Over red wine I did not get the off-
side rule. Well, I doubt I’ll understand
now we’ve ended. At least I beat the toff
out of you. It seemed that way at hand,
at least. The Wall put up a good fight,
made me think it a battle I could win.
Ball went over wall, I watched its flight
unaware that what I’d done was thought a sin;
Next time I come across a toff like you,
I’ll remember it just can’t be beaten.
It’s a shame because you seemed worth it too,
but then I guess that’s why you pay for Eton.
My life goes on, pretending I’m not sad,
while you play the Wall-Game with Prince Harry and your dad.

A fist in Strong Man’s face.
He stares it down with pride.
Opponent’s eyes are narrowed –
Strong Man’s stay bold and wide.

Opponent throws the insult;
it splats on Strong Man’s chest,
then trickles down his body
‘til at his feet it rests.

Defiant, Strong Man clenches
his fists and bites his lips –
where lands a soft-boiled insult
which cracks and smells and drips.

A third one cracks upon his head,
trickles into his eye.
Opponent mistakes it for a tear,
stands straight then leaves with pride.

Strong Man watches Mother Hen
as she leaves with satisfaction.
Strong Man is left alone once more;
once more, he didn’t take action.

He wipes away the egg white
but still there stains the yolk.
He feels a lump stuck in his neck;
a tear, on which he chokes.

It’s all over Weak Man’s MySpace
(might as well be on the news),
it’s in his MSN name;
he has no face to lose.

He’s always been so open,
(worn his heart upon his sleeve);
up pops his Facebook status,
so emotional, every eve.

Then a phone call to his friends
(tears muffling the line).
After listening for hours,
the verdict is “It’s fine.”

His jury is so kind
(one sided sympathy).
They do the trick for Weak Man;
they are what sets him “free”

He looks through some old photos
(sunglasses and a smile)
turns up his brand new ipod,
reminisces for a while.

Up gets Weak Man from his chair,
Looks out his bay window,
and on his face a nice new grin,
who’s the strong man now?

As holy Bacchic rituals
float vague across my mind,
I look ahead and twiddle
my thumb with one behind.

As pagan prayers of Christians
are recited in my head,
I look up and feel a droplet;
I wish that I was dead,

for as pagan Bacchic rites
form paintings before my eyes,
I can’t help but let one trickle;
this was not my planned demise.

I write for many reasons.
Most too hard to explain,
but once I start my writing,
it becomes almost a game;

I’m player one, Literacy two,
I feel it then he rhymes,
and so we work together –
it doesn’t take much time.

Which is why too many syllables
sometimes mean I am offbeat –
that is Literacy taking lead
but I won’t accept defeat!

I was asked by a man who laughed all day
about love, to which he was a stranger.
Or so he claimed. I said “If that’s so, pray
tell me how you laugh like one in danger
of realising that that ring of rejection
could leave you in a limbo of grimace
and grin, in a stupor of reflection
on their whims, remarks and wonderful grace;
a state where, to you, there is no meaning
in most things you do when they’re not there too,
like working, watching, writing and reading;
each thought has to be recorded for you
to give them next time you meet in a mixture
of breathlessness, wide-eyed love-lust and vigour.”