"battersea" poems
Her countenance,
had long given up the ghost
Twilight tried to allay the ravelling .
She needed resilience,
for those fiery Sunday visits
endured by her confused Son.
Trumping by prevarication,
until no more, she retorted.
Her honeysuckle dreams
turn ramshackle.
Those plumes of bonfire smoke
before and the after, differ now
on contrite compost.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
The inner city is relocating
every day there's new direction,
sash windows replaced by double-glazing
robust masonry sandexted,
the muffling of the bespoke past proceeds.
Yet Parties and boom music,
testify to weekend strain,
Sometimes we get more than we need !
How I have longed to reside in Catsfield
nr Pudding Hill Lane
amongst the 888 parishioners
and live with a Battersea rescue cat
a victim of London neglect,
someone's got to live with Phoenix rising, I suppose.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
Her ruffled hair and trailing headphone
she stands amongst the seated
perhaps impervious to inconvenience.
Her momentary gaze out of the darkened window
sheds her personality
she meet life on an even keel
thoughtful
honest and assured over
never intending to surrender her
next stop Battersea Park.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
i'm sure a dog be able to build you a house.
i fed a Kaiser bun to a homeless dog
outside a Warsaw bus station once,
homeless dogs are a big thing in
poland... it's not exactly the heaven
of Battersea, but that's where they're heading;
one dog in the triumphant fountain
left stranded to drown...
dogs... dogs... why would i feel more
for dogs? if i'm waiting to be example
akin i'll be glad to die a second time,
with what's hardly worth imagining,
as feeding the stray dogs of Warsaw...
with the haven for dogs south of the Thames
at Battersea; dogs held to ***** above man.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
You told me somewhere yesterday and somewhere else the day before that what we're really waiting for
is an omen from some shaman who lives in Battersea or was it Tooting, but I'm counting on the abacus
there's three beads for the two of us and one bead for the shaman if he's a man at all,
there is word out on the corner stone, a marker, come home alkadry or don't dry out just stay out where the termites hone their skills on autocue pro forma wills and will you dine with god tonight or will it be the devils light you see?
The omen comes and with a codicil, old ladies, laughing gums upon the white washed window sill, I still admire the old girls with desire, with that tiny bit of fire that won't let go,
I know I do go on a bit and most of what I write is gold haha, **** would've rhymed there, why didn't I think of it)
I'm too old to give a monkeys ***
gold or **** is just the same to me
each one has its poetry,
the shaman doesn't see it
I'm not surprised
at all.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
No barons down in Earls court and no Surrey in the quays
the underground's a mess if names are things that please
in Raynors lane there's rain again
in Catford there are mice
in Epping it is epic and I think that's awful nice,
In Battersea there is no sea
in Clapham they don't clap
at shooters hill they don't shoot guns
and Network East's a trap.
In Stepney there are several steps
in deptford they sink under debts
nothing gets me on my way than to pass through Green lanes, Harringay, now I don't know many gays down there but I'm friends with some
up in Sloane square
no Knights in Knightsbridge anymore
no Kings at Kingly court
Bradford's not in Bingley either
neither here nor there nor in Trafalgar Square will you see any ships
But the underground's a fabulous place for going out on trips.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
It's an eye for an eye
and swap a truth
for a lie,
they either **** you or
we'll let you die.
Kindness,
a mess
in a pickle.
In the end, when unseen
and the fairy King changes
into the wicked old Queen and
all the cards
have been marked,
my ignition
catches the sparks
and I come to life.
Old men.
Generally speaking in private
when old men are dribbling or leaking
I keep to myself,
safer that way when the window's
the only way out.
Poetry bothers me much
more than old chimneys
that smoke
down in Battersea.
Anathema.
I smoke **** in order to be
insufficiently free of
deficiency,
which is in any case
all Greek to me.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
I want no prize for telling
the lies that you
wanted to hear.
I'm here
you're there
we are somewhere
in between.
Kings and Queens and
men of means
and ladies indulging
in leisure.
A pleasure,
he says,
to do business these days
with those whom I feel
are genteel.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
After I left, on my first night
Prompted my journal, describe your now past life
Perhaps, things like:
The telephone boxes,
The theatre, the foxes,
Ben, Battersea or the eye.
At worst, at best, simple a request
But against my behest,
I Immediately flustered
As only memory my mind mustered:
That feeling felt when I caught your eye
And I just wasn’t ready to ask myself why
I wasn’t able to say
goodbye.
I guess what often said is true,
Like what last heard to me from you:
You run from things you cannot deny.
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 4:08 PM UTC