"harrods" poems
I saw Agnes outside Harrods
Looking tres chic, le chic
I say darling, what's happening, sweetie
where's your Wainpatrik from the sticks
our erudite writer who thinks aspic is pate
I gave that hick the 'go find your level'
Agnes replied with a smile
You know how it is with him and his drivel
that coarse, crude, pretentious oik without a shovel
He tries to be intelligent but his head is full of gravel
bathes once a fortnight and has a todger like a weasel
You can't beat good breeding, she continues
those reconstituted barrow-boys
with B-Tech English thinking they are now genuine
Lacks confidence, style, self assurance, wet as the Rhine
******* in the boudoir, sloppy kisser, todger like a string
Bully and a coward trolling on his stolen PC, has no spine
Hey, lets **** down round my pad, she purred
You may be out of shape at the moment
But who's cooler, more charismatic and interesting than vous
Do you know you're the best I have ever had and I mean it too
You're head and shoulders above Wainputrid and that's so true
The twerp is so envious of you, he and his barrow mates stew
Tales of your exploits and size just leaves them aghast and askew
Hahaha...haha..she laughs as she linked arms, a glint in her eyes!
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
He is a gentle, lonely man
Looking for love
But willing to accept
company, and comfort.
He is crying alone, now,
In a vast and empty bed
Having said goodbye to another someone
Twelve hours later than advisable.
Those transient lovers
Are always impressed with his beautiful house,
His designer bed, with Harrods sheets
Everything white, and the best of the best.
He tells them he's an architect, and it shows
In the immaculacy,
But last night he took home a builder
To ***** and rumple those pristine sheets,
And he wished for an excuse to knock through the walls
And tear it all down,
So he could keep him, to rebuild.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
your cell phone vibrates like a pixie on a train.
smooth as a glass baby's
loose Blue Tooth
in Vaseline
you were miles away from my empty pail of rain
a watermark on the moon, maybe
you knew every
thing ?
maybe you do, maybe i'm drinking my lunch.
you amuse the air i breathe through my skin
like a pearl soothes an oyster
in a bed of nails
and spring.
your ******* are amazing.
you are vishnu at harrods. an airy gorgeous.
a gourd of palpable kiss.
you are the meaning of senseless joy
and the engines
of yes.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
Tell me this,
how nice is paradise
is everything free
or is it cut price
Is it Harrods or a Tesco?
That's what I'd like to know.
Do you sit do you sing
do you do anything
or do you just float in the air
are there many up there?
can you fall in love
or is it just him up above you adore
what do you wear?
I care to know.
One day I'll go and give it a shot
will you forget me not?
in the gardens of Eden we'll meet
parting is not sweet
just bitter.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 4:28 AM UTC
I love the hunted not the hunt.
Pursued, they want to hold your warm heart,
My trophy, gold-gleaming and thunders with love,
Proceeding from your great soul's core.
More beautiful than a rainbow.
Maybe you consider yourself a messenger,
Megaphone for the wisdom oppressed.
Fifty years now you have, wide-eyed,
Rendered the world with beauty,
And Proustian sensual bliss.
Pacing little alleys with just my passport and mauve dress
I crawl towards the dead-end, its van
And its suited men; they point and laugh.
To save myself I turn back, run;
A car swerves in, fast as a gun.
An obsidian dread engulfs my heart,
Running faster, ever fast
Underneath the emerald green parasols of Harrods.
I am the hunted now, they want my heart
Too. For being one who is kin to you.
Anarchy on the streets, I scream!
And then as if on the zephyr of a dream
You, abrupt, enter my sight,
Drifting through the pacing crowd
And I turn back, to distract the police.
Counting the beats of my thundering heart
I, coy, catch glances. You glance back.
Seeing you return, your back, head to the ground, the lady officer swivels,
Sees you! Fills my heart with dread.
I do not flinch: the questions resume.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
I am a man living in a house made of boxes
some are posh, others are bedraggled, anything to keep away those **** foxes
I started with a base build, long and robust, its where I have my open window above
only a square mind, it couldn’t be too big although it’s what I’d really love
No corridors or an upstairs en-suite
no no no, not in this hovel, now that really would have been a treat
The big names placed accordingly out there on the front entrance
Amazon to Harrods, Waitrose to Marks, leftover Poundland to build my fence
The roof a leftover roll of industrial cellophane wrap
my outdoor toilet just by the tree, a forest en-suite but no basin or tap
cooking can be a pain as a fire really could spread
a front room so small I eat my dinner from my bed
Now don’t let people tell you you're just some smelly old ***** as you are not
it's just a wrong decision I made in life, now this is how I survive and to camp
the boxes build a structure of life that is not always sturdy and stable
but if that’s how my life went, now I’m just bottom of some table
For this is my home
my refuge
my rest
my result
Remember, we all live a different life, just be grateful for what you have
The Box House
JJB
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
My legs burn, my teeth bite into chain-steel,
The lever of a radius - my wheel.
I am attached on many levels to allow
Acceleration and braking, only through pedals.
Life seems a fiery time-lapse of lights
As I feel evolved - my air is spiked.
The rush of risk, driving me to live, move.
Distilled liquor of Man's ingenuity propels me.
Tube, link, cog, chain, lock-ring, cork, alloy.
A bicycle Cossack charging the marauder, lines of
Barbarians keeping their metal defences high.
Red is blood. Green is grass. All new symbology lost.
I flow like water, mind at once empty
And full of flashing, raw animal intensity -
Sixth sense turned up to eleven
A roadblock turns and steps, I see it in slow-mo.
Harrods Hamleys tourist, an alien unprepared
I predict, see, smell and react - thinking for them, too.
Before I am ever registered, a shadow: I am gone
Trickled away through gnarled city fingers.
My strides geared by a loved machine
Into motion at once manic and serene.
Gritty, visceral yet wrapped in velvet cloth
Beauty, tradition, belonging and souplesse.
I am a working rider on a crest of euphoria.
A day-full of rain slides easily off my skin,
As limited others forget how waterproof they are
And deny gifts of movement and life. And riding.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
My British husband and I were visiting his folks in London on 9/11/01. It was afternoon and we were in St Pancras tube station when I caught the tail end of a news crawl moving across the wall. I said “ mmm…looks like there’s been a plane crash somewhere", and we went on about our shopping excursion.
After choosing a model car in a toy shop a little later, we went to pay and the young clerk I spoke to said “Did you hear about the planes that hit the skyscrapers and made them fall down?” That didn’t make any sense, and I wasn't sure I understood his East End accent so I just said, “No we didn’t - guess we should check the news” and we walked out. As we went out, I said, “I guess another little plane hit the Empire state Building, but it certainly wouldn’t fall down.”
However, on the tube on the way home, we overheard bits of conversation that frightened us, so we rushed in and turned on the TV, where they replayed every terrible scene over and over for the rest of the day.
We were glued to the Telly for the next 3 days for round-the-clock coverage.
When we finally ventured out and anyone heard my American accent, I was immediately hugged and told how sorry they were to see this happen. This continued for the following three weeks of our stay. Never anything but sympathy and kindness towards me and America. I’ll never forget it.
I wonder if we were so caring when Irish terrorists previously bombed Harrods. I somehow doubt it. The other thing I will never forget is the burning hatred that welled up in me for Sadam Hussein who was named at the time as being responsible. I had never before or since felt such virulent loathing for any one or anything. When those thoughts threaten to resurface today, I shush them away by recalling the overwhelming kindness of the ordinary English folk towards me. I will never forget that.
I saw Ground Zero shortly afterwards, and the hatred resurfaced, as it does in some measure on every September 11. On those times I again turn to my memories of British kindness.
ljm
Sep 12, 2023
Sep 12, 2023 at 11:32 AM UTC