In B and B flop-houses, poems I wrote,
Stuffed into damp pockets, of a Donkey-Jacket coat.
Poems about building-sites and too much beer,
Being far from home, despair and fear.
I read them to comrades, who all nodded their heads,
Then went back to sleep, in one room with eight beds.
I read them to lads, who for the first time,
Sat and listened, to words, their rhythm and rhyme.
Folkestone, Dover, Hastings, Brighton and Hove,
I wrote poems, by the light of a Camping Gaz stove,
Describing MY feelings, MY way of life,
Cut straight to the bone, like a Stanley Craft Knife.
The Channel Tunnel, dumpers and cranes,
Concrete burns, bruises, hangovers. . .shame.
Days without eating, nights full of drinking,
Hours on a Shovel, digging without thinking.
Then along came the books, I started reading at night,
Discovered Jack London, by wind-up torchlight.
I read more and more, captivated by books charms,
As my work-mates pursued , bar-maids down the Kings Arms.
Then one day, McNamara, with his belly full of beer,
Came looking for me, called me a queer.
". . .Reading and writing ??? Its NOT for the likes of us. . ."
I agreed begrudgingly, with this. . .. back-end of a bus.
He helped me gather up, my words and my books,
Into a couple of barrows, like scrap-metal crooks,
And wheeled them over, to where we burned the pallets,
Electric cable(for the copper)and broken slab-laying mallets.
They went on the embers, which began to ignite,
And from my caravan window, I watched them burn through the night.
As they glowed, I felt pity, not anger,
At the ****** ignorance, of this eighteen stone Ganger,
Who believed words were impotent, compared to the fist,
Our lives were mapped out, digging trenches, getting ******.
But the books had given me hope, that life was for living,
Not dying at Sixty, when your body just gives in,
Knees knackered, back broken, knuckles dead with rheumatics,
From working in all weathers, holding hammers, pneumatic.
Days later, on a Porta-Loo, McNamara settled down,
With a copy of ******* and a hard-on to pound.
He never smelled the petrol, mesmerised by *******
And pleasured himself, quickly, across the bottom of his vest.
Sparked up a rollie, relieved and relaxed,
Thinking of Fridays time-sheets to be faxed.
We heard the explosion, looked to the sky,
Saw Doctor Who 's Tardis go flying by.
But it wasn't a Time Lord, just a burning box,
With a melting Eighteen stone Ganger, still holding his ****.
McNamara, was identified by the fillings in his teeth,
And buried, by the Council, just outside Haywards Heath.
If I hadn't continued writing, McNamaras threats, defied
No-one would know about him, or the way that he died.
Books and words are everything, they lift the mind
and they raise the anchor,
And they let me tell your tale, McNamara. . . .
How you lived and died. . .a ******.
Poetry is for everyone, not just a select few.