two thousand and twenty-three
the year of the new me
physically
mentally
emotionally
socially
aesthetically
creatively
stylishly
tirelessly
professionally
productively
practically
tactically
naturally
healthily
morally
merrily
heroically
stoically
starts tomorrow
hopefully
first there was dad
then me
although obviously
that’s mad
because dad had a dad
his dad a dad before that
in fact
a shit load of dads going back and back
to – WHAT, exactly?
something slimy n’straggly
finning with a screech
ever so slowly up the beach
overcome with emotion
at this unexpected locomotion
sometime around the Cambrian explosion
without the least notion
what made it think to leave the ocean
and what the fuck it was doing there
wheezing in the sultry air
bug-eyed and staring
in the brutal sunlight glaring
wondering what the hell it was facing
in the bushes bordering the river basin
and let’s say you were cruising
in that bougie time machine you’ve been using
and your cameras all zoomed in
there’d be no disputing
between the scientists in attendance
an unmistakable family resemblance
I’m a grandpa rapper / a crap rapscallion / safety cap and medic alert medallion / when sorrows come, they come not in single rhymes, but battalions / digging so deep I beat the Grand Canyon
I’m a secondhand man, a used methuselah / trying not to lose what time’s busy bruising / pleasantly confused but somehow cruising / altitudes of attitude in between snoozing
I’m a hand model for cannulas / decades older than Dracula / rhyming my time in dodgy vernacular / less Cardi B more cardiovascular / a tottering, tea-time travelling ambassador / for the dusty but lusty, rap-battling amateur / bending his endings in dodgy parameters
I’m old father rhyme / emptying the floor in four-four time / ready to go when he’s only just arrived / boney n’broken / outspoken in a cloak / a try-hard, blowhard, droney old bloke / specialising in hip hop embarrassment / rhymes so bad it’s tantamount to harassment / ancient and arrogant / blatant, irrelevant / an exiled, senile, X Files experiment
I’m a slow-crime, lunch time, delusional dreamer / drivin’ my four wheeled walker like a beemer / lithe as a lemur with a fractured neck of femur
I’m a one-time rhymer whose tunes aren’t wack / braces not belts cos my pants are slack / tenacity I lack / not hitting the clubs, hitting the sack / snacks my crack / fifteen Murder She Wrotes back to back
I’ve got bandanas on the shopping list / vitamin pills, Bloods n’Crips / zimmer frames my game and sticks ma’ whips / easy-on gats with velcro grips / my rhymes don’t shine but they sure don’t slip / when I bust a move I bust a hip
Shall I compare thee to a blustery walk?
Thou art more bedraggl’d and more desperate:
Rough shakes do make your owner squawk,
And wonder who the hell hath suggested it;
Sometime too full the clouds of heaven burst,
And oft is thy cold complexion mean;
And every drop from heaven somewhat curs’d,
By forecast or by weather app unseen;
But thy eternal damp fur shall not lieth,
Nor lose possession of that rug thou fowl’st;
Nor shall warmth brag thou art finally drieth,
When from time to time thou quietly growl’st:
So long as dogs take walks inclemently
So long do I, and then give towel to thee
I thought of him as The Manager
I’d have asked his name if I could
but he marched with a head-down manner
whenever we passed in the woods
he was sleeping rough it was clear
his jacket and trousers reeked
his tash was as trim as a brigadier’s
so maybe he shaved in the creeks
he hugged a briefcase in front of him – so
like a panicking city gent
and I said hello as I saw him go
but that’s as far as it went
he slept in a broken down stable
like Jesus fifty years on
a bale of old hay for a table
and all the wise men gone
another walker told me the rest
he was found a while since he died
a walker exploring the forest
stopping and peering inside
‘well it won’t be an open coffin’
said Bill, enjoying the shocks
‘ten weeks dead and quite rotten
half eaten by badger and fox’
but maybe the forest claimed him
finally setting him free
The Manager with no one to name him
flying amongst the trees
billionaires basking in gated squares / feeding fortunes, shuffling shares / phoning lawyers, tending heirs / tipping off Tories at Sunday prayers / kicking their servants down the stairs
taking cake with marie antoinette / who laughs and says she often forgets / exactly who’s who in the oubliettes
Captain James T. Musk saying wassup / boldly going and pricing it up / Doctor Zuckerberg’s sorry to interrupt / but the environmentalists are screaming earth destruct / do we blast their asses or beam them up
a deal, a drag, a tag, a tussle / off to the gym for a flex of muscle / iso drinks and the kiss of a knuckle / snap of a towel and a cheery-ass chuckle / feeling okay but your legs start to buckle
dogs of the world, unite / you’ve nothing to lose but your collars, alright? / or have you forgotten how to bite
the screams of the audience, the roar of the clown / that memorable night the top burned down
travelling, unravelling / grovelling, gravelling / border guards frowns and judges’ gavelling
deficit, surplus, transfer payments / dog eat dog and other defrayments
a jellyfish queuing at the city aquarium / likes the displays cos they often vary ‘em
CAPITALISM’S BAD FOR YOU? THAT’S what your message is? / There needs no ghost, come from the grave, To tell me this.
Every Christmas
I used to give Grandma
one of three things:
Oil of Ulay;
Cuticura talcum powder,
or tights (20 to 30 denier)
Oil of Ulay
was an anti-ageing face cream;
Cuticura talcum powder
soothed irritated skin
and sopped up moisture,
and tights (20 to 30 denier)
were warm and supportive
And scientists are in no doubt
THAT’S why
Grandma is still
pulling crackers
at 140
Sooo…
…I’m abducted by aliens / on the lookout for average-sized homo sapiens / they’re a cross between badgers and episcopalians / with cute lil’ paws and over-sized craniums / and their craft is saucer-shaped, of course / and it hoovers me up like a Dyson of sorts / with an attractively shimmering, tractor-beam force / that also appears to shuck off my shorts / so my quivering arse is already out / when I sprawl on the floor and flail about / on the transporter deck / where the aliens excitedly gather to check / whether I’m really worthy or not / to be put on the spot / and probed for whatever intel I’ve got / and of course I object / as they pull my t-shirt over my head / and lower me onto a titanium bed / slimed and ready / for their space tech-heavy / investigation / and I shout with indignation / There’s no justification / for this wholly unwarranted examination / but they go ahead n’ probe / and the house lights strobe / then after a while they hand me a robe / and I sit in recovery watching a globe / showing dreadful 70s sci-fi schtick / where the smiles are thin and the hair is slick / and the cardboard doors swoosh and stick / and the science guy’s cold and the captain’s a dick / and my head grows heavy and oddly thick / and the next thing I know / I’m back here groaning in the undergrowth / and that’s where the search party finally found me / and I’m free to speak to the reporters around me / and I’ve written a book on the whole damned business / and I’m happy to say it’s out this Christmas
I opened my eyes
and to my surprise
there stood Dad
nodding and smiling in that way he had
plus a few added extra spectral moans
cos he was twenty years dead and mostly bones
‘Ere we are again! he said. Happy days!
scratching his pate with a coupla phalanges
How are you doin’ Jim? Tell me – how’s tricks?
Anything a stiff like me can fix?
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes
‘Well – Dad – I said – what a lovely surprise
but I’d be lying
if I said your visit wasn’t trying
I mean it’s hard with you flying
around the place
it hardly makes
for a restful scenario
but that being said – how the hell are you?
I’ve been worse
dying’s the curse
of the living classes
lately I’d be hard put to tell you where my arse is
added to which I’ve lost my glasses
but even if I found ‘em
I haven’t got ears to hook the frames round ‘em
[but then he turned sharply;
looked at me darkly]
Mark me!
Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold…
whoa! just a goddamn minute I said
quickly sitting up in bed
Why the dramatic shift in gear?
Why’ve you suddenly gone all Shakespeare?
You’ve got to wonder how it looks
You only ever read gardening books
Mark me!
My hour is almost come,
When I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself
and you know that’s bad for my mental health
Dad – I hate to say this
but you know I’m an atheist?
which is awks
all this talk
of purgatory and damnation
well – it’s an interesting situation
and not that I’m calling you a liar
but …c’mon… really? … HELLFIRE?
What did YOU do that was so terrible?
your only crime was overcooking vegetables
You’re right, Jim!
This is way too grim
I’ve been hoodwinked! Hypnotised! Taken in!
This is what happens
when you die and time slackens
and you’re prey to religion and gothic fashions
Just imagine!
Surrounded forever by ghouls and ghosts
with apocalyptic monotheistic guff to promote
So – what’s it REALLY like then, I said
Tell me what it’s like being dead.
Well, Jim – d’you remember as a toddler, kneeling
quietly by the window on a Sunday evening
as I worked in the garden, shadows deepening
threads of smoke through the darkness weaving
invoking a sharp and poignant feeling?
well THAT’S what it’s like, but 24/7
and whether that’s hell or whether that’s heaven
is a completely different kinda question
And with that he vanished in a cackle of smoke
And I fell back asleep and when I awoke
completely forgot the words he spoke
(mental note: keep a pad by the bed
or shit like this goes out of your head)
