My Husband Works On The Buses

My husband works on the buses,
he didn't want to go on strike,
he's got a free bus pass,
but he goes to work on a bike.
My husband works on the buses,
although he's a plumber by trade,
and he's a dab hand at woodwork,
you ought to see the playpen he made.
My husband works on the buses,
but we're hoping things will get better,
still, he earns a few pounds on the side,
as a part time pools collector.
My husband works on the buses,
sooner or later, things must improve,
we're saving up to buy our own house,
so that we can sell it. And move.
Yes! My husband works on the buses.


Capability Red aprox 1985

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