A Big Hand For Diderot
 A Couple Of Quibbles
 A Dutch Dérive
 A Postmodern Question?
 A Winsome Woman
 Alarm Call 2am
 Albanian Jokes
 An Embattled Book
 An Iscan Conclave
 Arts Workers
 As In Dull
 As Mud
 Blair's Prayer
 Buddy Language
 Cambridge 58
 Defining Terms
 Down Under And Up Above
 Epigram For E
 Episode In The War Against Error
 Exeter Latest
 Fat Of The Land
 Herbal Remedies
 In Our Midst
 Making It
 Men Of Straw
 Mercenary Colonials Or Mcs
Necrophilia Rules
New Labour New London New Millennium
 Odeon Odin
 On A Recent Reprint Of Wide Sargasso Sea
 Our Latest Logomachia
Piety in the Sky, Poetry in the Air
 Pounds Of Flesh
 Questions Time
 Radio Fun
 Song Of Senex The Cynic
 Talked Down
 The 1913 Derby
 The Biters Bit
The People's Representative At Westminster
 Toady Blair; An Apologia
 Tory Canvassers In The Lunch Hour
 Two For The Ex
 Viaggio In Italia
 Was The Butler Sore?
 Whiter Than White



The corpse of past faith, superseded power,
grows bloated, weightier by the hour
as, grinning chaos fit to burst, it fills
each vacuum created. Envy spills

out into the international weapons store.
One despot gone, if scarcely overthrown,
gives rise to sweeter pipedreams - yearning for
land, freedom, even an abandoned throne.

Grim jesters might have drunk to old King Zog
when Stalinist displaced that running dog,
though few there dared pronounce on Enver Hoxha,
endless, efficient villain, evil bodger...

Influx is now the dirty word among Greek friends:
none lightly nor implicitly pretends,
not even with the thinnest joke,
that anything might happen for the best

in current Balkan politics.
The past has taught the Hellenes colder tricks.
They dread being caught without defence,
and so deploy their well-tried paranoia test.

Ancient scenario: the aliens invade
Greece's mountainous Northern border,
or her easier, impossibly inviting seaboard...
(For light years anxious Greeks darkly inveighed

against those shifty neighbours, poorer still
than they were.) Gypsies. Dour Albanian horde,
all half-starved heathen. Barbarous folk
driven more desperate than before...

Ears full of dogma - here's the sickest joke
repeatable - do turn deaf. Nothing's won.
The joy in laughter may be lost. No one
has heard yet of a way to settle or
resolve 'another fine mess', this here fearful fix.


Talking of feckless rubbish, it’s what they expect
-orate, politicos of slender intellect.
Hot air on air, polluted atmosphere.
Managed dispersal system the new jargon here.

He’s not discussing refuse. Refugees,
more human flotsam – a distasteful theme
for Government to deal with – will, he guarantees,
be allocated nationwide. His dream

is that the regions play their part, so those
asylum-seekers, torture-victims, all
aliens (bogus claimants too) are thus disposed
of fast, hygienically sown far from Whitehall.

An underclass with vouchers to present. That way,
abuses of the system can’t take place.
The interviewer lets him have full say:
he blames his predecessor’s policies;

swears this whole situation was allowed
to escalate, till now it’s out of hand.
Does one dissenting voice sound from the crowd
to criticise our screened, unpleasant land?

None interrupts, few listen. Everything
is someone else’s fault. When distant war
so recently pursued, so undeclared,
made hearts sink and armsdealers only sing,

still Our Brave Lads flattened the unprepared,
flooding some foreign field in fire and gore.
Where were the protests aimed? Had so few cared?
The usual spokesmen told lies, as before.

Bold media persons fought by proxy; they
let fly with bylines. Whether to appease
or slaughter hardly mattered anyway;
airtime and graves were filled and refugees

became a talkshow ‘problem’. Now this man,
keen to defend some petty, grudging plan,
spoils breakfast with his garbage. (People can
switch off officials – ostriches hate fuss.)

Set, mindset, match, each conflict has an end;
old scores may stay unsettled, foe turn Friend.
Words melt or rot, evasions various:
finical verbiage covers dearth of feeling.
Are buried heads all truffling treats in store?


Examination setbook floated complete with a mass of notes.
Theses there, Bibliographies here. The parasitic growths abound,
original insight drowned - lost in inevitable quotes
from, or references to, the likes of Desperate Dan Lacan,
Bo Diddley Baudrillard and Derring-do Derrida.
Most students breathed from Barthes just farts,
from Foucault fuck all... Cue
for whichever (preferably foreign) Profs
newest flavour. The current jerkoffs
in seminal scholarly fashion?
This term, next year, some might back Bakhtin...

Not all the above were duds, nor carnivalesque,
yet spawned their Sargasso of jargon, seriously grotesque.
Tides of tedium came filling screen on screen,
piled impenetrable, high across each desk.
Still, the real classic resists - lest it
spell out or be quite engulfed by-
to read. An acronym, you guessed it,

prompted by the graceless greedy rise
of Women's Studies, fuddyduddies, offputting editions
with wild angles to promote, and axes ground.
All the tortuous processes of expedition
move neither to story nor book, but toward something
else, cunning or blank. Canonical discourse.
Discuss: not Plot - a Narrative Trajectory rather.
The whole colonial subtext being privileged,
foregrounded here... whose topos it's clear
is, arguably, emblematized...

I kid you not, kids: such ballast's not required
to weigh down reader wading through Whatever's Set.
And if, and as, it must be picked apart,
try an intuitive dive - you'll find
truth's always submerged in the truest art,
resisting alike the Fool, the professional Wise.
Such types were seen through, through great blue eyes,
while the hypocrites too were seen to, their lies
identified, lives dealt with,
without fear or favour, unwavering from the start.

Painstakingly, line after line, draft upon draft,
the crystal spirit lightened everything
until soul could clap hands and sing
and sail a frail, ever enduring craft
resiliently, breathtakingly
through any version of a life's Sargasso Sea.
But bland or creeping idiom may spread
to blunt her keener words,
dull the persistent edges of her world...
So reader, watch out for slippage and closure,
the sort of thing which shows you
how clover's the critic, how foolish the seer.

It's even possible none need fear
the great bluff will ever be called.
In that case, then, as in many another,
here's a Set Text, whose dangerous author
escapes us, is safely dead.
Jean would have been appalled
to be read so blindly, Rhys so misread.


Stealing the thunder on R3 
bold John Kinsella, digger don, 
showed listeners to the BBC 
octosyllabic mastery, 
so poms might hear and ponder on 
that brainfund ransacked to discuss 
Ned Kelly's band and banditry 
Let's hand it to the swagman, he 
brandished one word to menace us
[Stockwell tube station, London, 22 July 05] 
Hired guns hunted down one… Brazilian,
young naïf coldly rendered to death.
They collared the sinister Alien,
who gave up, underground, his last breath.
It seems he was seated – no hurry at first.
Did the marksmen yell boldly, as they’d rehearsed,
and pin flat the accused or rather, Accursed?
The name of this fair game is Kill-not-cure,
codenames and no packdrill, its aim unsure:
targets exist to be hit with each burst.
While passengers freeze, turn sideways in dread,
seven bullets point-blank blow open his head. 
[ Note:    An eighth bullet hit 27-year-old Jean Charles de Menezes in the shoulder.   Three more shots missed.
The Daily Telegraph later announced on its front page (16/11/05) that hollow-point – or dum-dum – ammunition,
‘banned in warfare under international convention’, was used.]

A 110-kiloton bomb was not 
technically a bomb, he's supposed to have said-
Jacques (pure-as-his-name ?) Le Blanc, 
the French Ambassador to N.Z.
since it was set off underground 
and produced no mushroom cloud.

Did this dumbfound a far-flung crowd 
of Press in the Pacific ? (Max Miller got 
his stories right: "Now, here's a funny thing…)
Diplomat Jack-the-Lad sailed on with sang-
froid, unabashed, as purely, to propound:
"It's a device which is exploding".


If I were fulmar, or fuller 
from a - now interrupted - meal, 
I'd puke over the pair of you, 
by way of my say on your spiel.

("Fulmars react to intruders by ejecting a
stream of foul-smelling oily vomit from the beak."
Book of the British Countryside)


This region's Mutual Administrators' Society 
For Arts, when quizzed on policy, resorts 
to waffle. MASSFARTS staff freeload with zest, 
on leave, off sick, at meetings, out to lunch. 
None is accountable, so that bland bunch –
blase old lags, young dears, smooth cheats with bleeding hearts-
hangs on. Spokespersons cheerlead for the Arts. 
Their self-awarded titles vary by the day. 
Paid to spend (no, 'disseminate') large public funds, 
they relish gibberish, enjoy full latitude
for fiddling, fuckups, trivial pursuits. 
They're primed to cover backs and private parts, 
use power-dressed jargon, streetwise platitude. 
Remits accumulate, duly require Reports –
covering Gender, the Community or Roots. 
When paper-shufflers can see fit to shift 
widespreading adiposities off office seats, 
for faxes lengthier than fucks they're known; 
their ostentatious highs come as they lift 
the latest-state-of-the-art-NEW mobile phone. 
But brains stay static, since it's never done 
to spark ideas, enthusiasm, anyway. 
Executives act Seriously Bored
if forced to meet an artist: why reward 
the latter's crackbrained work, sheer deja vu?
"Fill in these forms. Six copies each, required of you! 
No, next financial year's far-from-substantial budget 
is spent...." (Audits confirm there's no proof how they fudge it.)

"Clearly regrettable... .Too bad.. .A pity... 
We'll address this shortfall with a Sub-Committee, 
something on the lines of an Advisory Panel. 
You'll play a major role, of course." ( What finest flannel!) 
"Restoring confidence by mending fences..." 
"We'll take your views on board.. Offer expenses..."

Of Boards, Consultancies and Panels, plenty 
of narcotizing packs exist. Ten, twenty, 
can be shuffled or regrouped - few of whose 
well-heeled token members need to abuse 
a flexibly creative Ex's list:
no worthy window-dressing bore gets pissed. 
Sinecures are endorsed, index-linked salaries, 
perquisites, indispensable pension schemes. 
(Sir Peter's paw is creeping toward Valerie's.) 
And are there better-than-equal opportunities 
for money and status to bait us beyond fondest dreams? 
May we grope whom we please, pleading immunities 
of diplomatic allsorts that conveniently outflank 
PC ? Do polls reflect (it's plain to see)
how smug bastards wank all the way to the bank? 
When's the whistle blown ? You know how soon it is? 
Yet folk at the Mutual retain their right senses, 
are trained to mix glibness with poorest pretences. 
Rigged games and changing rules suit their team best. 
If - stuck with honest talent - anyone 
should question this Society's consuming greed 
for getting goodies, gongs end quids pro quo, 
"Sour Grapes" provides both greeting and retort. Indeed, 
such mud sticks first and worst. Mind how you go.


Yours are, it must be stressed, weapons of mass 
destruction. Ours ? In no sense, not at all. 
They keep us free, while on the other hand 
forming what henceforth we propose to call 
smart hardware nope, .necessary deterrent. 
(That last phrase you'd do well to understand.) 
We're world police, the ones who flatten words:
our critics are irrelevant or crass.

Let's drop it. Argue if you will for peace 
but in the end it's strictly for the birds. 
You have no say. Split hairs or atoms, we 
can amply demonstrate what’s plain to see 
that we have ways a matching lunacy. 
The difference between us is self-evident.


Careerist filled with venial cunning, greedy fool 
alike, share one grey maxim, a simplistic rule:
these days It's money signifies success. 
Which means, while giving old dross a new dress, 
publishers find their firms gripped in accountant hands; 
the brightest future on PR depends.
So journos, ghostwriters and crooks seize chances to 
promote those ‘personalities' they don't possess
themselves. Nonbooks and huge advances for the few 
see off the struggling freelance (me or you?) 
Queasy millennium. Crazed dawn for telling 
any awkward truths. Reduced to selling 
souls and words like soap, most pushers taste mishap. 
Creative minds avoid surrender's trap, 
turn anguish into anger, take fresh heart.
Writing is no easy business
but always a difficult art.

Years later it's clear that Queen 
Alexandra must have been 
more concerned 
about the jockey Herbert Jones 
than anything....

When she learned 
of the unfortunate incident, 
a telegram most graciously sent 
him made no bones 
about her fellow-feeling:

Queen Alexandra was very 
sorry indeed to read 
of your sad accident 
caused through the abominable 
conduct of a brutal

lunatic woman
But while Emily Wilding 
Davison, who dashed on course, 
succumbed to the pounding 
hooves of the King's horse,

the other main loser in the race, 
Herbert Jones, survived to keep 
an album of that Derby Day. 
World newsclips vexed his sleep, 
Like 'the look of horror on her face".

The Great War soon drove everybody mad, 
yet Jones could not exorcise regret:
some ghosts will never fade away. 
Was she hysteric, heroine or martyr for the sad, 
that never-quite-forgotten suffragette?

Now the Royal Message is being flogged at Sotheby's 
some fool's gold may revive those coldest memories.


Women's written work was wittier, once.
The formula for Millett? Miller 
whether just jerk, naif or knave, 
gave excellent head-fodder, nonetheless... 
Selective quotes make any god a dunce, 
so that shrewd Kate might fill a book, 
berating intellectual male sleaze.
Miller or Mailer (stinker! jailer!): He's 
a prick talking balls.

Millennial form? 'New' feminist slaves of fashion 
mouth off the more, In vying to confess. 
Flaunting crude literary envy till it paIls, 
these creatures con most liberated journos for a while.

Truth means their primal duty is to Ms. Behave-
She-who-has-it-All-Ways - missing brain or style. 
Hence the whole hype for what's a group emission 
of self-promoting, laboured missionary bile:
cunts talking cunts.

vide: Kate Millett, Sexual Politics, 1970.
Eve Ensler (et al)' The Vagina Monologues, 1999. 
Denis Diderot, Les Bijoux Indiscrets, 1748.


Well, what did you expect?
A shining skyline turd, smug lump of Dome?
Pay to appraise it anyway, then exit from
the doubtful joy of grandiose Big Wheel!

The vista's quite unarguably clear enough.
The spin doctors have prescribed fine Stuff:
The Blair Shit Project
is where It's at, and that's for real!

To Tony's roost now wobble home 
all sorts of Politically-Modified fowl, 
gutless species who'll in turn infect 
apathetic Albion's irritable bowel.

Parasites infesting every view, the very air of 
Metropolitan Millennium, 
grow greedier for cash, to grab respect:
one of these creatures may yet make a Mayor...

End of the line, whichever way you go or come. 
What, democrat or daydreamer, did you expect? 
That body politic, newly madeover, might reject 
its own insidious mad maladies? How it might hum 
a healthier, changed tune into the-next Millennium?


Six times richer than Palace admits.
Ring out the celebration bells: that headline fits
so cosily. And God saves an ancient billionaire Queen
whose divine right to reign over cretinous shits
is laudable or laughable, if not obscene.
Abject zombies wave - braindead grunters culled from high and low,
poor extras of a royal movie, wallowing at the sty. 
Respect's doled out to porkers as old hogs roll grossly on. 
Nothing must spoil the Spectacle, nor put paid to the show:
Hunger, fed bread -&-circuses, chews humble pie-in-the-sky. 
Avid swine swallow each lie, gulp down both God & Mammon. 
Slaves, praise Our cash, admire Our pearls, Our bacon saved ages ago... 
British beefs orf? Then let them eat tripe. Hail Jubilee of gammon!
(The Times 15 Oct 2001)


O Guard, or Gawd, or Dear Prime Fraud,
vanquish the vainglorious sinner, lest he wax rich and give up nothing.
Moreover, over a good dinner, our psalms and anthems we did sing:

Saddam and Gomorrah, every rogue must go! Down with 
Hussein's banner, Hosannah here below!

Blessed are the Warmongers, for
any speck of blood on their hands
remains arguably righteous. But there's undeniable gore
which - as I’ve lately remarked, if never so feebly before-
staineth the millions of culpable hands
waved high by misguided People of Peace.
I say unto you, the crowds of craven appeasers should know:
War cleanses evil and frees civilians in vilest foreign lands.

Yea verily, our Sacred Oil Shares shall increase! 
Please praise most unctuously Amerika, therefore, 
whence all smart bombs and naive blessings freely flow. 
Expansive (though expensive) thanks to Yankeedom. Let's pray 
to the Great Mercenary Greedhead, our King of Mammon today...

Lift your faces and your voices, gird your fierce loins for the fight, 
well ride out world disaster, our Banks can survive all right. 
Two great Allies will walk on water, disperse the global fears.

Wait, just hang on a second - Apocalyptic Silence, pray,
as I blare out and nobly lead and try to orchestrate
a handful (at least a fistful) of truly inspiring cheers.
Let's hear it from the Doubting Toms and for the Empire State:
Gungho and Hurrah and Hip Hop Hooray!
Friends, Holy Romans, Countrysidemen,
lend me your crocodile tears:
I intend to end up a Lord, if there be any future years.

Right now I await your plaudits, recorded loud and clear. 
This bunker's getting empty, but I hope someone can hear. 
I feel a breeze, yet we're down on our knees, 
we're ever so saintly-sincere - O deliver us please from our enemies – 
Save us from burning, Bush & Co.!!!
Our Men


Safe at Fylingdales
spies from a friendly Empire 
track down stars and oil

(pace Roberta Rossellini)

Tony the phoney 
meets Belusconi: 
how will our own crook cope 
with an anti-war Pope?


Orton oughtn't
to have missed
tales of tapes
rapes of males
misdeeds when pissed

What petty hypocrites, 
what parasites, what shits. 
Such class-perpetuating twits 
these meanly suppurating 'Royals',
swollen pimples, foreign boils 
fit to be squeezed - that does the trick! 
or lanced from Albion's body politic.

Pay some flunkey peanuts,
scream if that monkey's penis 
is waved in one's imperious face:
cry shame and yell disgrace! 
These foolish things like queens and kings
they shall all pass 
Meanwhile it remains important
to value satirists like Orton 
to poke fun at each poker face 
and ridicule each righteous arse!


Muse and poet alike get bitten, each is not 
always love-drunk. Smiter or smitten cries So what 
game do you play - Demon-Bard or Dangerous Sot ?

Smart fought with Barker, found the nerve to give him lip -
forty stitches - still, theirs was a full lifetime trip,
The End never signalled. Moustache disguised that nip..

Plath promised fervour, first meeting and biting Hughes 
over booze. Which showed cheek enough, having him choose 
poetry's bitter route, sharp blood-gift none refuse.

Rebellion, provocation, short or long lives - tales 
drily retold by scholars of wild furies, errant males, 
whose parlous squabbles endure. Good old squalor never fails.


Albion, aptly dubbed by Lawrence Durrell 
Pudding Island, always was perfidious,
begrudged a welcome to the displaced lover.
George Barker, in the Fifties, headed for the States,
reckoned Little England inhospitable
to any poet manifesting talent:
bard-logic deemed it shrunken, the sad isle.
Empire had dwindled, its contaminated wave
(as most creative spirits would discover)
seemed to invest the mercenary brain,
find ways to flood each dull consumer’s heart.
All floundered selfishly, drowned by black gold, 
ruled by the ebbing suction, irresistible,
which owned and drained body and soul.

True poets might be monsters and yet none
of that species, menaced or menacing,
quite thought the body politic, grown gross,
could give them cause for pride. Bards dead and gone
would find words now reduced: loud propaganda
strives to form Life-Style; no dissent or decency
left, where control-freaks, empty greedheads reign.
Exiles and expats, refugees – all the disgraced,
the disaffected misfits, knew their time
had come: they heard, and fled the thunder.
Threatened by low finance’s bigotry – 
high fashion making truth de trop, fine art a crime –
they guessed no room remained for passion
and feared Authority would not relent. 

Their status seemed unsure: why should one stay
classbound, half-suspect or unheeded guest?
Historical exclusion left them blank, depressed.
Though desperation sometimes looked like vanity,
the only way to save one’s soul was flight
toward some promised other land. No Vacancy 
was fit to match the English death, that joker’s void
breaking you gradually, which ground you under
and flung poor aching fragments briskly at the night.
Nothing, then, mars that vast Imperial condescension:
words may not make a mark on those who will not read.
Fast food is what is needed, junk unsafe
but profitable, tasteless fare, for greed
is how one governs. Artists are replaced,
some flicker briefly, gain a measure of success,
cash in, crash out, sell out, sell up, repeat 
themselves, play dumb, dumb down, fall by the wayside or
settle for being set up for life. Others become
each a Narcissus, creep to Academe,
imbibing slime as stooges of the status quo,
or else, plainly astute, play the Established Whore. 

Nothing’s improved. Now, in that next Millennium
Barker and Durrell, Bacchic duo, never saw,
writers of newer vintage are themselves grown old 
and work as best they can, loath to betray
whatever legacies remain… We’ve not U-turned –
a few of us – who all too often recently
have struggled to express our hatred for
the present crop of blind fools and bland crooks,
cretinous warmongers, vile hypocrites.
Who likes to live ruled by unmitigated shits?
The only form of freedom these rogues know
is media time and space to spout fond platitudes.
Bugger such well-heeled, racist, always righteous attitudes,
they’d censor truth, drown poets, burn their books!


There are good wars: what rotten luck it's the young men have to fight them.
If troops are brave, so are MPs, and no patriot should slight them, 
guardians committed to our cause. Re WMD threat, let's pray 
lines be drawn under such questions... God's will is for despots to pay. 
Lawyers may lie, but Just Trust Us - while we propagate my Fourth Way


The proofs were returned, punctiliously read.
The scatterbrained printer – a curse on his head! –
undid such care, adding new typos to the text. 
Instead of the fine, considered, small-press book
to savour, emptor demands a caveat:
how best decipher where the poet’s at?
Errata slips apologized to the perplexed.
Error in any case abounds, bequeathed by fool or crook
while words endure… At random, a few vultures fed
on verse they reckoned scarcely worth a second look.
Slimmest of volumes, it still found its way without them.
Jap chaps, perhaps, can treasure a ‘corrector’s item’.

   Life’s for the living
yet each day we’re dying:
 cold fate’s unforgiving
  for there’s no denying
we’re in or we’re out –
   whisper or shout,
    turn, turn about –
  why are we waiting?
Scheming, creating,
warring and mating,
  loving or hating:
the time that’s to spend
  has only one end.

To cheers they march! Air: “Soldiers of the Queen, my lads”.
Cue smart salutes. The price of glory here is learned
by little guys with mythic status dearly earned
protecting native Brits from big bad foreign cads.
Plucky stars of the distant battlefield circus
mustn’t moan about bounty or homeland rewards,
facing that gratitude the Commonwealth affords.
Strange attitudes tarnish some military workers:
surely medals suffice? What’s bugging these Gurkhas?


Let those who merit what the verse declares

Chose to be vexd and think the picture theirs

[John Clare, The Parish]


A shameless nameless fellow is the brutal Anonym,
there are no literary flies that dare alight on him.
As befits an impartial democratic spirit,
he vexes and eagerly, pointedly heckles
each pompous under-performer, each brittle unfortunate bard.
High, low or mighty, he lets them all have it,
by ruthlessly firm analysis, piercing, bright and hard!
These brisk sarcastic retorts – there’s no need to resort to a shout –
are par for the broader intellectual course,
are part of a brazen, most unwelcome habit
of bracing LitCrit, underpinned by sharp impatience.
A presence to berate pretension, smug imaginings,
he’s here to deplore the current ambience –
 tides of earnest nonsense, endless dismal drought –
yet calmly, soberly, directs his own due rant
at whichever drab poetaster raises
his own fierce and horripilant hackles.

Banality of Academe, mere self-regarding cant,
this also, absolutely, he dispraises.
Winners of Awards, Established Reputations,
the New Obscurantist Sensations,
Bygones and Icons, National Treasures, Dim Young Things,
how few of them manage a poem that sings!
Which drooling ninny is fit to browse on Gert Stein’s tender button?
Strangers to genuine experiment, to ecstasy,
 freeliving foes may flaunt The Drug Experience:
unfortunate lambs fit for slaughter, while dressed up as wise mutton;
those too he fulminates against – clogged prose, limp lines and woolly brain.
Pouring scorn on the School of the Bleeding Heart,
he shows healthy contempt for Confessional Pain,
 and dismisses such stuff with a belch or fart.

He castigates as well the neat Minimalist;
decries a threadbare bourgeois Domesticity;
Freud is invoked, to poke fun at any annoying Miserabilist
whose cloying aches and pains ooze from a childish hoard.
He mocks New Righteousness, Gendered Self-Pity
that toils on woodenly prosaic chopping-board,
 and lambasts too the trendy tweakers of daft feminuscule truth.
No litterateur escapes, not hallowed Age nor callow Youth:
No more twee trivia, no bogus colloquial guff!
Enough of spurious navel-gazing, away with fake-classical stuff!


Cliques and claques he furiously abominates,
likewise the lame ducks of officialdom. And Laureates,
 media-besotted Old- or New-Gen publicists,
the suited apparatchiks of the BBC,
Left or Right Message-Bawds, earnest Religionists,
  tripe-mongers straight or gay, their hangers-on, old mates,
macho lad, jammy rat, piffling Postmodernist.
Re the Networker Careerist, he reserves the right to be
 quite as politically stern or incorrect
as necessary – sensible, impeccably direct.
Impartiality imbues his hates;
he likes to rile the ranks of his half-baked antagonists:
the precious Clever-Clogs who go out of their way
circuitously to confound all honest sentiment
as they confuse plain truth with truism, inert cliché;
the Rag-and-Bone Creeps, clad in outdated styles;
colourless Collagists of yesteryear; trite Rappers of today.
(Let semi-literates rap’n’slam for all they’re
worth, which means not a lot – except hot air!)
He knocks those Nerds, aficionados of the second-hand,
tricked out in worthy Oxfam, or less worthy Oxbridge, gear;
 slick Plagiarists; Recyclers of junk and throwaway ironies;
Clones and pathetic Clowns; Performance Poseurs,
bland standups full of shit, less comical than piles,
and short on innate wit, while sure to smirk and tease;
pretentious self-congratulatory sniggerers,
Pseuds and Prize-Winners – smartarse figurers
in the dull, barrel-scraping likes of Poetry Review’s
Top Hundred, or a Colour Supplement’s ‘Best Ever’ Lists.
But who’s omitted? Who next to abuse?
(In fairness and irreverence he reserves a verbal gob
for the Distinguished Buffer, Grand Old Bore –
gong-wearing, if too long without a proper job,
toothlessly well-connected yet past sell-by date in-store…)
Longevity or youthful brevity – no matter,
neither state is respected. Nor will he flatter,
frowning at imputation of sour grapes. Fresh argument
is something he initiates, respects, can fruitfully control.


Satire’s the only apt response these days, he purrs,
since one must loathe each philistine – the toff or prole
alike – and worse, the tight-arse
 middle-classes, blinkered and blank and apathetically content.
As for this crowd of tossers here tonight, they shall not pass
 Not to be cowed by stewards, strongarm stuff or threats,
his pointed satire, mischievous sharp weapon, always gets
results, shrewdly initiating impolite debate.
PR should be despised, he warns – genteel mendacity, third-rate
detritus of the times: smug propaganda and bad faith incite
cogent shock-tactics, just to sweep away sad shite.
Poets turn nervous now at readings: in disguise,
he aims some lethal shafts, flighted with craft and expertise;
these comments brim with justice, bring keen pleasure and surprise
to other verbal terrorists… Today the smartarse brash Young Man
In Vogue is targeted. A drivelling Teacher-dullard’s next.
Then an avuncular Eccentric, flourishing fusty text.
Insecure versifiers desperately seek
 to spot, anticipate and ambush him. They never can…
Clearing the decks, they must suspect, is his immediate plan,
 but still they go on, stammer forced and sorry words,
or pour out strained, self-deprecating anecdotes and such,
 before they feebly wisecrack, pause, most knowingly,
to milk applause from some dumb jerks they seek to please.
And thus they fiddle while Rome burns: as for the Mystery,
it’s a conundrum they can’t solve, let alone touch.
Communication’s nothing that concerns them overmuch.
 So what may be flushed out, rhyme or no rhyme?
Not excellence but effluents – verse turned to turds,
to worst of crapula, clogging the stream of Time…

How about the dreaded Heckler-Critic though?
What’s his own whispered weakness, his dark history?
What seedy CV secret should we all make haste to know?
Is he foreign Freak high on grudges? A drunken Lothario?
Our dread Stalker – this mild young slyboots? That erratic, wild old fart?
But no bullshit-detector’s required to tell blunderers apart:
any truthseeker, pure if not simple, is passionate for Art.


Good critics? Well might you enquire! There’s a New Millennial lack.
Wyndham Lewis, Leavis, Grigson: does the memory call them back?
With Roy Fuller, Enright, Empson, could they rally to attack
our increasing stacks of balderdash, this century’s bric-à-brac?
Should we ignore, or acknowledge, the fading ghost-name on blue plaque?
Are true, irascible talents required to keep Poets on track?






She cooked up for those trueblue, blase Courts

a frightful dish of offal — olid olio of orts.
Eating one's words is a dumb exercise,
though, and the richest-seeming, tempting stew of lies

often smells rank, unpalatable. So to her surprise
even the well-fee'd lackeys paid such fare no heed,
lacking both zest and stomach to advise
this plump upholder of the rites of greed.




Exact as ever is the definition

of this peculiar noun, especially polite
for a term first used in 1676.
How the 2-vol Shorter Oxford completes

my Cambridge Eng. Lit. education,
now I happen to open it at the E's!

Eons (or Aeons) too late, I've hit upon this
word from the Greek expressing one long-gone fix:

it's fit for poet-sawbones — Beddoes, perhaps Keats.
My egregious Ex seemed an Epinyctis,

"A pustule which is most painful by night".

In Erica's case however, no use at all to squeeze.






Listen Up! the dunces see fit to exhort us.

Redundant and meaningless,
mere nonsense in trendy dress,

it's not stuff our English grammarians taught us.

As yet another ridiculous phrase,

this one I'll resist 'to the end of my days'.


"To be honest we
all of us want to see more transparency"

an official spokesman oddly maintains,

as though he somehow did just that, or could,
being most 'clearly' blest with vatic vacancy.

He cites Lessons To Be Learned, Positive Gains...
Meanwhile, the Government Plan proposed will be

Proactive, Guidelines For Our Common Good.
Desperate to Deliver Excellence, he

fails signally to charm one lobbyist,

who grins in beatific boredom, pissed.




Freak accidents of phraseology and timing
treat ears to subtlety Reith might have reckoned 'unacceptable'.
Cast abroad, they're rare yet inspirational,
our motley aural gems, mined from the BBC
World Service. (Weirdness also greets prospectors of R3!)

A few priceless nuggets, then, may especially please me,
assume experimental forms, New Musicology
whose clearest echo may be treasured. They come chiming in,
to represent pure Accident, prime inadvertency.
(Their deeper audible lode reveals an absurdist grin).

Viz one guest, quite far from the norm - and so preciously introduced
as An unashamed viol junkie — sounded just a little unused
to jesting On Air. Today's take involved grim Albania I think,
the venue apparently where A stock of Second World War musicians
exploded. (‘The rest is silence', hints alternative history.)

When set or mindset's on the ball, the boil, the blink,
we should approve these conflicting and often eccentric visions
loading the digital realm. Even warfare's relayed fancy-free.
Each dreamer hears too much — not just wordplay nor wireless elisions,
but bland propaganda brought home. (Trails of grandiose vacancy...)


A Dutch dérive  

All my life I have been an anti-tourist… a building has only to be listed in the guidebooks as of ‘great interest’ for me to refuse to go near it.

[Jean Renoir, My Life And My Films, 1974] 


In Ley-den or Lie-den – it’s pronounced both ways
in Holland – we found poetry upon the walls
inscribed immaculately, situated high
above eye-level. Passers-by may safely gaze
at leisure then, and none deface resplendent works
waiting at corners, by ubiquitous canals.
Strolling on Koolstraat (but of course!) we happened first
to view one dismal Ode to Charles Parker: the worst
stuff, with its dizzy invocation of ‘John Burkes’.
Still I admire Gillespie, Bird, and undeterred,
we crossed the cobbled sidewalks of that fine city
where centuries earlier the great Descartes
once graced its University… How excellent
that the rational, enlightened Dutch see fit
to decorate their buildings with such generous arts,
calligraphers greeting bards. So pleasingly
some of the world’s sublimer lyrics lit our days,
were warmer than the elusive sun: Shakespeare
and Sappho, then Ronsard, Yeats, Apollinaire,
Quevedo, Williams, cummings and Montale –
original versions what’s more, even the Greek.
Dutch poets figured too, but we kept no tally,
not managing to scan their Flemish flights. 


Did these quite admirable sites appear unique?
Were they to vanish soon? History’s quicklime would
efface most verbiage – warfare or fire or flood
lend a rough finish to invention, beauty.
When so little uplifts us, which artefacts last?
Fabric falls to fragments, ruin perpetually;
language flies back to the Babel of fabulous times…
Near water, pairs of footsteps ebb and flow, with
no trace left. Poor human imprints are transparent,
porous as brick, brief as remembered rhymes:
what price the classical ideals, that Golden Mean?
Yet giving the nice lie to cynical philosophy
a note from the resonant past may be heard.
Deep in the Museum of Egyptology,
there lay the 18th dynasty figurine
of the God Bes, three-and-a-half thousand year
old, still going strong – "protector of music,
drunkenness and eroticism". Truly my kind
of mythical deity, whose inspiring wit,
sensual radiance and best cheer must here remain
in place, genius loci, seldom seen again…
Learning to wander, keen if not curiously blind,
we linger awhile to discern flickers across life’s screen.


or, La Belle Dame Sans Souci 

"calm and dull and self-absorbed"  

Pregnant banalities uttered display unending confidence.
She’s attractive enough, and keen to charm her captive audience
of mainly female hangers-on. They’re egregiously vain, alike,
and can’t conceal their impatience for a turn at the Open Mic.
After the cod hesitation and the insignificant pause
come chronicles, most scurrilous, all angling for scanty applause
It’s pretty well-rehearsed and yet bland fodder served often before,
over-emphatic point-scoring, plus tales that are more trite than tall.
The performer tries to decide: her lovelife will surely enthrall;
deep in a fancy blue folder she needs must forage, simpering.
Confessional verse shall reveal how shags shake One’s Innermost Core!
(Her hapless drone lay drained and prone, alone and palely whimpering…)
While she reckons Win some, lose some, alert critics know Less is more:
the slow water-torture of readings drives commonsense out of the door.




They fooled all the shrewdest of pundits: none was fully aware
of their theatrical bluff - smirking duo, Bush and Blair,

whose 'Power Walk' featured both arms splayed out simian at the hips.
They'd stride to face massed cameras, snide grins pinned onto tight lips.. 

Is what you see what you get? (This archly posturing pair
brought to mind rapacious apes.) Was John Wayne's phantom out there, 

that Third who walked beside them? Or did quite another Quare
Fellow follow in their wake, quick to sow doom and despair? 

Western gunmen strut their stuff, suited warmongers do too:
the world may briefly believe, yet history buries you.




'Flow Bare was Ur reek loose'.
Grim stuff in flattest New World Poet-Voice,
while not dead-airtime, dims the BBC.
Its toneless owner clucks as if home free,
and comes on like a faintly silly goose.

Reclusive Flaubert, more gregarious Joyce,
felt saintly lust for words, yet took great care
lest best intentions be construed foursquare.
Critics work hard still to pronounce in vain
upon such gems, choices reviewed again.  

Our pundit's name on R3 rhymes with look
rather than, as might be imagined, duck,
or, if its ii is umlauted, with dick.
Recluse, or reckless listener, take your pick.

You're stuck? Try flicking through her latest book,
which won a Pulitzer... But what the fuck,
writers need nerve to sound off, push their luck:
here's one I've heard enough of— Louise Glück.

Cambridge '58

Wintry courtyard where
old Sir John hobbles, hailing
bemused young Kingsmen

An Iscan Conclave

Cul-de-sac chorale:
locals and strays come calling,
stare, caterwauling

Herbal Remedies

Plants hung up to dry
in our garage augur high
times and joys ahead


thrive beyond the pale,
build on world guilt, settling scores,
grab land unpromised

A Postmodern Question?

Adorno did not
like jazz, as Said said. What
was meant — cool or hot?


Teenager Admits
Killing Pigeon
— thrilling news
fills our local rag

ALARM CALL, 2 a.m.

Flood of shocking light,
with blood bright on my pillow,
shows me I should rise


Avatar coming
soon in 3D
, an advert
claims. Whose god this time?


Unheralded and vilified, true pride of London town,
after weary years of protest camped upon the pavement,
victim of random assault, prey to police harassment,
and the petty spite of bureaucratic legislation,
Haw remains intransigent: neither backing off nor down.
His aim just to rile the conmen, cause them embarrassment,
win allies on this tented watch. Thus he keeps his station

under Big Ben, reproaches round the clock a Parliament
turned quite tame and passive. He’s never yet seen fit to quit,
our stubborn holy fool, but summons up some brazen wit,
forecasting glummer things to come, and speaks for the nation
on viewing the new wearer of the War Criminal’s crown –
crony-catcher McBuggins, aka Gordon Brown.
Everyone should credit it: "Different arsehole, same old shit".

‘The more you consume the less you live’
Fame feeds the greedy masses, but the Soft Machine
needs freshest logos for new life – pale yellow, green.
Invest in sentiment and crown Diana Queen.
Ignore an end colder than tubs of margarine.

Our Lady’s fittest, least inspiring image
lacks gravitas, and yet exhorts us to be lean.
Her signature’s here: one wonders why it
should favour any brand. An unctuous message

from the Flora folk gives THANKS to Di. It
seems mere self-indulgence not to diet
now. Good works work best after you die… It
improves humble pie, so all must buy. It

is ideally quick, an equitable spread,
that smears the whole world smooth. So tasteless, thin.
We’ll scoff the lot, over our daily bread,
welcoming Death with its broad media grin.

Meanwhile for saint or sinner it’s
light years from dinner at the Ritz
and breakfast time may prove too bland, too quiet.
Drive faster, comes the summons, do let’s try it!

Piety in the sky


Inside this fortnightly periodical,
brainfodder for the urban intellectual,
is enshrined a grandiose text, its whole half-page
promoting po-faced, chattering flattery.

The reverential style surely provokes
the smile or bile of satire if not rage:
solemn events like these are short on jokes.
Some sanctimonious cow, one overweening witch,


will here scratch publicly her poetaster's itch,
engage in dialogue on Faith and Poetry, no less,
with a most venerable yet verbose retiree,
garrulous CEO of the ever-feeble C of E.

Roll up, roll up! Book now to catch rhyme's mystery!
Watch hairy Primate with 'award-winning' nonentity
explicate Art-and-Angels, locked in their wordy cage,
to an audience worthy of better, true auras of holiness.