"holborn" poems
No Values
just statues of accountants who could never learn to count
and mounted on the spikes,where business is displayed and laid out for the world to see in naked abject poverty
are chief executives and heads of lesser known departments who never meant to cook the books
but fell for fortune and her looks and took that chance to spread their wings
and now the wind that whistles sings
and passes through their empty eyes ,and flapping flesh drips off dry bones of arms that never meant to harm.
No charmed lives left in Holborn or in Chancery lane,where solicitors were in on the game of taking risks
and risks they took
another spike and one more hook for the fallen wig,who still seems regal but not as big as what he thought legal.
They bought but never owned the sky or stole it from the smaller fry who swam around the edges and the shadows in society
and we,
the ripped off,stripped off,sing dirges to their loss but me,I couldn't give a toss
let them burn and turn slowly on the spit
we'll roast and toast them,
let them boast then of fancy women,fancy cars and fancy meals in fancy bars.
These czars have gone the way of old
where bold men.bad men always fold in two
and the wind blew tears that fell to splash on piles of once extorted cash and though accountants cannot count
judges learn to mount the steps and put their heads in hangman's ropes and any hopes they entertain of clemency go down the drain along with
any gains they ever made.
Those who laid beside the wide boys of this world and opened eyes into another where they couldn't even bother to see just who they hurt
have lost their shirts,ripped off their backs,attacked by those that they attacked and now the axe is on the other foot where once a boot was kicked into my ****
so good luck you *****
I hope your bodies fall to bits
and you end up burning in the pits
alongside the others that have sinned
in the end
no one wins
the voodoo dolls of life are stuck with pins
and the devil grins and hums his tune.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Eye Shadow
Central line,
Standing, clinging on, shaking.
There, sitting oblivious to all,
A face in the crowded carriage.
Liverpool Street
Black eyeliner is painted neatly,
Bank,
A pale grey shade softens the right lid,
St Paul’s,
The left eye shaded,
Chancery Lane,
A darkened shade deftly applied,
Holborn,
A flick of mascara.
Perfect.
The doors open
And the world floods out.
The perfect mask remains.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Hands turning blue
Ice running through
my veins.
no longer the season of goodwill
and it will not be again and until
the Summer runs in
In its bare feet.
ruggedly sluggish in leaving a trail
down on the tube every day
without fail
Generally,
in matters of colour
blue is my favourite
but
on days like this
when the cold makes me miss
the hot summer sun
I could go for a tangerine
an aquamarine
an orange or lemon,
must put my gloves on.
The draft through the door rushes in and pushes cold air in my face
oh God
I have to get out
leave no trace
can't face another day
living this way.
Mercury freezes if mercury can and if mercury can then so can this man,
they'll end up chipping me out of an ice block.
Old Holborn
for a smoke
but it's the station
I'm sat in
no smoking allowed.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
This is for those blind drunk old factory workers,
staring at their burly-early days gone by.
With a twist and shift of sand dry Old Holborn smoke
dragging the last drip drop slither of moisture from their crinkly-cut
red river mouth, whisky worn noses.
Stood basking in the try-so-hard sunlight of a watery greasy fork scented morning,
lent,
one denim arm,
against the fake sandstone slant of yet another high rise, glass front pub-restrau-cafe,
a catastrophic glimpse at the character death of the Northern English inner city.
The sweat snort stagger home of the old factory worker,
working 'like a turk',
to breath,
see,
walk,
and remain continent all at once,
and at all times forever more.
Lukewarm and stale when both down and in,
and up and out.
99pence per pint, 99pees per day.
The terrific scream of a living liver,
drowning its decay in discount Lonsdale but-but-but-it's just one more bitter.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
Jumping into the deep end,
let them find me now shattering all illusions and intruding on the why and how and where am I? but here still thinking deep.
In sleep there is a limitless draft to fill this cup and oftentimes I overflow into another dreaming, if another dream can thus protrude from this my dreaming overload and if all roads lead to one, which one and where?
I care to take a coffee, cake and break this fast, this endless task, this is a time to sit and make new plans.
This man's no friend to man not beast nor forest tree and in his singularity, uniquely and this one and only never lonely in his own company
is me.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
There's a woodpecker pecking in my head at night,
peck
pecking away,
I think he pecks
to peck away
the remnants of my
every yesterday.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Hoodies oh goodie I'm in for a treat,
I shall pull up a chair and put up my feet
the show is about to begin.
In the red corner is ***** he looks a bit ropey, wouldn't trust him with a dog on a lead.
And in the blue corner weighing in at some tonnage from Sandwich in Kent,
is bald headed Bob who looks a bit of a **** with his pink leotard trying hard not to be the **** that he is.
Showbiz Sally's getting really rather pally with my right leg, she'd beg to differ, but something's getting s... Wait.. Ha, a comb in my pocket and I nearly broke it or 'Brock it' as they say up Lancashire way.
St. Paul's just a stop on the way to the bank and Bob's just told Frank of his love.
And the crew is cast out at Holborn, I doubted they'd stay,
for more entertainment one needs the circle line,
I'm on my way.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
They're either sleeping or they're dead
no heads stuck in iPhones today
no make up being made up on the Central line, take up a collection, let's hear it for the deadpan men.
Even at Mile End they'll come to a bad end but the East End was always like that,
stopping at Bethnal which sounds just like Bedlam especially if you've got a cold, well
it's green and I've seen it so time to roll on.
Liverpool Street
hot dogs
old meat
dont buy one
don't try one
I don't want to die
none of that krap for me,
the Bank
be Frank
it's a cesspit
a tank full of sharks,
hark
to St. Paul's
what big bells
what big halls
(Did I write halls?)
never mind
the ***** fall down in
chancery lane,
who plays tennis anyway in
the royal courts
where only justice is
served?
Holborn is
old and smells of Catholics and
tobacco,
the next stop wil be my stop if I stop off and step off this train
but I could go round again if this was the circle line
but it's the Central Line
Wednesday disappoints so many.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 2:33 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Barking!
mad?
No,
but I could be.
This is my journey
London East.
Into the West, an ending best left to the author.
I bought a ticket, wicked.
So I'm going back in time, travel for 1/9 ( that's in old money, real money when money weren't funny money)
Bethnal Green,
I've escaped from greener places,
tower blocks, take aways and sweet shops.
I lean towards Liverpool street where the ancient meet monuments which the City awaits.
Now to the bank, rank outsiders in the honesty stakes,
someone should put the brakes on them men.
Off to St Paul's a majesty of halls, Wren had some ***** putting a dome atop that.
Last stop before Holborn is Chancery lane, lawyers to blame and they're just criminals like all the rest.
Into the West,
an ending
best left
to
the author.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
and then just when it starts to bother me
it rises to hover above me and some voice that I hear deep inside of me says leave it and move far away.
There's a clarity in pearls of wisdom seldom heard in the trappings of stardom, but the message comes through loud and clearly when I hear the voice that sounds near by me.
If a thought that is nothing to mention grabs me and holds my attention
I am nothing I've got
I am nothing If not but a dreamer that's trapped by convention.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
You know where you've been when there's nowhere to go because you've been there before,
in the doorway of no way there's no way to go and you know it,so you
sit in the shadow that's cast by your long face and that's the shadow you know very well.
Very well,
counting your blessings will not buy you a beer,it's not enough for some 'gear' and the good Lord does not always provide
but it's warm here inside,out of the wind and the cold makes you old and being brave is just a 'pup you were sold when you used to believe.
You can't believe anymore,
there's no room for faith when you're outside in a doorway and so God goes his own way and you go on yours,
it's always about doors,the opening and closing,the what if,suppose if I chose another place to sleep,just another sheep that's bleating it seems like I'm meeting the train wreck head on.
I know where I've been,what I've done,where I've run to and from and when I've hit life and,
gone now the roar of the crowd,no one can feel proud in the night,out of sight,in the doorway you just shrink and
eventually
go away.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
The charity survivor drinks a Hari Krishna coffee at the back of Holborn station where the windows of museums stare blankly out on Lincoln's inn fields and the carpenter who watches from the corner by the taxi rank judges no one by their clothing or the way they hold their plastic cups,
the survivors only see themselves in passing car rear windows and in the blinking lights of Chubb security alarms on blackened doorways,
to survive in the impossible is not to look too closely at the person standing next to you or anyone who's scratching and survival is the key to going on and getting somewhere and it doesn't matter anywhere's a good place to move on to
and you drink your Hari Krishna dunking Garibaldi in the coffee donated rather grandly by the ladies from the institute.
Closing time, a clip from time is posted on your forehead and the sandwich in your pocket will have to keep until much later, but anywhere's a good place if you're hungry to be grateful.
Fade into the figments lining your imagination and disappear into the gathering of your day.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
But do I really see them when I'm traveling on the central line?
do I really take the time to take a look?
The window cleaner logo man
reads a book and jammed up next to him is a lady looking very grim,
she's watching me watching him and he's unaware,
but probably in that zone cleaning windows and feeling right at home.
Lots of buns as well
Victorians must have
saved a fortune on hair gel.
Pearl earrings is not a singer
it's what young girl is
wearing
and not an oyster in sight.
People
there's such a large variety
and I only see what I
want to see
if only I could look a
little deeper.
Jarndyce gets off at
Chancery lane
his case comes up after
the crown
versus Abel or is it Cain?
I'm wandering in the inns
but it's time to get out.
Morning Holbein
or it might be
Holborn
I'm just
mooving on.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
I see them sleeping in the street,
down Holborn almost
everyone I meet
has a sleeping bag
inside another bag upon their back.
Knights who travel on the road and
Damsels in distress.
We stack them neatly and we tag,
the moment that the sleeping bag
is laid upon the ground and the bag
upon their back is another thing that
we attack.
Peace,
release and let them be,
they don't bother me if I don't
bother them
but it's time that we as men
should help and then
perhaps,
it won't bother me.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Eats a baguette for breakfast and gets crumbs all over her dress,
this underground journey impresses me less the more that I take it.
He's on a major journey through a mini iPad
which is more than I had at his age
there's a bald man turning the page of the Times, it must be the early edition, a bit late though because the ticket inspectors get on at Bethnal Green and he's taken off
and the old girl with the persistent cough spluttering, spluttering, I gave up complaining at Liverpool street leaving the others to mutter under their breath about pine boxes and death.
Some will change here for the DLR which is an acronym, it's also a light railway but I couldn't bear the weight of it, had to rest and sit a bit, getting on in years see.
It will **** me in the end and in the end we all go underground I'm just practising,
news just in
due to a fire alert at Holborn Station
London will be closed for today
hurrah
I think that's what the announcer said or maybe just wishful thinking going on in my head.
Nearly there
glad I had chance to share with you the tube with no view except for what you see which are
crumbs all over the floor.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
They tell me 'do or die',
but I think if it do it or try I will die so I'm staying away from the mind control men and then I can take things as things ought to be taken
with ice, slowly stirred and definitely not shaken.
This is the rule of thumb for the *** that I am and believe it or not, I find it easy being me, the slowly stirred kind of man.
Shaken is taking it too far, I don't need that kind of shaking and making this spin out is bringing me out in a rash.
Can you spare me some spare cash,
Can you tell me the time?
Is it Holborn we're at yet and does it all rhyme for you?
I do my best, but sometimes I find bends where there should be straights.
Sometimes the fates are kind and sometimes by using me they're amusing one another.
'Pull t'other one', the old man tells me 'it's got bells on'
Well, it's Christmas so I suppose that is right .
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC