1981 Proud Nation ?

Confident smiles that we could never raise,
hear the snarling of the Minotaur somewhere in the maze.
George Ward you were smart, you acted so splendid,
penned down in your own half how well you defended.
All we wanted was a union to which we could belong,
even in Strasbourg they said you were wrong.
You had the careful backing of the Freedom Association,
upholding traditions of a proud nation.
Proud nation?

Look out for the sniper at the gates of prosperity,
and the sign saying 'beware; rich man's territory'.
Little sister gets involved in the oldest profession,
Father devours her ice cold confession.
Is the palace aware of this retrograde movement?
perhaps a public show would make an improvement.
Yes, announce a wedding to incite some celebrations,
remind them they belong to a proud nation.
Proud nation?

Apprehensive ears greet saloon bar laughter,
but will they raise a smile the morning after?
when collapsing clouds unveil a sober sun
will they crick their necks to the loaded gun?
There's no shame in admitting you made a mistake,
so admit it now before it's too late.
whilst there's still time and you've got an occupation.
 Ask yourself; how was this ever a proud nation.
Proud nation?

Like an ode of platitude that the proles just ignore,
it's destined to failure because they've heard it all before.
In the guise of a lecture, a vow or a pledge,
like a suicide stalker perched high on a ledge.
In a trance we go forth on a Monday morning,
dodging the volley of abuse like a personal warning.
Retiring into our shells like some cryptic crustacean,
was this really once a proud nation.
Proud nation?


Capability Red       1981

Priory Road

It's a scorching close season afternoon, Sunday in July,
shells of dead flying ants abound, hot enough to fry.
The stench of yesterday's fast food rises in the summer smog.
Pounding boom from an upstairs room is drowned by a barking dog.
There's no wind to blow the fish'n chip paper trapped against the wall,
feral pigeons scatter, then swoop, intent on devouring all.
Hoodweasels tail a community cop, they're relentlessly trying to goad.
Curtains are drawn in a tower block window to shut out Priory Road.

A Mother struggles with a pushchair, confessing on a mobile phone.
Her pit bull strains against his chain, trying to sniff a bone.
Settling dust gathers on the rust of a rotting turnstile gate,
tribal graffiti on the chicken run warns a legacy of hate.
Does anyone know it's Sunday? Does anyone even care?
As diesel exhaust is spewed like bile into the chocking urban air,
by a Not-In-Service London bus, with tyres hot enough to explode.
Chundering towards the depot at the bottom of Priory Road.

You never see a familiar face, or a face you recognise,
as you're passed by a shadow in a grim black veil with calculating eyes.
Alongside needles in the gutter, flies feast on a stiffening rat,
who overindulged on warfarin in the dustbin of a ground floor flat.
Cola on an overturned wheelie bin dried in the searing heat,
Starlings peck at a half eaten pie for a proper Sunday treat.
The E6 gang have tagged the place, they communicate in code.
Innitspeak is overheard rushing out of Priory Road.


Capability Red        2012

Outside Charring Cross Station

The mist is clearing and the sun is appearing
roll up, roll up, oh! the state that we're in.
Raincoat Sally, look she hops on a six
a Maltese waiter's gonna get her a fix,
rush hour people mmm? they look so exciting.
There's something about them, their lives are so frightening.
Oh, and I'm just writing again from observation.
Sitting on a bench outside Charring Cross Station.

You know? If I was an artist, I'd paint a scene
there'd be little children dropping flowers into a stream.
Grown up and playing the game by the rules,
I hear there's a plague of human beings. Tell me, who are the fools?
And I'm just rambling on outside Charring Cross Station,
not altogether certain of my destination.

I feel inspired to think up some derisory term.
Dedicate it to the Holy men and the people that will never learn.
Hey! I notice a young girl is reading Our Mutual Friend,
let's hope she understands the message at the end.
Oh, some folk say I should get a regular occupation,
but I'm happy sitting here outside Charring Cross Station.


Capability Red        1980

So ?

So sad the faithful mongrel
searching as he is led,
knowing someone is missing,
the old man is dead.

So still the cemetery
on a misty November morn,
silent the sky,
grey clouds hang forlorn.

So gullible the flock
herded by the bell,
do they really believe
in heaven? or hell?

So what the prayer
that echoed so cold,
reverberating fear
for those in the fold.

So peculiar this existence,
that passes as life,
condolences offered;
" now he's with his wife".

So hopelessly understated,
so little do we know,
the distant fleeting dream
that is never quite so.


Capability Red          2012

Piranha's Progress

Mmmmmm?

Yum yum yum,

Snap snap snap,

Gulp gulp gulp.

Ahhhhhhhh!

Burp.........



Capability Red 2012

There is a Rumour

There is a rumour,
that she has got a sense of humour.
Clinical laughter.
That is what she is after.
Available on prescription,
guaranteed to lead to addiction.

There is a profit,
and you may have a share of it.
A hospital ward,
that you could never afford.
Insurance for your wife,
premiums for the rest of your life.

There is a station,
it used to be my destination.
But now it's shut.
The buses have all been cut.
She casts a shadow of unemployment,
so nourishing for a warped enjoyment.

There is a Minister,
his post is somewhat sinister.
A master baiter,
confrontation sooner or later.
Rhetoric well rehearsed.
Under her spell, he is cursed.

There is a plot,
you hear about it quite a lot.
Do take it serious.
You could end up delirious.
It'll swell your growing brain tumour,
if you haven't got a sense of humour.

It's not just a rumour!



Capability Red 1981

Burnt Out

Little children do you know? The writing's on the wall.
Sprayed on the buildings you pass on your way to school.
It says: " There's a world waiting . Full of discontent".
You may have read about it in the colour supplement
When you're old enough to wear a uniform,
things start to get involved,
you learn about those problems,
that have never, ever, been solved.
And all the expectations, your parents thought you'd fulfill.
Will end up smouldering in the bush fire at the bottom of the hill.
Burnt out!
Like the cremated beliefs your parents used to have faith in.
Wasted along with the charred remains,
of a society, that just couldn't wait.

Did you ever get a puppy for christmas? Did he end up on the street?
The good things in life don't come gift wrapped.
You've got to learn to walk on your own two feet.
Today I saw an old lady,
knocked down by a shiny new law car,
when they tell her little grandson,
will they explain how things really are?
Will they introduce him to the person he will inevitably become?
Or, will they let him have it with both barrels,
of that overprotective gun?
As the sands of time trickle away,
we might as well just burn,
'cos the lessons passed on through generations,
we're never, ever gonna learn!
We're all burnt out!
Like the cremated beliefs our parents used to have faith in.
Wasted along with these charred remains.
In a society that will never, ever wait.


Capability Red aprox' 1985