Category Archives: Pointless Grumblings

The Unsubtle Self-pity of Youth


So there I was, just seventeen, four hours before the grey-drenched dawn
In South Shore’s grotty, out-of-season bed-sit land, the world half-drawn
On tungsten light with charcoaled lines, surrounded by some claustrophobic
Room that bore the trademark of the seventies – anachronistic,
Dark and dreary, listening to The Wall by Pink Floyd on repeat,
As Roger Waters’ dirges made my dank, self-maudlin world complete.
Outside the streets were closed for winter, only brothel doors ajar,
Illuminating men in flat caps, smoking Capstans full strength tar.
It really couldn’t get much bleaker. Here was life in all it starkness.
Then the meter stopped and plunged my rank self-pity into darkness.


Kitten Fodder


I’m shredded like an old kebab
By teeth that bite and claws that grab
With no consideration for
The pain they cause. I’m stinging raw.
There’s not an inch of skin unraked.
I’m sure the vet’s made some mistake.
It’s not a kitten, it’s bad karma
Trapped inside a mad piranha.

On the Beach at Grange Over Sands


Creeks and wrinkles, green with moss and tiny flowering plants – here’s where
The old folks, hankies on their heads, sit drowsing in their canvas chairs,
While in the distance, blinking like a razor’s edge, the sea has turned,
Unnoticed. Still the snores from papers deepen as old timers burn.
The tidal bore is ripping back; snorting, pounding, growing fast!
A nightmare on its savage charge. Then sounds the Moaning Minnie blast,
And suddenly bare feet are scrambling over gullies in a panic,
It’s not as though we didn’t warn you. Leave your picnics, run with manic
Fear etched in your boggling eyes. One final surge should reach the rocks!
Then let the waves consume the shore and spit out flasks and tartan socks.

Summer Mistrals


Let summer mistrals blow the music from the house across the street
Into the sea like autumn leaves, then shake the noisy children bleating
Into far flung valleys like confetti, leaving me alone
With just the hot winds on my face without the constant, tuneless drone
Of vapid kitchen-sink folk whining, shrieking, barking all the time.
So, let those summer mistrals blow, and scour me of baked-on grime

The Crowd


They gather now outside the gates, in ugly clumps of four or five,
From red brick streets and grey estates, built out of people’s empty lives,
To watch the match, hurl insults at the other team, the rival side,
Whose coloured stripes are not the same as theirs. It’s mental genocide.
There’s nowhere quite as lonely as the centre of the crowd
Of mindless, racist, baying idiots, whose tuneless dirge rings loud
Enough to echo off the walls like whale-song in Arctic seas,
A chant that rolls along the terraces with grey monotony.
They’ll laugh at almost anything that has the rhythm of the joke.
The empty swell of the accepting, where creative thinking chokes
In ugly weeds of patriotic thoughts and hateful, tribal songs.
It’s then you know just how alone you are within the senseless throng.

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