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phil roberts May 2017
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive

In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre

Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here

A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home

                                    By Phil Roberts
The title was a touch of irony....a comparison with Wodehouse family estates and my own beloved council estate.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
you that turmeric has the same properties as saffron, right? oh sure sure, you want yellow rice, you plop a teaspoon of turmeric into the rice being boiled, and ****! out it come, yellow. saffron is for pompous people, but turmeric is the same as saffron, plus? it's way way cheaper, and it does the same job.

at the local (supermarket) -
and i can't feel the bitter loneliness
while walking down an aisle
   of ready-meals...

   to be honest, walking in a graveyard
gives me a more cheerful aura
than walking in the supermarket...

but there's something even more sad
than what i already cited:
   i.e., graveyards seem more abundant
in happiness that supermarket
  aisles...

at the check-out, being asked for my age...
31... beard like pirate,
         just asking: huh?
    dude, you're 24, i'm 31, even when i was
16 i wasn't asked for my age
   buying cheap cider in an offie (off-license)
or a ****-mag (ah, those days,
where you would be publically "shamed"...
but then in the 00s,
        **** sites were infested with
the trojan virus...
           you didn't know which ones were
legitimate)...
  so yeah,
        try buying a ***** mag these days,
ha ha, good luck;
   oddly enough, in belgium there's no
weird aura buying such a mag...
                       even if you're under-age.

so back to the supermarket...
            people just desperate for a conversation,
to break the professionalism
                                    of politeness...
the routine: (a) do you have a club-card?
  (b) do you need help packing?
  (c) how will you be paying?

         all of this must seem like listening
   to a hammer a hundred nails per minute...
      
    so we start talking,
                                             beards, age, dogs...
and it's not even a sign of being extroverted,
rather: i need to talk more words than
   this function allows me...
                             oh, a black labrador?
  nibbles on your beard?
     how old do you look?
            shave it off, you'd look 20 / 21...
    'you're going to be my new best friend,
i'm actually 24',
     well, you know, us white "dudes"
       reach their full ****** potential in
  our late twenties...

    talking:
         blah blah blah, blah bah black sheep,
i could do with just referring to
   a dog's barking, or a cat meowing...
                still...
    people in supermarkets, in ready-meal
aisles,
         begging for someone to rescue them
to cook them a meal from scratch...
   what do all these people do with the time
in between buying a ready-meal
   cooking it in a microwave for 15 minutes
   and then what?

                              can't be all t.v., surely?
where's the joy of watching ingredients change
colour, and exfoliate like buds into flowers
in late spring?
                      cardamom... probably my favourite
ingredient... yeah, cloves...
                        oh **** me, a bay leaf...
                             cinnamon, sure sure...
               still,
    i find more happiness walking through a cemetary
than that eerie lonliness and sadness
    of ready meals and un-drunk liquor
   as i get, walking through a supermarket.

p.s. i really wasn't thinking or implying
  ginsberg's ode to whithman that
begins with:
              what thoughts i have of you tonight...
  
   ****-eroticism: perfected on paper...
             and that's where i like it,
   on paper...  
    if it's ****-eroticism it's best performed
                 on paper...
     and sure, *michel de montaigne
    
                                       on melancholy -

top three cemeteries? o.k. four...
    père lachaise (paris)
  newington cemetery (edinburgh)
       old calton burial ground (edinburgh)
kirkut (ostrowiec św.)
   the last one? jewish, with the burial stones
stacked against each other.
R Dickson Jan 2015
Ken a' these auld Scots words,
The wans that we've forgot,
Why are we no using them,
It's because we wernae taught,

At hame wi' mither an fathir,
Speaking all and proper,
First day at school,
Speech becomes a cropper,

All yir mates at school,
Coming oot wi' words like bowff,
Saying them in the hoose,
Yir fathir says watch yir mouth,

Rax me oor the poorie,
As ma grama said to me,
Asking her whit she meant,
Gies the milk jug fir ma tea,

Fab technology today,
Smert phones and iPad,
They missed oot wan thing,
The language o' my grandad,

Skype, that's a new word,
Sounds a bit like Scottish,
Was it tae clip you round the ear hole,
That word should be abolished,

If yir no Scottish,
Rabbie's words are a' daft,
All the words that came out o' him,
That was the man's craft,

Whit aboot these well kent lines,
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Sorry aboot that Rabbie,
Stealing that was totally misplaced,

Oot o' bed on wi' ma baffies,
Tae pit them on I need tae sit doon
Sittin' on the chair wi' ma bahookie,
Missed the chair fawing like a loon,

When yir oot daein the gowf,
And yir breeks are a' in a runkle,
Dinnae be a feart tae tac them aff,
If you've got them in a fankle,

Deekin oot the windae,
Stramash on the doon the road,
Some folk getting a doin',
Ithers getting a carry code,

Polis got there quick enough,
Must have a been a hunner,
Saw the big yin there,
He was the heid ******,

The rammy wi the radges
Was just oot side the offie,
Jings crivvens help ma boab,
Some went ben the bothy,

We're all **** Tamson's bairns,
We a' just want tae learn,
We can do it wi' the Scots,
It's a language that we yearn.
phil roberts Jun 2016
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive

In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre

Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here

A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home

                                    By Phil Roberts
phil roberts Feb 2016
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive

In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre

Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here

A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home

                                    By Phil Roberts
Council housing estate that is :)
phil roberts Aug 2015
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive

In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre

Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here

A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home

                                    By Phil Roberts
phil roberts Nov 2016
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive

In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre

Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here

A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home

                                    By Phil Roberts
phil roberts Mar 2016
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive

In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre

Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here

A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home

                                    By Phil Roberts
Carl Halling Jul 2015
The legs started going,
Howlings
In my head.
Thought I'd go,
Kept awake with water,
Breathing,
Arrogantly telling myself
I'd stay straight.
Drank gin and wine,
Went out,
Tried to buy more,
Unshaven,
Filthy white shorts,
Lost, rolling on lawn,
Somehow got home.
Monday, waiting for offie,
Looked like death,
Fear in eyes
Of passers-by,
Waiting for drink,
Drink relieved me.
Drank all day,
Collapsed, wept;
"Don't Die on Me."
Next day,
Double brandy
Just about settled me,
Drank some more,
Thought constantly
I'd collapse;
Then what?
Fit? Coronary?
Insanity? Worse?
Took a Heminevrin,
Paced the house
All night,
Pain in chest,
Weak legs,
Lack of feeling
In extremities,
Visions of darkness.
Drank water
To keep the
Life functions going,
Played devotional music,
Dedicated my life
To God,
Prayed constantly,
Renounced evil.
Next day,
Two Valiums
Helped me sleep.
By eve,
I started to feel better.
Suddenly,
All is clearer,
Taste, sounds,
I feel human again.
I made my choice,
And oblivion has receded,
And shall disappear.
"Oblivion in Recession" first existed as a series of rough notes scrawled on a piece of scrap paper in the dying days of January 1993, although I can't for the life of me recall any howlings in my head.
phil roberts Jan 2016
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive

In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre

Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here

A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home

                                    By Phil Roberts
I sat and watched a sad movie and it made me cry
so I went out to the offie and bought myself a Mivvi
and a three-litre bottle of dry
cider.

It feels like my life is being played out
on old cinema reels,
weird eh?
but that's how it feels.

anyway
I put on a highly-rated comedy,
it didn't make me laugh,
but the cider soaked my trousers
when I knocked a full glass over.

Sometimes life's a replay but I don't remember when
and so I sat and watched a sad movie and it made me cry
again.

— The End —