Friday, 10 January 2014

Three Poems For My Mother

I Never Thought I’d Live This Long

This song will never be played again,
Because it’s different this time
To every other time
And I won’t remember it next time,
If there is one.
My mum asked if I felt different,
Now that I’m older,
But I told her, I
Never expected to live this long. 
Thought I would be long gone and
Leaving a tragically small, but
Celebrated back catalogue – beautiful,
To match my corpse.
Last words recorded by a tearful nurse,
Hearse chased by obsessive fans
And debt collectors
Health inspectors recommending
That my bedsit be condemned, and then
Bankers turning down a lone loan application
To turn it into The Museum of the Lost Cause.
No, I never intended to live this long.

Oh, to be unappreciated in my own time….
Instead of under-appreciated in my own rhymes.

My Moment Of Fame, Ruined

It was my moment of fame:
They read out my name
At the out-patients waiting room
They mis-spelled it on the form
And I was ready with ready wit
To make the waiters in the waiting room
Laugh; but not too much
(That would be inappropriate)

But they pronounced it right,
So the nurse didn’t apologise
And I never said:
“Don’t worry,
It will make a good story
In my autobiography
Available March 15th
In any surviving bookshops.”

(That chapter will be entitled:
My Big Moment Ruined
By An Over-worked Nurse.
And it will be
Fucking hilarious.)

It was my moment of fame,
And she ruined it,
But that’s ok.
She was professionally stressed.
And I’m extravagantly talented,
(And my Mum says
I was the handsomest boy in school…).

A Postcard Home (Greetings From Glasgow)

Haw, Maw,
Ah’m back up North,
Near the park
That was ma Da’s auld stompin’ grun’
Catholics against the prods at the fitba’
And sectarian banter ‘n’ a’ that ‘n’ a’…
Naw, Maw, ah havnae seen ma Grannie yet
‘Cos I’m weirded oot by
Proximity tae a deathbed.

Breath left suggests
I put that phoney accent out of my head
Before I get telt with a boot aboot the head
I ran all the way back to Govan,
Wi ma wee cousin
To avoid all the Glesga life-lovin’
Heavy-drinkin, stinkin’ aggression.
It’s a curse and a blessing
That I was raised in England –
Where the winters are milder,
And so are the women.

Dragged up in some circumstances that
Made me grateful
For working class parents, not
Fish and chips on a Friday night, like
The rest of the western world.
Bristol’s prettiest girls turned my head
But not my persecution complex
A fat Glasgow chip on each shoodir,
For wherever I rest.
But I’ll soon be back in Bristol,
Where we bristle, but slow
Baptised with incense and skunk smoke,
Ah’m no homesick,
Ah’ll no greet,
I’m already home;
Greetings from Glasgow.

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