already scuppered me
completely
I went back to the pub    ..

old bloke in the pub says
buy me a pint and I’ll be grateful
for ever mate, neither of us
have got that long       ..

saw a chicken up
a tree and
no one
believes me

you were crying and shaking as you tried
to explain you’d spent the night
with somebody else
well, as long as he makes you happy    ..

can’t see a way out at all
     wherever one looks there’s just wall
    and yes, one solitary gate
      whereby they gather to await
    the old fool

old bloke in the pub says
he’s drunk on the unfulfilled hopes
of his youth
but in truth it’s the scotch

if you haven’t read any of the
british library crime classics, then
what is there left to talk about, muttered
the old bloke down the pub

apparently the geese in russia
are bigger than the pyramids in egypt
now that’s proper gander

told as a boy if you cut a worm in half
half of it survives
but we’re not worms
boys just put down your knives

in 1979 I watched vera brittain’s testament of
youth on the BBC and bought the book
and read wilfred owen
and discovered horror and beauty and poetry

went into the second hand bookshop
I said hi, what’s new?

apparently relationships
have to be worked at, we laughed    ..

looking at st paul’s from
across the river I see
someone looking back   ..

let’s do lunch tomorrow
not sure if I can make it
I’m not asking you to cook

just
        going
                    through
a don’t
                              want to
  write any
                     more
  of
        that
                     scotch
left?

light is the lilt
of a flute
at dusk
in a quiet square

your heart is just a pump, love
and if I broke that
you’d be dead, but you’re not      ..

love to walk alone
through the city
streets are not just for grown
ups a daisy!

the angry knocking
and the insistence
I open the door

couldn’t help wondering
what was behind it

we’re both getting old,
but she still has dignity and desirability
and a demure sensuality and
all I have is a cough

leaves him alone
in the wood
are all he has    ..

don’t get me wrong
I like trains;
it’s just getting on

sitting in a pub writing
a poem but it
wasn’t very good and the
beer was awful

someone stops the road sweeper
and asks him the way;
he says, like this     ..

just recently discovered
   christina rossetti on a second
hand book stall
  down the market there were
others shouting their wares so much louder,
   but who cares

p g wodehouse and
john betjeman made
life seem worth living
just to read them    ..

he said I don’t know why
I ever went out with you ..
she said but you didn’t go out
with me, we just happened
to leave at the same time  ..

stevie smith was the
greatest poet of her
age, but what’s her
age got to do with it

o’hara should have
been a little more careful
on the road
perhaps wasn’t his thing

old bloke in the café reads his
newspaper religiously
over breakfast every morning and
thanks God for letting him be
for now

what’s with this whole twenty
first century internet
thing about having followers,
I mean I feel like a stalker

people find me cold,
which is also
how they leave me

lived in lewisham for a while
it was alright  
but then she grew bored and I grew
bored with her growing bored
and staying out all night
and south east london ain’t the end of the
world

the pub at lunchtime
is quiet, he says,
I’m eating

love museums full of stone age
artefacts, the odd roman sandal or two
and victorian pottery, and all
those insects skewered beneath glass cases
not solved by pulling faces
at what our ancestors got up to