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Apple Zed

Apple may not be as clever as it thinks it is.

It’s possible – let’s face it nobody’s

that smart.

God had most of the best ideas but not

all of them;

He didn’t think of Apple zed, for a start.

That’s a sizeable oversight when you think

about it,

Press two keys and undo your latest blunder.

God’s not one for kicking himself

but honestly,

Is he regretting taking Sunday off, I wonder?

I mean, there’s even a reset button on

my boiler,

Even on a crappy PC you can hit ‘undo’,

If you’re in the business of creating a

flawed species,

They’re gonna screw up, you have to

think it through.

Every time I said something stupid and

got in trouble,

When the glass smashed, each time I tripped

and fell,

An Apple zed would have saved my

unworthy bacon,

Might still have the Lotus, still be married

to Michelle.

I mean, God didn’t even have a rival species

to deal with,

Not like Apple, he didn’t have to improve on

Amstrad or Sinclair,

Maybe it was complacency, but it can’t have

been easy,

Maybe the stress of it got to him – I mean,

look at his hair!

Then again, God didn’t get greedy, so cut

him some slack.

He didn’t supply man with a cable way

too short,

He didn’t make Mankind 10.0 without

a phone jack,

And the iPad was indeed pointless, as God

originally thought.

Apple may not be as clever as it tells us it is.

I hate its smugness, but the thing that

really sucks

Is that it’s hard to stay loyal to a God who,

however munificent,

Didn’t think of Apple zed, and didn’t go on

to make a gazillion bucks.

It Has Been a Long Revolution

Tractors, they tell me, are the future.

At least in Africa they are, at least in the

southern part.

Other factors, they tell me, wouldn’t suit her.

At least not with her wardrobe, at least not on

a donkey cart.

We’ve already sent her a truck load

of antiseptic,

We’ve already told her she can’t have surgery

out here.

At least not at the ranger station in August,

At least not until the government is

in the clear.

She took it badly, I must admit.

I hadn’t expected her to beat her head

against the wall.

I hadn’t expected her to resort to violence.

It’s been a long revolution,

I think she’s had enough of it all.

Diplomats, they tell me, have the answers.

At least in Africa they do, at least where

they’re ruled by the French.

Aristocrats, they tell me, don’t like tribal

dancers.

At least not in the afternoons, at least not in

front of the magistrates’ bench.

We’ve already explained there’s no more

brandy,

We told her that last Tuesday, we sent her

an email twice.

At least I think we sent it, we’re not good

with computers,

And she was never one for making much

of our advice.

Didn’t she take it badly, though?

Didn’t you reckon that was a bit over the top?

I hadn’t expected her to set fire

to the curtains,

But it has been a long revolution,

she probably wants it to stop.

Should I worry about this one, Bernard?

Do you think I should send a telex back

to HQ?

I’ve half a mind to get Naomi in here and

show her the photographs.

She’s pretty level-headed, she would know

what to do.

Anyway, body armour, they tell me, is

standard issue.

At least in Africa it is, at least under

Nelson Mandela.

I didn’t harm her, they tell me, she’s allergic

to tissue.

I’m sorry I wiped her face with one,

but I can’t bring myself to tell her.

We’ve already abandoned all our principles

for her,

That consignment of valium was the last

of the liberties we’ll take,

Apart from my cigars, the diplomatic bag

is sacrosanct,

Apart from the whisky, Club International

and my ginger cake.

I might have known she’d take it

pretty badly.

But honestly I didn’t know her fist had that

kind of power.

Go out to her truck and get me some

more antiseptic,

It has been a long revolution,

ask her to join me in the shower.

The Shadow of the Crystal Palace Transmitter

Underneath the table in the corner of

the kitchen

Davey kept his records and his pork-pie hat,

Over by the window looking out

towards London

He would dream of little Lucy and a bit of

this ‘n’ that.

Underneath his armpits he would spray

something sexy,

On the Friday evenings when the bands were

in town,

Slicking back his dirty hair and shining up

his toecaps

He would step into the evening and

boogie on down.

And outside he would meet her,

And outside he would greet her,

Even when the weather was so brass and

so bitter,

Together they would walk it,

Together they would talk it,

They were living in the shadow of the

Crystal Palace transmitter.

Underneath the spotlights with their elbows

on the stage

Was where you’d find the two of them

all night long,

Over by the bar you would occasionally

find them,

Cos sometimes halves of lager are better

than a song.

Underneath their trendy shoes their socks

were psychedelic,

Sometimes they were brighter than the lights

on stage,

Davey used to like it when she held

his hand tightly,

And later in the park he would be

acting his age.

And outside he would know it,

And outside he would show it,

Down beside the bandstand ankle-deep

in all the litter,

Together they would dance it,

Together they would chance it,

Underneath the shadow of the

Crystal Palace transmitter.

Underneath the stars they would discuss

their two futures

And with a little effort they would turn them

into one,

When they heard some footsteps on the path

by the playground

They hid behind the bandstand and their

hearts went numb.

Underneath the bushes in the chill

of the darkness

Davey and Lucy took their chances

and their vows,

Then when it was over they enjoyed a

Rothmans King Size

And a nervous little smile with sweat

on their brows.

And outside it was real,

And outside he could feel

That glow inside his heart where he knew

he would admit her,

Together they would marry,

Together they would carry on

Living in the shadow of the

Crystal Palace transmitter.

A street we walk down

Life is a street we walk down,

Along its weathered stones we tread.

First naked then later in a wedding gown,

Uncertain of the challenges ahead.

There are changes of pace and detours,

But no guidance from any satellite.

Accosted by the beggars and the troubadours,

Uncertain where we’ll lay our heads tonight.

It’s a one-way street we’re walking on,

We can deviate but we can’t turn back,

As the battery drains the phone we’re

talking on

Gradually fades to black.

There are failures and there are successes,

Threats and opportunities side-by-side,

Emphatic ‘no’s’ mingle with subtle ‘yesses’,

Every emotion imaginable on this ride.

Some of it’s a backstreet, some a mere track,

Some is paved with nails, some with gold.

Head looks forward, heart looks back,

Linger in Youngtown, there’s nothing

for you in Old.

Life is a street we walk down,

Between its battered kerbs we go on,

First in green country later in tough town,

Uncertain of how far we’ve gone.

There are enemies at every intersection,

There are friends there too, but

which is which?

The lights change and thoughts of

introspection

End up in the ditch.

We’re not the first to make this journey,

We may feel like Columbus but we’re not,

We can’t consult the guidebook or hire

an attorney,

We have a head on our shoulders, that’s

the lot.

Life is a street we walk down,

Every day we face the next bend, thankful

to be alive,

Whatever’s around it, headstone or crown,

We’ll let you know about it when we arrive.

Ian McEwan’s dog

You are not a comedian because you’re

on Twitter,

You are not popular because they liked

your tweet,

You didn’t work the comedy clubs or

drink bitter,

You didn’t do the hard yards, didn’t feel

the heat.

Apart from that you’ve got no talent for it,

You’re not funny, no timing, no flair for links,

Find some other passion, maybe explore it,

Your dog’s got no nose, but you’re the one

who stinks.

Snap out of it everyone, none of you’s

Ronnie Barker,

As for Victoria Wood, nobody is her,

Your longing for love suggests

something darker,

Everyone’s a comedian, everyone’s

a raconteur.

You are not a photographer because of

your iPhone,

Its video button doesn’t make you

Ron Howard,

It’s not you who’s smart, that’s what they call

the phone,

It won’t be critical acclaim with which

you’re showered.

Apart from that your videos are so imbecilic,

Yet at the merest hint of critique you

take umbrage,

For all the sense they make they could be

in Cyrillic,

You’re not Orson Welles, you’re not

even Tunbridge.

Snap out of it everyone, none of you’s

Martin Scorcese,

Your mates aren’t Brando, your girlfriend’s

not Maggie Smith,

You want approbation, but you’re too

fucking lazy,

To deserve anything like it, to create a myth.

Book publishing software doesn’t make you

F Scott Fitzgerald,

Who told you that, how did you get

this deluded?

You couldn’t get a job as a reporter on the

Luton Herald,

So you’ve got a laptop – but were English

lessons included?

Apart from that you don’t even aspire to

write novels,

You don’t know what it takes, could never

stomach the slog,

You think you’ll get rich, but writers

live in hovels,

You’re not Ian McEwan, you’re not even

Ian McEwan’s dog.

Snap out of it everyone, none of you’s

Martin Amis,

Emily Bronte is Emily Bronte, but I’ll

tell you what,

Fuck off to X-Factor if you’re so desperate

to be famous,

Everyone’s a writer? No they’re not, sunshine.

No they’re not.

And for all those who think they’re musicians

Cos they’ve got StudioPro on their PC,

You’re not, okay, you’re really not.

Take it from me.

Somebody is born, somebody dies

There will be consequences to the plans

we made, there always are;

Seems like somebody gets hurt every time

somebody else stands up tall.

The day arranges its winners and losers like

items at a Greek bazaar,

Somebody’s horse will come from nowhere

to triumph, and somebody’s will fall.

The white moon tonight, the clouds distracted,

They shuffle the light, they dish out

the atmospherics with flair.

Somebody is born, somebody dies, some real,

some parts merely acted,

You light a match and see my look of terror

illuminated in its glare.

There will be lasting damage when this is over,

there are always losers;

You think something is history, then years

later stumble upon its ill effects.

The day peoples its alley with the weary

echoes of dying substance abusers,

Somebody will stand on the bridge in

uniform, and somebody will scrub the decks.

The sharp wind tonight, the air unscented,

It cashes in on the uncertainty, allows autumn

to take the blame,

Somebody is born, somebody dies, some

forgotten, some long lamented,

You strike a match and see my look of disbelief

appear briefly by its flame.

Days and nights stand equally on guard

before us,

Each longer than the last, each armed.

We will defeat each one, but it will be

hard for us.

Their hearts are of darkness,

their doors alarmed.

There will be casualties once the fighting’s

ended, trust me;

Seems like somebody catches an aeroplane

every time somebody else lands;

The day’s credentials don’t look authentic but

I guess they must be;

Someone will triumph in the centre circle,

and someone will sit in the stands.

The sirens tonight, their message amended,

From a single incident to news of society’s

explosive decline,

Somebody is born, somebody dies,

some alone, some warmly befriended,

You’ve used your last match but I can see

your sadness, even if you can’t see mine.

I snorted a line of poetry

I snorted a line of poetry, it felt good.

Knowing it’s illegal felt even better.

Well, not illegal but misunderstood,

Like an inkpen, like a handwritten letter.

The cops raided my writer’s meet,

Piled like savages into the coffee shop,

Their wild-eyed fury kind of sweet,

A textbook game of good cop/wistful cop.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

What I believe in, my values, my schtick.

Might need a priest hole under my floor,

The persecution in the air’s so thick.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore, compadres, I’m on a list.

I could tear my trousers like David Banner,

But the new world would resist.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

Leave us to be disillusioned in peace.

We can drink wine and complain

about the weather,

Argue about the best songs from Grease.

I inhaled a Shakespeare sonnet, what a buzz.

Knowing the kids would yawn buzzed bigger.

It’s funny feeling the thing Will does,

Defining the truth of us, sketching our figure.

The council stopped my poetry reading,

I was on a street, you see, without a permit,

They don’t like old boys like me succeeding,

Not in public, but okay as a hermit.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

You mustn’t carry me or intend to supply.

Might need one of those cameras on my door,

Next time the fashion police swing by.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore it isn’t, I’m condemned.

I appear to represent a significant spanner

In their plan, which we’ll hear in the end.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

Leave us alone in our room to be proved right.

Let us slag off the forecasters and

predict the weather,

And reminisce about TV on Saturday night.

Times change, that’s okay, but we should

not need to,

Not if we don’t want to, who’s to say we must?

Deconstructing ourselves wasn’t something

we agreed to,

You’ll respect us more for it, once we’re dust.

I injected a gram of Ulysses, could’ve been

coke.

Knowing coke’s much cooler was the hit.

They recommended cannabis but I don’t

smoke.

Joyce don’t make me cough like that other shit.

Health and safety paid me a door knock,

Wanted an inventory of my library books,

Seized two Brontes and a first edition

Brighton Rock.

A crack den next door and we’re the crooks.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

I’m mainlining literature, they don’t approve.

For neighbourhood bookworms who

want to score,

My place is basically the Louvre.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore, ladies, I’m cancelled, closed.

Exceeding my literary limit I set off

their scanner,

They came for me while I dozed.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

We’ll read our books out on the fire escape,

At heights unwuthering, the harebells

and the heather

Can be our secrets, while the others vape.

Signs of life

Hope was virtually gone.

The searchers knew the look.

Sixteen months on,

They had exhausted the book.

Their faces smeared with grime,

Their lungs clogged with dust.

Searching all this time,

Because they could, because they must.

Surely no survivors now

From 2020’s sudden collapse.

Every stone upturned, and how,

Light shone in smallest gaps.

Their helmets pushed right back,

Their gloves at last removed,

Each torch replaced in rack,

Each worst fear finally proved.

Sixteen months later,

After everything they’d done,

They contemplate the crater

That once was 2021.

Time to call it quits,

Every duty has been done.

Let it rest where it sits,

The past sets with the sun.

Then the door slams back,

Thermal team has news.

Faces scarred and black,

Fresh blood on their shoes.

Everyone on their feet,

Scattering floral shrines.

A trace of body heat,

The tiny fragile signs

Of life.

We must fly

Ahead of us a long haul, a year of distance,

In the cockpit our pre-flight checks complete.

Out of the wind, the path of least resistance,

We plot another year strapped in this seat.

We’ve logged the flightplan, done the

cross-check,

We have enough cunning to cover the

skills we lack.

This is 2018, seen from the flightdeck,

Call ground on 121.9, permission to push back.

Ahead of us hard days, nights of desperation,

The curvature of the Earth awaits us out there.

From the year’s first light to its moment

of cessation,

We’ll roll with the sun behind us, impervious

to its glare.

We’ve locked down the hatches, begun to taxi,

All we know about 2018 is where it will start.

Equipped with everything but the facts we

call the tower on 118.5, permission to depart.

Ahead of us the mountains and the oceans,

Every day a different routing, each night

another vector.

Unaware of the crosswinds, indifferent to

their motions,

We watch the readout on our lightning

detector.

We’ve passed V1, rotate, V2 and positive climb,

Our stick is back, excuse us, we must fly.

All these beacons, we’ve passed them

time after time,

Call departure on 121.85, this is their sky.

Ahead of us the ebb and flow of familiar

seasons,

The autopilot won’t help us, we are

on our own.

We expect some turbulence, and there may be

other reasons

to question the validity of having flown.

Until we switch down from this cruise and

start descending

We must stay focused, the stick held tight

in our hand.

Until December, when we see that familiar

river bending,

And call the tower on 118.5, permission to land.

Under a Simpsons sky

She’s so flagrant, she tosses coins in the cup

of every vagrant, she’s on the way up,

She’s so fragrant, she’s got a poodle-cross pup,

You can’t embarrass her.

In her short life she’s never known grief,

Never sought strife, never beggared belief,

She’s a fraught wife, but her husband’s a thief

who likes to harass her.

Come on down, Lisa baby, tell me the truth,

Is this how you saw it, when you were a youth?

Is this what you hoped for, when we were both young,

you and I?

An inanimate life

Under a Simpsons sky.

He’s a chancer, he’s always chasing the deal

But gets no answer, he doesn’t care how you feel,

She was a dancer, but the dream wasn’t real,

That’s how he’d spin it.

As he views it, she’s his cook and his whore,

He’ll abuse it, like he abuses the law,

She can’t defuse it, it’s an unending war,

She can’t win it.

But fess up, Lisa baby, tell me your news,

Is this what you dreamed of, as a schoolgirl in Loos?

Is this what you imagined when we were both free,

you and I?

An accidental life

Under a Simpsons sky.

Not all the skies are Simpsons,

Not all the stories make you laugh,

Some of the skies make you think of the Road Not Taken,

And make you wonder about that other path.

We can’t fix things, we’re always victims of hope,

We play our six-strings, it helps us to cope,

We try to mix things, but simply fashion the rope

to make a noose with.

She’s so forlorn now, but she still doesn’t bend

to the storm now, that’s portending her end,

She stays warm now, and prays for a friend

to hang loose with.

Strike it up, Lisa baby, let out your tears,

Is this what you’ve been leading to, all of these years?

Is this why you left me, is this why there’s no you and I?

A wasted life

Under a Simpsons sky.