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   ..

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

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       ..

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

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

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

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  ..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the angry knocking
and the insistence
I open the door

couldn’t help wondering
what was behind it

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

just a glove, which everyone takes off
with well honed mimicry,
knuckles exposed, brittle *****
in their lack of symmetry, groaned
as they all have a hand in correctly mocking
all the above

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  ..

use a stick since my stroke
approximately four years
ago it was when I last ran for a
bus, but I don’t miss it

rather write detective fiction
than poetry but I wouldn’t
be any good at it, and what’s
the difference? she says

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

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

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

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

feel unsteady, seems windier than
it used to be -
don’t know if it’s a climate change thing,
or just me

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

ate our sandwiches sitting
on the steps leading up to
the art gallery
it’s a matter of taste, she says

nigel farage is a joke
is it’s on his fans the lies that aren’t
quite so funny for the rest of us, either
said the old bloke  ..

opened a bottle of scotch
“how’s that going to help?”
ever tried drinking this stuff
with the lid on    ..

d h lawrence was writing
beat poetry circa 1929 with his collection
of poems called pansies, but man, they’re
something else

ok so I’m alcohol dependent
you got a problem with that ?

most people around here
take democracy for
granted they vote for the fascist  ..

the first time we met
I loved her face
but I fancied her legs
and I know that’s
sexist and objectification
but we’ve been
married for thirty two years
so who cares

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

alas
a loss
unless
undressed
the poor old
chap was loved
I guess
her curls
in swirls
around his chest       ..

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

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

as she closed the
door behind her
mind was made up

people tend to comment on
the content or subject of a poem,
rather than the form or the style
it out, mate, style it out

don’t like restaurants
are full of people
who could have stayed
at home and cooked

the castle on the hill
   is a ruin
still ruing the day when
  it fell
but I doubt there’s a case
     now for suing
worth
    pursuing
although I suppose one
   can never tell

why do people dislike politics
so much that they
prefer mob rule over civilised debate
is better than hate

a sunday roast
washed down with a pint
got back on the coach
and belched.
what more do you want     ..

used to think I’d like
to get to know you,
but I don’t, anymore

last time I wrote a poem that
was
any good was on the late lamented
deep underground poetry site about an elderly woman on the
bus who offered me a boiled
sweet,
I thought,
but no, thanks     ..

looking back
on our old haunts
me still    ..