"paedos" poems
When I was a kid, round here
purple sweet peas carpeted common ground.
Thick, and ripe for picking
in their depths we found
all manner of detritus,
single shoes and old **** mags.
My friends and I went roaming
with our secrets and five ****
Down on Slade Green marshes
fearless urban rangers,
ankle deep in water
never minding dangers.
Our private wilderness so bloomed
and we sank into its mire.
Running, jumping, singing, shouting
our youth ablaze, on fire.
Untouched as we believed it
that ground had seen its share,
of blood and fear and wanting,
we didn't know (or care).
Needles in emplacements
left by no one soldier brave.
****** was young back then,
at least, around our way.
In my peaceful ignorance
of 'paedos' underground,
I hid among the rusting hulks
waiting to be found.
Underneath the tower block,
the thirteenth floor my home,
a dragon in the ******* chute!
Imagination sown.
Each time that the fire brigade
came screaming to a halt,
to extinguish yet another mischief
for which none would be caught.
Our little speck of landing
Mrs Kingsley kept so clean,
a bizzy lizzy at her door
she visits me in dreams.
Skin shiny over knuckles
a worn-thin wedding band.
Her flowery dress, neatly pressed,
a duster in her hand.
And I guess she's been dead years now.
She was old as could be then.
I never knew, the day we moved,
I'd not see her face again.
But, move we did,
from 'the flats', to number ninety-nine.
We had gardens - front AND back -
my own bedroom, yes! All mine!
From the windows of our council house
the world changed, all around.
The sweet peas were uprooted,
houses claimed my common ground.
So, I don't own it any more,
if I ever did.
But home is home, wherever,
inside I'm still that kid.
Who ran and jumped and shouted,
a childhood held dear,
and though I think "I've come so far"
my life began round here.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
There is no place in this modern age, it seems.
No "I could if I would and wouldn't if I couldn't"
Or some other convoluted phrase of a pod. Now
Getting out your phone is sufficient
To show to another some ghastly memes
Puerile goldmines, or else perhaps
Some comic vines
Or worser still, oh dear me
Some animal ***********
Now nothing shocks if not in the flesh
News of paedos on TV
Where used to haunt old sir Jimmy
Elicits now some some disinterested grunt, whilst genocide
Suffers horribly from being juxtaposed
With the football scores.
If nothing shocks, if nothing works
To divert the mind from those ****** tweaks
What good are words to those who still
Prefer to sit and tell a joke
Rather then hopping on the rumour mill
And spew much **** till we all choke.
There's no place for Wildeisms, for how
Can they compete with lolcats?
Wit is no longer about sarcasm and irony
For, dear god, the Americans run the world now,
And is now about a carefully placed
"Yolo", or perhaps a reference to some Facebook trend, or
Some other fatuous ******** It's so **** it drips with ****
So goodbye, dear wit, let me blow you a kiss
And let you know that I say, **** this,
I'm going to go watch Tommy Cooper videos on youtube."
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC