I, Idealism

I stepped inside the dream of a worker,
my leading question gave me away.
They found me guilty of breaking and entering,
my fears were realized and that's the price I pay.
I got in through the first floor window,
of a semi detached open mind.
A stranger in the realm of platitudes,
not what I expected to find.
Emulsioned tongues whitewashed the truth,
a dormant brain had forgotten to think.
Politely English, just like saying 'sorry',
rotten to the core and yet it didn't quite stink.

I cried inside the dream of a worker,
unashamedly, I burst into tears.
Beyond reproach like a fall out victim,
the dream fades then disappears.
Festering wounds of defeatism,
had scarred him for life he didn't want to know.
Living day to day in a world of drudgery,
But I ask you, where else can he go?

I died inside the dream of a worker,
they tortured me as I screamed aloud.
The worker can have no peace of mind,
so he finds comfort in the crowd.
Make sure he earns enough to pay the mortgage,
accumulating interest on the holiday loan.
He can afford a pint if he works overtime,
and watch TV when he's on his own.
But shed a tear for this dead ambassador,
this cold utopian head of state.
Who never had those cricket captain's eyes,
and forgot to call people 'mate'.


Capability Red 1988

A to Z

Note:

This is fiction: Similarities with real people are a coincidence.


A to Z

A is for Alice, she always came close.
B is for Belinda, contracted a dose.
C is for Carol, caught scarlet fever.
D is for Diane, swore I'd never leave her.
E is for Eve, moved like a good'n.
F is for Florence, built like a puddin'.
G is for Gloria, oh what a mover.
H is for Hilda, one-time loser
I is for Ingrid, took me for a mug.
J is for Jill, attacked by a thug.
K is for Karen, she was a pleaser.
L is for Laura, bit of a teaser.
M is for Mona, made me a pass.
N is for Natalie, what a blade of grass!
O is for 'orrible. That was Pat.
P is for Pat. She was too fucking fat!
Q is for Q, so quick off the wrist.
R is for Rhonda, always getting pissed.
S is for Sonia, enjoyed it on top.
T is for Tilda, sadly a flop.
U is for Una, I met her in a pub.
V is for Violet, ended up in the club.
X is for no publicity. That's simplicity.
Y is for Yvonne, got down to it fast.
Z is for Zoe. Ah, she's agreed at last!



Capability Red aprox 1980

Them

Note: This is an early poem of mine, dating back to 1971:





They arrived, but from where?
What once was London
now isn't there.
They just appeared,
from out of the sky.
Now they've gone,
I wonder why?


Capability Red 1971

Against The Wall?

The Kraut turned sour,
they'd told him that the coach left on the hour.
Looks like another Treaty of Versailles.
It was hardly our fault,
as the machinery ground to a halt.
Let's just look forward to Saturday night.
But our spirits dropped,
something like poppies in the Albert Hall.
Against the wall.

In Gregg's all night burger bar,
sits some would- be movie star,
waiting for her chauffeur to find his keys.
And for Gregg, the chicks come easy,
they don't mind if the burgers are greasy,
they're only too willing,
to get down on their knees.
In the wings sit the boys in blue,
waiting for this stage curtain to fall.
Against the wall.

Hired guns quit the dance,
fire blanks at the hollow drum of romance.
Just adding to the confusion.
Ballerina Jane trips the high wire,
falling head first into the fire.
Stoking the ovens of illusion.
And tomorrow Miranda will boast:
"Last night I had a ball"
Against the wall?



Capability Red 1980

Limehouse Lament

As bold as an opening batsman, stands the wild, ex colonial boy.
His face could have been carved out of close grained teak.
With him on the street you just can't feel relaxed.
Insubordination glows like a radiation, as his eyes shift rapidly this way and that.
Maturing sinew flexing under a Lonsdale sweatshirt.
He waits alone as the early autumn night draws in.
Hopes and ambitions setting slowly in cement.
Limehouse lament.

Dim lights glow, behind a dirty steamed window of the kebab house.
Next door to The Londoner, boarded up, closed after all these years.
Perfect scenery for the drawn out faces of young east end school girls.
Scurrying home after a netball match.
Home, to look after little brother, while Mum does her cleaning job.
A role she will forever resent.
Limehouse lament.

The unrecognised oral epigrams hopelessly lost in the early evening mist.
Doubtlessly cast to meander forever unchallenged.
As does everything that is vague.
And the weightlessness of dreams, escaping the gravitational pull of this awful reality.
Drifting out through the stratosphere.
Perhaps someday, they will make someone happy.
But today, cry pity for the dreamer.
For so long as he continues to waken from the dream,
he shall never feel content in this,
Limehouse lament.


Capability Red 1983

You Can't Get Angry Anymore

You suspect that you exist inside a Hopper masterpiece,
frozen, like a nighthawk in a frame.
Sinking in a glass of your own regret,
yet, you know that 'The Man' is to blame.
You listen to reviews of films you'll never watch,
and tune in to a voice you cannot hear.
Overstay your welcome with an imaginary friend,
and identify with Sam The Schizoid's fear.
And do you do as you're told, where once you used to break the law?
'Cos you just can't get angry anymore.

Are you bleak and remote like a Dartmoor prison cell,
in that life of denial that you lead?
Years of asking questions and waiting for an answer,
Still you see through the lies that you read.
Did you exorcise your demons? and fears you never mention?
from always seeking someone else to blame.
Was there comfort in the crowd? No need to speak aloud,
with your back turned against that ageing window frame.
And now, do you leave it up to someone else to march against the war?
Because you just can't get angry anymore.

Were you once the fugitive on route eighty six?
were you the one they used to talk about in code?
Did you wear the badge with pride? Never one to hide,
while your friends dropped in the middle of the road.
Was you hefted like a pawn in someone else's move?
and sacrificed along with your class.
Now you sit and watch the sun go down and hear the robin sing,
as the shadows slowly creep across the grass.
And you follow the piper's tune, that you used to ignore.
Because you, just can't get angry anymore.



Capability Red August 2011

Trapped In This Moment In Time

The gunner is tumbling, frozen in free-fall,
sealed in a turret, he can never escape.
He relives their final kiss.
Trapped in this moment in time.

A girlfriend sits silently in shock,
waiting alone by the gates of forever.
In her thoughts, he remains,
trapped in this moment in time.

A pair of green eyes lighten the depths.
A pair of wings shine in the wreckage,
always within touching distance, but.
Trapped in this moment in time.

Their ghostly silhouettes cling to the mist
that drifts across haunted generations.
At least, they, have each other.
Trapped in this moment in time.

Vapourized love letters rain down,
like tears upon cold Portland stone.
Cherished words echo in their hearts.
Trapped, in this moment in time.


Capability Red July 2011

Last Day Of Term

Tall railings remind you,
doubts in the back of your mind.
The gates are closed,
was there, something you left behind?
Maybe; your hopes, your future,
that certain something you always seemed to lack.
Turn around my little girl,
you know you can never go back.

Cling to your memories,
happy hours and playground games.
But, wasn't it your best friend,
that always called you names?
You hurt inside, but laughed aloud,
with a smile that would never crack.
Turn around my little girl,
you know you can never go back.

There's a certain sadness,
attached to the last day of term.
It's too late to revise,
what you never, ever learned.
Just now that distant light at the
end of the tunnel fades to black.
Turn around my little girl,
you know you can never go back.


Capability Red aprox 1990

Poetry For You :

Try and understand me, when I say; that the pillars are about to crack.
But if you can't, just cling on to every other word,
the way you used to cling onto my back.
In the days, when we were both as thick as shit,
or, should I say naive?
It sounds a little more apt, now I really come to think about it.
And I've got little else to do,
but write some poetry for you.

See that fat man on the corner? So meticulously bred.
His epicurean taste buds are on twenty four hour alert,
you know; you and me still keep him well fed.
He longs for those good old days, when he could just ring,
and our fathers would jump down some stinking trench.
Recently, his options matured, he gladly wallows in the stench.
So, you can either read postcards without a view.
Or, shall I write some poetry for you?

Remember the day you wore that flowing cape,
and we went walking in the rain?We shared our inner feelings,
but since that day, we never took that path again.
It's not gonna rain forever, but it seems;
there's always clouds in the sky.
Somehow, I wish it would rain forever, to hide these tears in my eyes.
My heart is overflowing too,
it's pouring into this poetry for you.



Capability Red. June 2011

The Queen At Poplar Bus Garage

As part of the royal itinerary,
her advisors thought it proper,
that the Queen should visit a bus garage,
so they chose the one at Poplar.

To avoid any demonstrations,
the trip was kept 'hush hush'.
But, when she arrived on December 2nd:
Embarrassment, was like a royal flush.

Buckingham Palace didn't know,
that Poplar garage had closed.
So, it was a case for improvisation:
Remember; the king's new clothes!

A 'Gold Badge' pointed out;
" The Queen's obviously pretty dim,
If we say the buses are invisible.
I bet, she'll never fall in!"

And so the visit went ahead,
with the 'Gold Badge' as her guide.
Showing the Queen invisible buses,
but, not letting her take a ride.

Media coverage was cancelled,
LT News was given the tip,
and the lackeys that followed the Queen around,
were told; " button your lip".

After the visit was over,
the 'Gold Badge' had a notion,
a brilliant idea,
that was sure to get him promotion.

Reflecting on her Majesty's visit,
which really went down swell,
he suggested: " Let's close Hornchurch,
Elmers End and Bexley garages as well!"

The suggestion became policy,
the bosses were ever so keen,
noting that when those garages close,
they would have to invite the Queen.


Capability Red. aprox 1984

Middle Aged Man

Middle aged man, middle aged man,
bet you don't live in a baked bean can.
Fought for the empire 'gainst Japan,
middle aged man, middle aged man.

If the truth is known, you probably fought,
alongside my dear old Dad
Chindit corp, forgotten war,
he was just a lad.

What did you do? How was you used?
Hark at all those yarns.
Shrapnel wound? I was over the moon,
he looked me straight in the palm.

Middle aged man, middle aged man,
of course you don't live in a baked bean can.
Held a grudge against Japan,
middle aged man, middle aged man.

Left the army, joined the 'bill,
my old Dad was on the dole.
But it's never too late to be a hero,
could have had a job exploring the north pole.

I'm a member of the second generation.
Too much money, too much choice.
Piccadilly roamer, east end loner,
lay my money, make my noise:

Middle aged man, middle aged man,
I know you don't live in a baked bean can.
And you've never been to Japan,
middle aged man, middle aged man.



Capability Red aprox 1979

Always Alone

I first awoke in an empty room,
tall ceilinged, still and silent,
blinded by colours, not of this spectrum.
I was alone.

I once gazed cautiously into
life's widening aperture,
tempted by beguiling faces,
offering clues to my existence.

I searched wide for missing words,
in forgotten books, dusty and neglected,
was faith ever melancholy
in it's cinch upon the poor?

I wandered aimlessly into
that field of dreams,
where the lonely abandoned abbey was,
but a distant fading shadow.

My ears vibrated to the whisper of truth,
casting me deaf to life's distractions,
voices, singing, talking, laughing,
in tongues of yore.

In the overgrown garden of enquiring minds,
that I once had tended,
with love and affection.
Again, I was alone.



Capability Red May 2011

Jean-Paul Is Dying

Jean-Paul is dying it said on the news,
the message was brief and designed to confuse.
So, put down your cocktails,
and hide away your guns,
Jean-Paul is dying. Everyone:
Jean-Paul is dying.

Tear drops fall into white wine,
You bite on your glass, the taste is divine.
You cough and you splutter,
spit out the blood.
Then you digest the news and chew on the cud.
Jean-Paul is dying.

The rumbling of the underground keeps you awake,
you count sheep, but they end up on your plate.
The channel is blank,
the interference has gone.
Jean-Paul is dead,
but Jean-Paul lives on.
Jean-Paul is dying.

Wednesday morning, you wake up and read;
Jean-Paul is dying, your mouth is still bleeding.
Another proposal,
yet another conclusion.
But again on the news, always confusion.
Jean-Paul is dying.




Capability Red 1980

Happiness

Happiness was peeping in at my little boy,
chuckling at the Sooty show, totally unaware.
Happiness was accepting that I'd never be rich.
But, that my sweat would make nobody a millionaire.
Happiness was realizing what I believed was right,
and helping others step out of the dark into the light.
Happiness was Diane's long blonde hair,
resting on the black velvet jacket she often used to wear.
Happiness was walking on my own, slowly, in the rain.
Stamping deliberately in puddles, being naughty again.
Happiness was looking back, without fear or remorse,
and gazing into the future, but never plotting a course.
To all the world's peace loving people,
who have no desire for real success.
Let us relay a message of hope,
and share each other's happiness.
Happiness to me is absolutely: Nothing!



Capability Red aprox 1980

Barking Station 1981

Ash haired girl with solemn eyes,
sports faded denim for a disguise,
she's a bit of a treat for the old mince pies,
but dodgy on the ticker.
My hands are shaking, my neck's in a noose,
she's wearing emerald shades, like Irma La Douse.
I'd let her stare at me without an excuse.
Oh! If only she would.

Did you know: Leon Trotsky is alive today,
under an alias name and living on sick pay,
magnetic stare and he's hair is still grey.
I saw him on Barking Station.
Man in the whistle? he's a millionaire,
Makes a bomb sitting on a chair,
told the porter he hasn't got a thing to wear.
Somebody tell him it's 1981.

Dirty Dan, don't you stand too close,
bath once a year? no need to boast,
Rastafarian says: " Man, him got a dose".
Somebody nail him to a cross.
Look! It's Doctor Beaker in that GI mac,
tightly belted, collar up at the back,
they tell me he's going to get the sack.
Hey. Who isn't?

Coming down the stairs it's Veronica Lake,
by the look of her, she should soon be awake,
should have stayed in bed. Still we all make mistakes.
Er. We do, don't we?
The great platonic lover wears a duffel coat,
I bet, at weekends he sails a boat?
around his heart, he's dug a moat.
But everyone still wants to know him.

On Barking Station everyone's here,
The face from the past, the rear of the year,
every day they all disappear;
into the train now arriving.
They tell me; money moves in mysterious ways,
and they've cancelled the nine thirty nine to Grays.
Bleary eyes acknowledge the headline haze.
Oh, for the forests of Finland.




Capability Red 1981

MacDonald and Watts

MacDonald and Watts, MacDonald and Watts, MacDonald and Donald and Donald and Watts.
MacDonald and Watts, MacDonald and Watts, MacDonald and Donald and Donald and Watts.
MacDonald, he's the boy, with the excruciating face.
He doesn't find much joy.
But, his face, well it's in the right place.
And we know he's got spots,
but not half as many as Watts!

MacDonald and Watts, MacDonald and Watts, MacDonald and Donald and Donald and Watts.
Watts. He's the one. The one you just can't stand.
Just because he knows it all.
He believes he has the upper hand.
And we know he'll get a good job,
but he'll always remain a slob!
MacDonald and Watts, MacDonald and Watts, MacDonald and Donald and Donald and Watts



Capability Red aprox 1975

Joey

Note: Joey is another of my very early poems, which I wrote back in 1972.

The poem, which is based on actual events through my ' growing up' hints at the anger, resentment and isolation that I was going through in those troubled times.

It has taken me some time to publish Joey, as even now, after all these years; it hurts.

Any form of bereavement hurts and lingers, including pet and animal bereavement. In Joey's case, I remember him with greater affection than certain individuals back then:



Joey

When I first saw you, I was just a boy,
you were plain ugly, never offering any joy.
But you grew into a friend. A friend of mine,
and although you couldn't fly, you talked fine.
People said "he's a reject": "He can't fly".
They never hurt you. But they made me cry.
I loved my Joey, more than anything,
with his sky blue breast n' his tiny wings.
And although you lived alone in a gilded cage,
you was no sensation, you were never a rage.
The night you passed away, no, I never cried,
'cos I'd ran away from home before my Joey died.

To me, you were human. I taught you to speak.
You looked so tiny, you appeared so weak.
I fed you and loved you, you answered back.
I just ignored those who said what you lacked.
At the height of our relationship, I ran away,
oh! I thought of Joey, what would he say?
Cold in his cage, with no friend to see,
and I wished to the world you could be with me.
And although you lived alone in a gilded cage.
You was my sensation. You was my rage.
The night I returned home, I heard my old man say;
" nice to see you son, Joey died yesterday".
I never would have gone back, if I already knew,
The reason I returned was; Joey, to see you.



Capability Red 1972

Where did it all go wrong?

I used to write from inspiration,
sitting on a bench near Temple station,
watching a woman; no relation,
swallowing hard to avoid frustration.
I had real time for contemplation,
spilling into my citation,
I'd return without hesitation,
but I'm the last of that generation:
'Cos the kids on fast food are going berserk.
And I don't want to go to work.

You'll never find an explanation,
through a process of elimination,
does it warrant a police investigation?
seven hours, thirty six subjugation?
alienation in an alien nation,
skin infecting irritation,
is it me? or is it degradation?
it reeks of pure capitulation:
And the kids on the bus are going berserk.
I don't want to go to work.


Capability Red , February 2011

Who is he?

Note: 'Who is he?' was a very early poem of mine, written in 1972 when I was fifteen years of age. It reflects how confused, vulnerable and gullible I was. The photograph is the actual cover of the poetry notebook containing 'Who is he?'. Somewhere in there exists a creative talent that has been struggling to get out for fifty four years. Will I live to eighty two? Who is he? :





An old grey man of eighty two
plays snowballs in the sun,
his shoes are made from cooking fat
and he laughs at everyone.

Although everybody sees him
he isn't really there,
God sent him to write a sermon
and cut his silver hair.

He's a man of a thousand voices,
a poet in his right,
the owner of four A levels
Man, he's outa sight.

Tomorrow he had to go
because yesterday came too soon,
and although you see him standing there,
right now, he's on the moon.


Capability Red early 1972

Aldgate's Chosen Few

God, looked down upon Aldgate.

Dorniers, Heinkels and Messerschmitts saw bombs drop endlessly upon Aldgate.

Windows broken, steamed and cloudy,
dark satanic curtains hanging dowdy.
Split paintwork just left to rot,
a kitchen table with a cracked formica top.

The evil casting shadow of an ageing beam,
with clouds of smoke rising in between,
some guy looking cold in an Irons scarf,
this must be; the other half.

It's a shame that Charlie isn't here,
the lesson to learn is pretty clear.
All shapes and sizes, all points of view,
a long distance lorry driver looking for someone new.

Just to make the night complete;
the stripper didn't show her face,
let alone anything else,
this really was bad taste.

Half empty glasses quickly whisked away,
by the staggering tramp who can't afford to pay.
And I ask myself: "am I a piece of shit?"
If my Mother saw me now, would she feel sick?
I can't really apologize because these things I do,
I'm just spending an evening with Aldgate's chosen few.


Capability Red aprox 1982