BLOOMSBURY
I’ve heeded all the theories of the posh
Cunts in West London I was born with and
I’ll die by in their tweed suits and hot breath.
Though I edge back as best I can, they stand
As close as man can stand, and put to rights
The NHS (more privatised), my taste
In film (so bowdlerised). They fight good fights
And let none of my sweet time go to waste.
The Toby cunts are on TV, they tell
Hard truths to errant youths about respect.
They should know best. Their own brief rebel yell,
Was more extreme, my man, than you’d expect.
And their ascent was not, in fact, ordained.
It can, at length, be forcefully explained.
CHERBOURG (THE CHANNEL)
I won’t forget you stood on deck behind
Me as I puke into the churning sea,
The gust of wind, the shrug, the ties that bind.
The engine failed, you sit and talk with me
For hours outside the sick bay, while I sway
With shame, await relief, a shade of green.
I won’t forget that swirling Saturday-
-cum-Sunday, and the long night in-between.
The helicopter brought us our reward –
We glimpsed our saviours on the stairs below.
Full power, next to stability, restored …
I won’t forget and no one else need know.
From Portsmouth we drove home that Easter morn,
vacated, wholly humbled and reborn.
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