The children of men

 Drifting off into the slumber of the years

I ask myself the number of my fears

And what keeps me tethered onto this earth

Besides the woman my mother who to me gave birth

The chilling facts

Recall the acts which monsters

Hide beneath their beds

And bring out to read about

The dominion of the children

And they take down the giants

They conquer what cannot be

The missing part of childhood

or latent homosexuality?

What offers up the reasons for the curse

Than the single seasons

Time must rehearse

And flog until its dead

The lifeless corpse of the horse

But what shall we make of reckoning

Each life affirming jerk

The freedom of the sperm is grounds

For marital divorce

That women are not free

We know of course

But what freedom have men, who are chained

Locked down from their emotions

Free to act, without come back

Yet attacked by religious institutions

Yet all responsibility rests with women

Whether for the men or the children

They awake, and push and pull the universe

Yet cannot tear its fabric

That is their curse

And men's curse is perhaps inverse

Without real power, in the house

In the hour

Their recourse is in destruction

Of course

And they burst and they flower

But to create is only our

Saving grace

In the seed of art

Or in the seed of sperm

But womens' creation is far greater

In opposition

They must harbour and hold

And nurture the creature

While men must demand to be heard

Through impotent rage

Or on the potent stage

They choose to tread

Because no woman hears their voice

Their mother instead

Or has their sister read

Their books or listened to their choice

As the daughters assassinate their fathers

And the sons blot out their mums

All this turns in the mill of life

And time like a steam roller

Rolls on

It only leaves the impression of the man 

And woman

Locked in a love pose

Flattened on the tarmac road of eternity

Like murder victims

Drawn in chalk outline

Burnt shadows

While over their bodies

Run the children

Who will themselves

Catch up with time in the end

Monthly

 March or die, April or bust, May travel West, June eat the dust,  July there's no rest, even in August, September is another test, October turns to rust, November wear a vest, December is a lust, January go away, February is just.

Welsh Rugby

 

The Welsh women's world rugby team were lined up ready, they kicked off, scrummed and mauled, rummaged around in their handbags and the winger was running to cross the line for a try when suddenly her waters broke and she went into labour. Almost immediately a young women's rugby star tot was born. The babe was passed from arm to arm as somebody had lost the rugby ball and the rest of the game went off without a hitch. I am a fan of women's rugby, but I draw the line at kicking babies into touch, that is a cruel sport and could end in ruin, or certainly a lawsuit. 

It was a veritable blood bath, the women's rugby match against England, in sympathy at least three other pregnant players began giving birth to even more mini women baby rugby players, and they multiplied. Soon the whole crowd in an outpouring of estrogen married to progesterone were giving birth to babies, everywhere women and babies seethed enmasse, the commentator really did not know how to describe the scene of indescribable carnage but also unbridled joy and emotion in a place no man was allowed anymore. A seen of almost holy miracle. The immaculate conception and immediate birth of children from all the fifteen aside rugby team.

Shark attack

 The boy took his father to the hospital with a broken arm after a shark had slapped it with its fin

They were able to cast it for him

Not only did his arm star as an extra in Holly oaks , but it was also used as bait on my next shark fishing trip.

Finally the hospital gave the father a cast of his arm from plaster of Paris, as plaster of London was all sold out in B and Q. The Venus DeLillo was unhappy because she was armless in Seattle, So she settled on a settee in Gettysburg, an armchair in Mac Donald, and divan in Burger King. The one armed bandits of New York and New Mexico were highly jealous.

Plasterers of London and Paris unite, we're all getting plastered tonight

The Fisher king

 I met some fishermen in the showers

Of April on the pier

They said March or die

I said how can I

When you've covered my DNA queer?

You've queered the pitch

You've tarred and bitch

You men of roads and gears

You've rolled my soul

In stones and potholes

And I've come up covered in

leers, jeers, 

I've risen up like a mountain

But my head has been eroded down

And now all that's left is a reptilian husk

Of the royal stem which once wore a crown

I met the fishermen

They said do you like fishing?

Are you going fishing

Well are you?

In Weymouth, I said,

some do, he said

He had this sweaty loss on him

This punter's cruelty

Of the King Arthur in Glastonbury

It's like a sickbed

They use a Noble name

And the customer's think 

Somehow through Osmosis

Or through drinking the beer

That they've absorbed some of his might

And right and Majesty

But it's built on a poisonous well

And they are drinking from a poisoned chalice

And if they're looking for the Holy Grail

Well they've found a town called Malice

I don't think Glastonbury is well

Down there it's a fishing port

It's a hard place, it's a cruel sport

Fishing

They would be better off calling it

The Bait and Tackle

As that's all they end up doing

Trying to catch each other out

Laying traps for unsuspecting fish to bite

I met some fishermen 

and asked them how they bait their fish

They said we can use maggots, worms, flies

Mosquitoes

Depends on what size Fish

The prize determines the size

Of insect

I said how did you learn to bait like that?

They told me years of practice

And night school

We had to join a guild

The FOMB

The FOMB I said pray what does that stand for?

Fear of mis-baiting? I suggested

No they said it stands for

The Federation of Master Baiters

Oh I said you must feel great pride

They nodded and carried on

Of ladders and dreams

 You reach the top

But you can't break through

So you get a job 

On the wrecking crew

Glass ceilings 

And waterfalls

All breaking up

When you swing your ball

You're climbing up

The ladder with the angels

Some are climbing down

With broken wings

We'll meet them on the ground

When the choir sings

Of heady stuff

Of being enough

Of what fire brings

Courage and love

Of human things

Of beggars and fools

And Heroes and kings

Morris-men

 Who are you to say what's right?

Morris man with your bells so bright

Jingle, jangle, tingle tangle

Me up in your music tonight

He was the son of a Morrisman

He danced all night to the band

And kissed the girls in the caravan

He was the son of a Morrisman

Don't sweet talk me pretty

Or sit on my kitty

I've been hitting the sticks

Since the age of Six

And I'll dance you to heaven

If you given me seven

Or give me five in a pat-a-cake jive

I'm the sweet talking son of a Morrisman

It's the bells and whistles

It's the great charade

Of the chardonnay 

And the grape parade

We're dancing today

Like it's the first of May

I'm 19th son of a Morrisman

My father's name was Morris

He drove a Morris minor

His father's name was Boris

He was Major then a miner

In the Russian steppes then the gulag

Then he did the goose step

In the jet lag rag

My great grandfather Morris

was a florist in the Dutch colonies

Not far from the forests of the Aborigines 

Where he danced with the originals

And learnt all the Abba signals

Beat his sticks upon the glass

windows of widows