Death of a Salesman

Woolworth's six foot under

Black headscarves sift through town

Where will we buy our hula hoops

Or should we just stand still

Nearly Dead

Wet with sweat

My duvet stinks

Torn Lemsip sachets scattered

My bones all ache

My nostrils flake

My eyebrows are all matted

Dying

Being dead's dead easy

It's dying that's the drag

Death's a good night out I'd say

Though dying's not my bag

Ode to a Horse's Rump

Is it wrong to feel

A subtle twitch

A dirty itch

A raising brow

A stealing glance

A stirring in one's underpants

For fiery folds

Which have led

The horse to be a thoroughbred

Dead Friends

I've been asked around for dinner

To a party flung by ghosts

I murdered them some time ago

They're such neurotic hosts

Batty's Dead

Nora Batty's popped her clogs

The Yorkshire battle axe

On for nigh on forty years

Now she can relax

Edinburgh is Lesbos

Best friends hold hands

They both declared

On their weekend away

We know each other inside out

Don't dare suggest we're gay

Telephone

Should I phone you

When you're dead

To find out what's in your head

Corner Bar

Who the hell is that

Holding up the traffic

Looking at the pictures

In last years Geographic

Bruce Cockburn; Kings' School Tynemouth 1985 (For Mark Fox)

Bruce straddled on the school desk

His crotch in Fox's face

Before the Act of 89

All kinds of things took place



You're saying this

(Two fingers wagging)

Sir I'm not

(Kegs filling)



Yes I am

(He change his mind)

Bypassing

Further grilling

The Wall is Hard

Martin fell whilst pointing

Face full into the wall

Wiser for his accident

Thought to advise us all

The Tufty Club

Someone's just been splattered

On the road outside

I cannot even leave the house

Police are everywhere



My car's part of the incident

There's 'matter' on the door

It was an older lady

I threw up when I saw

Pit

Let's be mindful of our pit

Let's not walk straight into it

High Shelves

It's starting to get in the way

Staring back and bawling

I wonder why it changes shape

And if it's me it's calling

I never offer sympathy

This only fuels its rage

I cannot throw the thing away

I'll entertain a cage

Uncertain of its growing rate

Its temperament

Its health

I think it's best

To pick it up and place it on a shelf

I'll wrap it in crepe paper

I'll bind it with with brown string

I'll watch it pulse there silently

I'll open it come Spring

Dishes

Pile of dishes

Sitting

With your bad wishes

Knowing about

Me and the Mrs

Thanks

For fuck all

I'll come nowhere near

Your filth and grime

You don't deserve my time

I have more important things

To do

Dishes

Mung Beans

Fuck off vegetarians

With your butternut squashes

Your bland stroganoffez

Pasta bakes

Walnut cakes

Disdain for steaks

Ribs

Pork

Liver

Shanks

Smug moral wanks

Gently coasting

Blindly nut roasting