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

Thoughts of a 'Cheap Fares' Campaigner

If power is in the mind
and I'm convinced that I'm right,
why do they shackle my body
so that I cannot fight?
With chains of statute
that can't be broken,
forbidding words
I, might never have spoken.
The people chose, the people elected.
But the Lords decided; 'it must be rejected'.
If voting could change anything
it would be banned.
As would anything that might discolour
this green and pleasant land.

Are these the words of an angry young man?
But I'm not that bloody young.
I am but one in a million,
yet another raging tongue.
The candle of subversion burns
at the line of balanced views,
snap! what a weight off my mind,
thou shalt never be refused.

Where do you go to when you're done?
and you've finished for the day?
How did you get there in the first place?
Did you ever have to pay?
Would I recognise you in a crowd?
Do you look like my MP?
Are you powerful without your disguise?
Or is this democracy by decree?

Do you believe what you read?
Or, do you read between the lines?
When the forked tongues of Fleet Street
sweeten the slime.
Never have the jaws of the gentry
found meat so easy to chew,
never the minds of so many,
been poisoned by the pens of so few.


Capability Red 1982