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