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

At Home in the Breeze-block Palace

She'd never heard of the 'Falklands',
now she wished she never had,
as time and hope are running out
and things are looking bad.
It wouldn't even matter,
if Johnny was still on the dole,
how could joining up redeem
the money that he stole,
from his Father's breeze-block palace?

He'd listened to that young lady,
in her hat of well tempered felt,
she was only a probation officer
but his heart began to melt.
He joined the Royal Navy
to prove he was a man,
and now his Mother weeps for him
as only a Mother can,
at home in the breeze-block palace.

An MOD announcement boasts:
"invasion has begun"
Oh! let the dead and injured heroes
be somebody else's sons.
But when this war is over
and Johnny comes marching home,
we'll give to him everything he wants
so he'll never have need to roam
away from the breeze-block palace.


Capability Red 1982

Affluence

Affluence is liberation, affluence is reminiscing,
affluence is a second generation that don't know what they're missing.
Affluence is emptying the pedal bin, wearing a leather skirt,
never getting your hands dirty, not allowing your pride to be hurt.

Affluence glows like a well soaked sun tan,
across the breasts of a young housewife.
Affluence is a house in Essex
and a mortgage for the rest of your life.

Affluence is a video machine, to enjoy violence at your leisure.
Affluence is watching a sex film, if the violence doesn't give you pleasure.
Affluence is an unusual word, overheard in the checkout queue.
Eyes that unwrap your shopping, then stick the knife into you.

Affluence is this year's model, parked on your tarmac drive,
affluence, is the pleasures of life, being glad that you're alive.
Affluence is available. To you, on easy credit.
Er. Pending financial status! Don't tell them I said it.

Affluence is a lunch time pub, sharing a couple of jars,
and on weekend evenings, frequenting wine bars.
Affluence is Piere Cardin. Affluence is Benneton.
Affluence is material love and two weeks in Benidorm.

Affluence is 'fitting in'. You know immediate recognition.
smiling your way to the top. To a comfortable position.
Affluence is unisex, affluence is deviation,
affluence is S'nM, or a Zandra Rhodes creation.

Affluence is dampness, as your neighbour trudges in the street,
and you waive as you pass in your brand new car, wriggling in your seat.

Affluence is far away places, that appear on your TV screen.
You don't have to live there. But you can boast to your friends that you've been.

Affluence is a catch, and how many people get caught?
Moreover, how many admit, it was their own selfish fault?
Affluence is a spiral. A wall of death for you to ride.
A cavalcade coliseum, without a place to hide.

Affluence is the Queen's new clothes.
A variation on the three card trick.
Affluence is like mud.
If you throw enough, it'll stick!



Capability Red aprox 1990