"spanners" poems
I love old school motorbikes and their purring sound as they emit fragrances which trigger animosity and innocence.
It’s a total eclipse of the heart, don’t you think?
******** Lunatics, Undesirables and Eccentrics. That is the essential nature of angelic blue.
Forget those polished ambassadors of what is deemed to be contemporary.
Chop it up, Chewbacca, whilst spanners are thrown with obscene articulations.
It has been said that my father violently placed a bike in the canal.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
In the dream Ginsberg tells me I am beautiful,
he moves his stool a little closer to mine
to see me in the dull glow of the bar.
I sip at my cocktail as he takes Howl from his briefcase,
tells me Jack loves my baby-blue eyes.
Somewhere at the back of the bar
I can hear the jazz men munching sandwiches,
chatting to the girls who bring them empty beer glasses
for coins to be dropped into, for requests to fill.
The old poet with his Buddhist waistcoat
wants to change the world with his masturbatory atom bomb,
wants the President of the United States
to be silent, to be silent, to be
silent.
So Ginsberg calls the barman Moloch,
wants him to find himself in a wounded page
filled with Christmas catalogues that make the children sing.
It’s a bald-guy thing he tells the beer puller,
‘Look at the jazz boys **** the metal,
sweet sounds, Jimmy The Joe makes , sweet sounds.’
The barman wants the music to end
just long enough for him to miss the woman he loves.
‘So get your heart in a sonnet,’ Ginsy tells him
‘Get your heart in a ******* sonnet, gypsy caravan boy.’
I put my fingers to my temples, try to bring the poems together,
try to imagine the perfect microphone in the Kaddish hand.
Tell me another three line joke, Alan,
tell me the one about the Arabic love call you never heard
when your papyrus was just desert dust.
You know the one, Allen. You know the one.
The jazz boys find their lips as Ginsberg finds his tear ducts;
I want him to chant his evolution into the mind of the sax solo.
‘It’s just us,’ he tells me, ‘we’re saving the world, Johnny Boy,
the greatest minds of my generation were ****** up the ***
so you ungrateful rhyming ******** could put colour on your book covers;
you see Lawrence throwing his spanners into the printing press?
That’s our little revolution: cherubic haiku page numbers
just waiting for the computer evolution to do something worthwhile.’
So Alan sorts his papers and gives that little attention-seeking-cough
the barman has been waiting all night for.
He pours the drinks, cuts the lime,
lets the poets supply their own anecdotes for this one-night-stand
that’s going to set every ******* pulse racing,
every heartbeat breaking for the goatee beard going grey.
In the dream Ginsberg tells me I am beautiful.
I tell him his spotlight is shining.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
10 little fingers, 9 little toes
Due to the topple of that Calor gas bottle
But still he took his first unsteady stumble
Between the sofa and the coffee table
And should have been grateful
For the outstretched hand that took the brunt
Of the sharp corner and the hot spill
But oblivious he bounced back
Right into a job with his mate’s dad down the garage,
Where he delved into the grease and spanners
That formed the bread and butter of a living wage.
And when the car fell on his toe that wasn’t there
He stumbled on without a care
Unstoppable, ready for the next obstacle,
And applied to the navy for a crazy venture round the world
Or he would have had the medical not red lined his missing digit
And said he wasn’t fit for the pitch and heave of a naval ship
Or so the story went as he took his grandkids
Hand in hand along Camber Sands,
With a wiggle of his nine hairy toes, raising familiar giggles
and the redraft:
10 little fingers, 9 little toes
Due to the topple of that Calor gas bottle
But still he took his first unsteady stumble
Between the sofa and the coffee table
And might have been grateful for the outstretched hand
That softened the corner and the hot spill
But oblivious he bounced back
Right into a job with his mate’s dad down the garage,
Where he delved into the grease and spanners,
The bread and butter of a living wage.
And when the car fell on his toe that wasn’t there
He stumbled on unstoppable, ready for the next obstacle,
And applied to the navy for worldwide venture
Or would have had the medical not red lined his missing digit
Cos he wasn’t fit for the pitch and heave of a naval ship
Or so the story went as he took his grandkids
Hand in hand along Camber Sands,
With a wiggle of his nine hairy toes,
Raising familiar giggles
May 3, 2023
May 3, 2023 at 4:05 PM UTC
Come on down to your Fletcher’s Store
It has all your needs to complete your chore
Marshal has it all you see?
Be it tools or p.p.e.
Obtaining kit is not that hard
If you have your induction card
But without your little piece of plastic
The treatment you get could well be drastic
Other than that, a cost code will do
That will prevent any further ado
If Marshal is otherwise indisposed
Help is near, it has been disclosed
His faithful helper Spiderman
Will always help you where he can
On the PC he also goes
Logged on as Marshal, I suppose
But back to the master of the store
He knows what’s behind every closed door
What stock he has, he knows off hand
spanners, raincoats , every little gland
a special order or a request
You can be sure, he’ll do his best
He is a man of his word
At toolboxes you may have heard
Laying down the law, giving you grief
Hoping to catch the lowly thief
Spending time with him, I have found
He is a rock, steadfast, morally sound
And if at times you may need a friend
Someone to listen, maybe an ear to bend
Someone there, sound and steady
You can count on Marshal Geddie.
Ernest 28 July 2011 (VPT)
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 10:49 PM UTC
Life subliminal,more than criminal,a nasty travesty to be able to look and be unable to see,to speak without sound and yet to drown in the clamour,
where the glamorous party long into the night but the night longs for rest and who knows but the best that the best's not what we've got.
And the ***** who tramps through his haze gazing at stars locked in his jailhouse behind mental bars knows nothing of this,
his life is an out take,his bones wait for day break but the night knows best.
The glamorous and the glum,a mansion and a slum and for some life's a scream,for others it's a dream and for me it just seems that we're all being beamed,
subliminal messages.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
... or, who took the MAN out?
Who took the MAN out of romance?
Who plucked the peacock of quill?
Was it a private performance?
Was it by sheer force of will?
Who took the MAN out of manners?
Did it take magical powers?
Who threw in the nails and spanners?
Perhaps they emulate ours.
Who took the FEM out of feminine?
Was it a trial? A test?
Is it SO cool to be masculine?
Assinine's what we have left!
Do we all need to lose gender?
Do all the answers lie there?
Should we all be as the blenders?
Is that decree really fair?
I'm for the lady. The gentleman.
SORRY. It's been building a while.
I just came to air out the sentiment
I love the ol' fashion styles!
Who took the MAN from romantic?
I'm guessing. It's only a hunch.
It may be the one who's got plastic
And insists upon
BUYING HER LUNCH!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/29/2015
All rights protected
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
Walking through the regiments of
old red,cold,dead
tenements
giving compliments
to the planners who put spanners in the works
of parliaments.
The ghosts of raggy arsed kids still play football on the grass,
not caring a rats *** for the 'no ball games' sign and
lining up for 'nitty Nora' the bug explorer,
lice ain't nice even in the afterlife.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
I sit in the corner,
Drawing blanks and thanks,
Among brushes so loaded with hues.
I whisper the answer
To an invalid dancer who's strokes
Are ill-peppered with clues.
Reflections are daggers,
And purgings are spanners.
Too sharp or too dull for a muse.
Blue Phoenix reports
In that lackluster court,
"This defendant has no pleading to choose."
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 11:05 PM UTC
Hey Johnny where are you now?
You left, and never came back, just like you said you would.
And now i have heard that you died, my Darling.
You were always my Darling, and i was always your 'little bit of fluff'
And if what they say is true, i know you'd be ****** as all hell if you ended up in heaven, because hell was always more your style.
But i do hope, if you are in heaven, that it's a heaven made just for you.
I reckon they would have a jukebox that only played Kansas and the Eagles, beautiful women and had Stella and black on tap.
Oh and a GPZ1100, with no speed limit..
And you know what i mean by that.. you little ****
You'd be in heaven.. oh the irony
You were the first person i told that i like girls too.
I told you i love their softness, there beauty, their curves, their taste,
the way they taste like me, feel like me, are soft like me and that i had *** while watching a video on MTV with girls singing in the swimming pool.
You said you needed a minute to think about things...
for a very long time.. in the bathroom... on your own..
Your tattoos were beautiful, covering you from head to toe.
My favorite one was the pirate that your friend Pervy Pete did
while he was baked, it was meant to be Long John Silver, but it looked like your Nan.
You gave me my first snakebite and took me to my first gig.
Wembley... Metallica.. ****** out of my head..
Best night ever..
probably.
I taught you how to crochet and you let me paint your toenails..
only the once. And you taught me how to whistle with my fingers.
In the end you told me to shut the **** up, because any minute now a whole **** heard of sheep dogs are going to come running over the hill, and **** us both.
I held your spanners, sat on a crate and had fork oil, all over my summer dress. You said it was a good look on me and i told you that you were beautiful. You smelt of sweat and juniper oil and i could have *** from that smell alone.
Your eyes were the same brown as mine, you used to put your face so close to mine so i could see myself in your eyes. I only wish you could have seen yourself through mine.
If we had ever been together, i would have wanted to have saved you.
And i would have too.
But you didn't want to be saved.
I would have spent my whole life trying. You said you would have hated yourself, to have been the one to have killed me like that.
In my heart we will always be. I knew you loved me because, while i slept in your arms on the way back from the Bulldog Fest, you whispered it to me.
Good bye and sweet dreams my tattooed greasy biker.. my Darling.
I'm grateful you never found out about the life i had without you.
You would have killed him.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
styles change,
in everything,
can no longer
catch your passing fancy
I am Gap,
says the sign of the four,
no interest no more
for what's behind the door,
just samo samo variations
on a four note theme,
been there, done that,
khaki is just so blah
you're H&M;,
four weeks, in store,
then gone,
no more, no returns,
ever,
edgy, trendy, and usually
quickly, careless made,
with haste cheap manufacture
words are like clothes,
patterns, cut, style,
oft looking ridiculous
a season later,
it's the readers taste,
ever seeking out the newest face
the man's words,
reversed alchemy, ha!
golden-into-leaden,
potpourri of variable seasonings
from gardens of ancient seasons,
lol, stale, lacking efficacy,
now ready for a burial permanent,
deserving a small museum exhibition
too long, too long,
so wrong, so wrong,
for quick and the digital attention spanners
the easy riders of today
these words, these words,
so wrung, so wrung, so earned,
from a life's stories reservoir
an accumulated dictionary,
now shared with
modulated crafted care
labelled by the new zoo review
archaic, obsolete, old fashioned,
worse curse,
too **** long,
hot ****
if that's
exactly not,
how the man feels
his days, these days,
exacting and extracting,
*too **** long*
so drips and drops,
will yet be
canvas spotted and plotted,
for those among us
who
taste the music,
tingling skin with words,
cherish the artistry of
caring, workmanship,
buying the best of
what didn't come cheap,
stuff that can't be bought
in any store,
in any style,
the slow pleasure
of taking care...
gotta go,
new store in town
UNIQLO,
hope there is in that name,
maybe a chance, something unique,
something that will glow
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
mesmerized by minutiae
am now a mermaid
on the mainland
mindlessly milling about
without
control of musclebound legs
both manacled and free
minor mishaps and major setbacks
mirror the inside maniacal mentality
currently managing me
making frankenstienish manners
a mockery of the model citizen
I purport to be...
mild dyslexia, myopia, melancholy
hormonal changes, missing ******
mindless weeping....throwing spanners
and all manners of fits
.....not to mention drooping bits....
madness beckons, second...seconds
each day an adventure in
crazed endocrinematic revelry
so tired and weary,
living the life of bleary wide eyed misery
good news though...
those in the know
say it only lasts
for three to five years
menopause.....give three flippin cheers
mercy...please
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
RECORD: GET A MOVE ON!
FROGMAN: MR. SCRUFF
Johnny's and Suzy's: It caught me so that I may never
... rest from pwondarement;
I will drink life from the bees.
All tore-ments I have enjoy'd greatly,
have suffer'd greatly,
both with throwse that loved me,
and alone; on tear,
and when thro' thudding rents the cravy Haeades
Vent-teh-din-see. I am become a thought;
For all-ways growming with a hungry deadhead
Much have I heard and throwned—
poprieities of Brads and Janets
And spanners,
prime-hates, clowncils, reed-covernments,
Myself too.
threast, i am tonor'd of them all,--
And drunk delight of rattle with my tyears,
Far on the stinging pains of dramatic irony.
I am a partition of all that I have kept;
Yet all expeerientse is an ark
wherethro' gleams that unpondere'd mind whose margin craves
metaforever
and 'fore ever
when
eyes
groove.
-- Ulysses, Frogman
STOP: TURN THOUGHT
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Library lifter
Came to my study
He made all precautions
Mom’s sleeping
Mind’s blowing
He’s stepping smoothly
Right into my precious hub
With fairly ***** intentions
He carries his box of instruments
With screwdrivers of all types
To turn my guts inside out
With spanners of all sizes
To tighten up my nuts
He’s sitting on my lap
Reading me my book
My favorite childish book
He’s putting me down
Into a deep slumber
With his sweet lullaby
My grave been prepped in advance
Somewhere down the street
Next to the Milky Way
Library lifter
Soul collector
Made a good job
Once again
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:20 PM UTC
I haven't found peace
And I'm guessing I should
Like it is fundamental for my journey
Yet my journey has come to a halt
Well at least part of it
Like I'm in one car going at the speed of light
While I'm in car that has stopped moving because it broke down and a guy named Joe refuses to fix it, even though he has all the spanners and whatnots
So while one me is almost at the destination
The other me is hopelessly lost
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
where can I get
metric spanners
for a
quantum mechanic?
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
Carelessness
His large toolbox fell with a crash from the car
Spanners and wrenches and nails spread afar
But he gathered them all as best as he could
And piled them back into the boot as you would
Then he started the engine and set off down the road
Feeling quite weary from the day's heavy load.
It hadn't occurred to him to look under his car
He was tired and his journey was really quite far
But a large six-inch nail had got caught in the tar
And it punctured a tyre in a fast moving car.
The driver of that was too reckless that day
And the speed he was going was so fast they now say.
The car made a lurch and spun out of control
Then it veered to one side as it started to roll
It spun as it rolled and hit the side of a coach
The glass in the sides smashed like a cheap five-bob broach
But the damage was done and some passengers fell down
Right into the path of the car spinning round.
It scythed through their legs in a horrible way
The sounds of the screaming just wouldn't go away
And six folk lost their lives as the carnage went on
Imagination strained it was something beyond
The driver of course he was one of the dead
As the car wrapped around him and damaged his head.
The other man arrived at the end of his trip
Grabbed his box from the boot with a good grip
And set out to do the job he'd come her for
But could only find three six-inch nails not now four
He was sure he'd purposely put four of them in
He'd just have to and get another one again.
Joe Wilson - Carelessness...2014
Many years ago I witnessed a similar accident to this. As with most accidents it didn't need to happen.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
it's the sudden drop at the top of the roller coaster.
when you realize that
falling in love isn't some sort of
fairy tale descent into
wonderland of
warm scintillating certainty
no one told me that it hurts
that you can feel your stomach
lurch violently
and lodge directly in your throat
leaving you gagging and
gasping for any small
tenuous
breath you can pull
searing lungs screaming in your ears
to just expand and
take in the sweetest gulp of air
let go of the feeling
and run
this love thing isn't like a key sliding into a lock
something that fits perfectly
that has no imperfections
and sports no defects
to throw spanners into the engine
propelling me blindly forward
through acid rain showers of tears
smearing my mascara under my eyes
and scorching paths of fire down the cliff of my cheeks
he's had to pick my lock
meticulously listening for that
telling click that will
finally allow him to know
all of me
those uncharted regions he
sees just at the edge
of the falling sun's light
the shadowlands
those forgotten spaces i've cut out of myself
but can't rid myself of
is it love
when i accept that maybe
that peaceful high of simply
his company
his presence
is worth sacrificing to Janus and
shattering the locks that
seal off my heart
am i ready to say i love you
it is more than
an eddy at the top
of Niagara Falls where
you can relax in calm water
just at the Falls' edge
inches from a
stomach clenching freefall
and frigid water turned to cement.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
Just like a storm against a window
Depression hits just like the sorrow
With little effort I begin to remember
Yesterday was the end of December
The month full of joy and temper
Memories you just wanna dismember
The beginning of the end for some
Couldn’t wait for it to be done
Shake crackle pop for the new stakes
Fireworks floating down like snowflakes
Sparks burnin’ out like the year did
But flakes are worthless when they’ve melted
Just laying here confused as ever
‘Bout why my chest’s so under the weather
A few nuts n’ bolts for the influx
As if my heart was a rusty toolbox
Life’s full of many tools
Many of them treat us like fools
From the ruler that lines the jerks
To those that throw spanners in the works
I have an issue with noticing silence
Unsure whether I caused such defiance
Hotspots illuminating my radar
Expecting people to say “see you later”
Thank you for teaching me persistence
For teaching me to show my patience
Thank you for the life lessons
Through all that time I kept you guessing
I’m sorry for a reason unknown
Maybe for the muscle ‘round my bone
That raises the hand to let it linger
For you and the year to stare at this finger
Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 2:37 AM UTC