Poems of weeks gone by...

Eton Mess - A Recipe

 

Take one overblown sense of self-importance and add in a deep-seated loathing for anyone other than the ruling class.

Mix in the following:

  • Lashings of Racism

  • 2 tbsp Contempt

  • 4oz Butter

  • 3 dozen raw Bigots (preferably Home Counties)

  • 1 Watermelon

  • An annoying inability to listen to any other voice then their own

  • Half a bottle of vanity

  • Some freshly sliced unpalatable views

  • 8 buckets of Sugar

  • Sprinkle with a bizarre vision of 19th century Britain as some kind of magnificent Utopia

All of which should then be placed clumsily on the base of a decidedly unhealthy attitude towards women.  

 

Then simply add the ability to lie until quite red, white & blue in the face. 


Allow to stand for 5 years occasionally stirring until well and truly stuffed.

17th July 2019

Newsflash... St Valentine's Press Conference scheduled for Midday.

That time of year

creaking with rust.

Tears torn from 

the pages of history

strewn over

channel smash'd pebbles at 

Seaford Head.

St Valentine

greying at the temples 

but ok for his age.

Shipping  forecast

echoing in the warm glow

of a distant morning.

He finishes his toast

and scans the words 

before him.

Same story as last year

same as the year before

- it's the same

all the way back, he admitted...

'Always have, always will'

He knows that the only upside is ...

She'll never read them!  

 

14th February 2019 

I bring sad news from the Old Country

Dismantled.

 

Touchdown Heathrow, 

disentangle mangled flight mind

 

Those of you who are sitting 

on the left-hand side of the plane 

will get a good view of the city 

going up in smoke

Those of you who are sitting 

on the right-hand side of the plane 

will see nothing but real estate 

opportunities

 

Express train from tarmac to smoke black… We are expecting a good service

on all other lines

 

We apologise that we shall not be stopping at Liberty Central

Unity Parkway

Freedom

 

I bring sad news from the Old Country

I bring mad news from the Old Country

I bring bitterness from the Old Country

I bring torment from the Old Country

Feel free to lie

 

The faith we place in truth, the value we attach to honesty or the promise of integrity...

 

Traded like football cards, bought and sold like bubble gum and spat out on the street...

meanwhile the coffee shop counterfeits praise change, hail the shake up and delight in the latest atrocity...

 

If anyone asks 'are things really as bad as all that?'

 

Feel free to lie!​

(after the US midterms November 2018)

 

Listening to Histoire de Melody Nelson the day after the night

And he takes his anger out on

the bass line

he pummels the day before with

the bass line

he finds sanctuary in the depths of

the bass line

for without it 

he is now... nothing

Karoshi

(for Matsui Takahashi et al.)

 

Another two hours

and then

a break, some respite

a walk around

my desk

another long hour

and then

the trip to the cooler

a whole cup 

of water

another silent day

for them

my apartment, a sleep

the deepest sleep

I'm done.

Out of season

 

The tied down sunbrellas stand guard

smudge tired cocktail glasses

still hover around the edge of the mosquito pool 

the exhaustion painted onto every  sun charred face

The bar is running low

the nearest town is 15 miles away

there are only two dry packets of cigarettes left to last the whole month 

Hotels occupy every space from

the Old Kent Road to Mayfair

There are no more questions

left to answer

'cept one

Where did everyone go?

 

Highlights lowlights - Part XIII

 

The sun settled in

to the autumn morning

as the sea breeze sidled up street down street

side street

all sort of nor-easterly

pulling faces and pulling hair.

 

Meanwhile...

 

We've got nothing to worry about

we've got nothing to do

no promises to keep

no commitments to honour

 

only elections to rig

camps to dismantle

AK-47's to sell

drugs to distribute

taxes to dodge

legacies to (su)stain

 

and beautiful days to ignore.

Monday Morning Modern

Head down

Lambretta grip

Persol shielding 

night-stung eyes

casino aspirations

still sway

inside the empty

ballroom of your heart

 

Rickenbackers flailing midair

as the feedback howls

through your chilled soul

"It shouldn't have ended here

I reckon we had another 

three albums and a farewell tour

of the states left in us..."

VOX AC30 smashed onstage

as her feedback howls

through your chilled soul

 

 

Schizopoet (snippet)

 

I was trying to write a poem about the inevitable demise

but I kept coming back to you

I was trying to find a rhyme for displacement

but I kept coming back to you

I was skimming stones off the waves in my head

but I kept coming back to you

I was looking out at the perpetual procession

but I kept coming back to you

I meant to sort the bamboo out

but I kept coming back to you

I tried to write another dystopian horror script

but I kept coming back to you

I meant to set up that political party I’ve  been harping on about

but I kept coming back to you

 

I kept coming back to you

 

 

Melting

It happens slowly

like ice melting in Whisky…

 

God was in a bar

He was drunk

He was angry

He was resentful

He had no purpose in life

He had enough money

for 2 months rent

or a road trip

 

“What are you doing with your life?”

The barman punted the question out into the ether,

waiting for God to pick up the thread.

No answer was forthcoming.

 

 

Echoes of a lost city

 

They used to kiss each other goodnight here, they used to hold their loved ones close and their lovers closer still...

 

Trams rattling down nocturnal tracks, waves stretching out over silver sand,

marble statues lying neutered amidst the rusting roadsigns and empty parking lots.

The brass plaque from the war memorial slumped against the derelict library wall.

 

They used to kiss each other goodnight here, they used to hold their loved ones close and their lovers closer still...

 

7/4/2015

 

Mission Ravilious

 

Night reconnaissance over vellum,

morning missions rise over woodcut,

typeset ambush in neat Sussex lanes,

camouflaged print raid

caught in lighthouse glare, 

as watercolour clouds

drench a downland lair.

 

...From Beddingham to Reykjavík

forever a man on a mission.

 

23/03/2015

 

 

Carnival

 

Fairground phantoms

clattering around

the empty recreation ground

 

lost yells of the blue stratos generation

backing the accapella cry of a Cinzano fuelled torch singer

 

"I know you are in there

I can see your silhouette
I saw you switch the light off

I heard you turn the music down..."

 

A crystal night indeed

when the carnival 

came to town.

09/03/2015

 

Lemon Juice, Disque Bleu

 

Lemon juice dripped

from wet hair

blanching in the midi sun

turn back

turned olive black

near parched Godot tree

manure blot landscape

dead meat scent

mixed with dry hay

opened this bottle

drunk that drink

sat on those steps

prayed to the other god

 

long days baked in harsh light

the fields yellow with summer

Disque Bleu smoke drifted

through breast focus eyeline

Peugeot exhaust settles on the

first crisp morning beer

and your eyes 

charcoal black 

glisten 

with tears...

26/2/2015

 

Splintering

 

The first meteor shower

came at lunchtime

 

That was the most

unexpected thing

It should have come

after the golden shield

had been usurped

by the glimmer of night

 

but no, there they were

splintering as they fell

black tears

on grey streets

16/02/2015

Burned Wine

 

And then it came to me

I had my very own brand epiphany

everyone is having them

and well,

now I’ve had mine.

I’m an after-dinner poet

aged in a wooden cask

caramel coloured

burned wine.

Therefore

you beautiful artists

paint me large.

Yes you

you wonderful performers

write me tall

for

I am brAndy

 

9/2/2015

 

Ex-Prime Minister Monday Morning Job Seeker 

 

Sunday night sick to the pit

of your churning stomach.

 

Unable to eat or sleep,

wondering when you'll get the call. 

Can't bring yourself to go to bed,

can't bear the thought of staying awake.  

 

Wishing it would all be over...

 

Not long now Tony

Not long now

 

2/1/2015

 

 

In days like his

(for David Andrade - Founder of the Melbourne Anarchists Club)

 

In days like his…

 

One can’t help but feel

that in amongst

the pipe smoke,

the chin stroke,

the gin soak

that what he really wanted to say was…

 

Up against the wall Motherfuckers,

this is a stick up!

 

25/1/2015

© 2015 by the Seaside, beside the sea.  Andrew Franks is a Soul Bay Press writer.