Spoof CV

Graduated from the school of misery;

Flunked hard knocks;

Took a stab at whingeing;

Ended up on the rocks.

Old Haunts

1966

See where he stands,

Glorious to behold,

Like some Roman God

Flushed with the spoils of life,

Re-entering the shrine of youth,

Resplendent in old school tie.

And, in his mind,

The bridge of time

Is idly spanned,

Back to the lost cities

Of his youth.

As he passes,

Small boys wonder at his bulk;

He marches on in state,

Down the halls of yesteryear.

The Prodigal Son

Returns to his own.

Voices

The voice in your headphones

May be wrong

When it says the painting ‘breathes’.

There are no obvious signs.

The voice is blind:

It can’t see thoughts;

But nor can you.

Jumping a few old masters,

You move on:

A minute per picture

Seems too short

For a lifetime’s effort.

You are a masterpiece,

Needing no expert commentary

To prove yourself.

Back in the open air,

You sit, perplexed,

Consulting the day for answers.

And who’s to say

That darkening scene

In front of you

Isn’t some future Rembrandt?

Out of Order

In the Freud Museum

At Berggasse 19,

The loo (where perhaps the great man had sat)

Was out of order.

What had he thought, I wondered,

As he pondered

On life.

In the consulting room,

A woman was talking loudly;

I studied photographs

Which I no longer remember,

Even under the influence

Of ink.

I thought of das Sofa,

That famous couch,

Far away in Hampstead;

How I'd kept watch

While you took a photo

On the quiet.

It’d felt eerie

Like watching the dead,

Or them watching us,

Which is much the same thing,

I imagine.

Leaving, I felt none the wiser,

Stepping out

Onto a damp Vienna street,

To find life waiting

Almost where I'd left it.

Message from Porlock

In 1797, Coleridge’s great romantic poem “Kubla Khan” is said to have been interrupted for all time  by “a person on business from Porlock”

There never was a Xanadu, as far as I can see,
Despite the great man’s ramblings as he ushered me in;
No explanation or offer of tea.
Poets, you think, would have better manners.


His papers were a mess:

Scribblings about dancing girls and caves of ice.
I inspected them, nonetheless,
A thorough waste of time,
And left without more ado,
Since I had come on business.

On the way home, I felt a lurch.
My horse in fast thick pants was breathing -
On account of a broken shoe -
Nothing more alarming.

Back at Porlock, at my inn,
No damsel with a dulcimer followed me in.
I slept in the same room as always.
No wailing troubled my sleep,
Not to my knowledge, at least.

It isn’t that kind of place.

Double Trouble

My doppelganger rang me up today,

Asking for money, which I don’t have.

I pointed out he doesn’t have a phone,

Or even an identity

To speak of.

He claimed I’m an imposter;

He’s the real me:

The self I’d be if I were smart.

He must have problems telling us apart.

The mirror says

I’m better looking.

It should know.

Now, when he calls, I’m not at home,

However much he shouts my name

As if it’s his own.

Though, each time I watch him go,

Shabby and wannabe,

Silence returns like an echo.

News from Nowhere

Turning the page, one is

At ease, in a practical sense,

Preserving one’s distance on trains:

Reliving events as told,

If not as they really are,

In places we rarely go.

Words that don’t speak for us

But strangers everywhere;

Absorbed in our sanctuary

As the bus rumbles home:

Disaster and war,

The plight of stars,

Politicians whose power

Attracts,

While raising the tide of fear;

Each headline a litany

Of lives unshared,

Making awareness safe

For readers whose fate,

Despite all that's known,

Remains a mystery.

Geek Chorus

Sex is “the opera of the masses,”

They say:

“The poor man’s café.”

Though I love a good breakfast,

I’m an opera nut,

Following the music,

If not the plot.

Each act is an awakening,

A form of rebirth:

Moving the scenery,

If not the earth.

For true fans, opera is everything,

And you know it’s not over

Till the lady sings.

Lost Land

It’s no fun living in Atlantis

Despite what poets claim.

Crustacians pick on you constantly

And only sharks smile back.

Mermaids entice you

With dreams of rescue;

Wrecks make you sad.

The Titanic’s a deep-sea disco,

The Marie Celeste is a pub:

You can dance with some starfish forever

Or drown on a pint.

Back home, on my water bed

I lie, counting fish.

Mystery surrounds us,

Submerged in a myth.

I dream of land constantly

But can never go back.