Wednesday, February 5, 2020

Kevlar For The Soul

For Liz 

Yo 
Listen up
Just been told.
Am on 
An active waiting list.
For 
A ward.
So….
Congratulations may be in order
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
But really, where else would you find me?
Hardly on the passive one
Cos that doesn’t sound at all like me.
I’m the active dude 
On the active  list
That’s right, that’s cool, that’s just
That’s perfectly suited to me.
Yipee
A ward
A ward
A ward
Another a ward
In a life that’s been full of on and off
A ward
A ward 
For scallywagging
Scallywagging
All across  the universe.

Think we started out with politics
And a little bit of rock n roll
A dalliance with the Saatchi Bros
Before the toxic beauty of Cambodia
Took its inevitable toll
Then somewhere between grim grim Bosnia
And Africa’s riotous machete glint glow
I just fucking ran 
Full out of Kevlar
Kevlar for the soul


Now I need you back Mr Kevlar.
God I need you back real bad
Cos Kevin here has just been told
The a ward they have granted him
Is the very  same one 
They granted
To a wonderful sweet august person
That just happened to be
His dear dear Dad
That’s right you heard me
The same as my dear dear Dad
I don’t think I can overstate this
My dear dear Dad
Dear dear Dad
Dear
Dear
Dad
How 
I miss you
Then I listen out
And catch his voice.
In its loving reassuring tone
And he is saying
Don’t panic, relax now
My sweet sweet son
The Kevlar I can offer you
Is the fact you won’t be alone.
The fact
You won’t be alone

Thursday, January 30, 2020

Grapes Of War

Ended up
On Burgundy.
Been some time
Me and fine wine.
Subtle scents
Of trouble
Of strife
Of M16 whites
And AK reds
All followed by
Sweet sweet adrenalin Sauternes
Laid down long enough
Rapt in conflict
Picking up
Historically
Transmitted
Disesase
Sweet undertones of unadmissable addiction
Premier Cru
Adrenalin.
Pour
Pour it
Pour it
Mister Psychopath Sommelier
Give me the rush.
The wild psychedelia
Of the slightly off target shell.
Raise a glass to the dumb fuckers
For missing.
Missing
Missing
There’s something missing.
Waiter
Waiter
My soul is corked.
“What the fuck do you want me to do about it,” he asks
with that touch of Gallic disdain.
"You chose your cellar.
Now you go die in it.
And don’t come whinging to me
Looking for grapes
And sunshine
At this late stage of the game."