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Friday 30 June 2017

A Moment

A Moment

His troubles are but small: the ache of his back, the crack of his knee,
the numbness of his hands in the coldness of water, and the slippery shiver of his fingers
as he struggles to bait the hook securely, his keep-net still empty
then the whispering, glistening slip of line from the rod’s end
into the blackness of the lake

Impervious to the calling of geese behind him in the reeds
and the lapping waves, slapping the sides of the dinghy
bobbing gently, a mile out from shore
he soon detects the steady throb of diesels
the pleasure-cruiser emerging from behind the headland
silhouetted by the setting sun

He squints and shades his eyes, straightens up to stare reluctant
at this disturbance to his evening solitude
but still raises his unencumbered arm, in greeting or salutation
a vague communication to me across the water, the one man yet out on deck
then drops down roughly into the boat, bracing himself, to keep things steady
before the bow-wave buffeting that will come
as we glide past and leave him to his fishing


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Thursday 29 June 2017

BBQ Wars

BBQ Wars

What a fine creature is the Englishman,
Who stays English wherever he may roam -
He regards his house as his castle,
And always comes back to his home.

And I’m no different to the others,
A middle-class semi is my domain:
Like a dog, I mark out my territory,
But the neighbours can drive me insane.

In the Summer, the house seemed way too small -
I just couldn’t wait to get out in the garden.
I liked to spread out as much as I could,
And for that I’ll not beg any pardon.

The Supplements call it “patio living” –
I’ve no idea if that’s really true –
I just want to get out there and party,
And to wheel out the old barbecue.

I’ll admit that my cooking contraption
Had probably seen much better days,
But I’d used it over and over -
I was too old to be changing my ways.

The sides might have been grease-encrusted,
Harbouring a well-blackened grill,
But the rusting pan still held the charcoal,
And you could smell the smokiness still.

A quick dose of petrol and firelighters
Was enough to get them coals glowing,
A beer in my hand, the stereo blasting,
And soon we had the sausages going.

Set among the cracked patio slabs
With some rickety, broken plastic chairs
And a great big wobbly plastic table
It was a bit ramshackle – but who cares?

That was until I looked over the fence,
To see what it was my neighbour had done.
I know it’s not meant to be a competition,
But his guests seemed to be having more fun.

I saw that he’d started to up the ante,
That he’d got a bigger, better barbecue.
It was one of those high-end models,
And not only that, but it was quite new.
  
It had multi-burner gas rings,
Thermostats and finger-tip controls,
Shelves for the food and utensils,
And synthetic, re-useable coals.

I stared in horror and disbelief,
At this top-of-the-range barbecue beast,
As he loaded his flavoured cooking wood,
And served up a veritable feast.

There were coloured marinade brushes,
A rotisserie and a pizza stone:
It was truly the dog’s bollocks of “homeware”,
And, as he cooked, he jawed on the phone.

His guests lounged on ample bamboo sofas,
Under a candy-striped open marquee,
The sun shone on the glass-topped dining-table,
And his well-tended lawns were easy to see.

I looked back at my miserable display,
At my bare patch of ground with no plants,
At my shed that was tumbling down,
And decided the whole thing was just pants.

My middle-class angst overwhelmed me,
I could see how I’d be marked as a “fail”,
I hated next door’s culinary nerd -
I was beaten by the local Alpha Male.

My burgers and ribs no longer appealed,
That was to be no more cooking that day -
Steak that for a game of soldiers, I thought,
Went inside, and ordered a takeaway.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Wednesday 28 June 2017

Villages

Villages

Rolling through the broken landscape, the old road cracked at the edges,
surface cratered with potholes, hard-used and neglected
our progress precarious

A village –
the people curious and suspicious, houses broken and shell-holed
tarpaulins, ropes on the roofs, rusted, corrugated sheets bound into walls
pungent smoke from crumbling chimneys, old carpets draped in doorways
hunger in their eyes

The track twisting and turning, churning mud under tyres
the engine labouring, my arm aching from shifting the gears
my back breaking from the rolling and pitching
but moving forward

Another village –
no people, or perhaps hidden from view
echoes in the emptiness, smells of scattered straw
dirt and dung piled in the streets, the burnt black ribs of a house
deserted amid the rubble

Straighter again before plunging downhill through a gulley, arched by trees,
darkness for a few moments, flickering light dappling the windscreen
emerging at the foot of a valley
the car rolling and rattling

And another village –
tents here but no buildings, the women washing clothes in the river
their faces gritted with effort, bodies shivering with cold from the water
regard us with envy and disdain, their menfolk nowhere to be seen
danger in the darkness

Right foot down quickly, thankfully, left behind
in the fumes of our escape, diesel exhaust and dust
headed for the distant lights of town
blockades, barricades, checkpoints, the only things remaining
between ourselves and sanctuary


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Tuesday 27 June 2017

If Only

If Only…

If only… he’d got out of bed in the mornings
And gone for a run in the sunshine
Just a few miles to get the heart beating
And the muscles more finely toned
If only… he’d never started smoking
And forsaken the twenty a day
Given his lungs a break from the poison
And avoided the tobacco and tar
If only… he’d not developed a taste for the beer
Not drunk so many pints in a night
Missed out on the intake of alcohol
Ah, yes, if only he’d looked after himself better
He might have led a healthier life

If only… he had taken his chances
When they had presented themselves
Had taken the risk by gambling
Double or quits on the turn of a card
If only… he had backed the horses that won
The ones that romped home by a mile
Or piled in another few coins
To the machine that was due to pay out
If only… he’d remembered to buy a ticket
And pick out his usual numbers
That week they came up in the lottery
A double roll-over jackpot
Ah, yes, if only he’d speculated
He might have been so much wealthier

If only… he’d been brave enough
To speak his mind when he saw her
To ask her to walk out with him
And to be the special one in his life
If only… he’d been sure enough
To value her above all of the others
To want to spend the rest of his life with her
And given her the whole of his heart
If only… he’d asked her to marry him
And set up a home life together
To have and to hold from that day forward
Ah, yes, if only he’d asked her
He might have been much luckier in love

If only… he’d seized life by the scruff of the neck
If only… he’d squeezed out the juice of the fruit
If only… he’d tried that little bit harder
Things might have been so much different for him
He might have been healthier,
Wealthier and loved by the world
He might have felt a sense of fulfilment
That he’d drained life to the dregs
That he’d truly lived
Ah, yes, if only…


 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Monday 26 June 2017

Split

Split

To travel not knowing what may be found
Is the joy, the promise, the hope
Of those who journey open-minded
Delighted by what turns up
The more unexpected, so much the better

So the sudden chasming of the Earth
The falling away of land, the breaking ground
From its sharp, precipitous edge
Forming a vertiginous rim
Looking down into the stomach-churning void
To the deepest valley bottom
Far, far below the vantage point
Almost beyond the power of the naked eye
Is still the greatest shock
And is a glory indescribable

A level, monotonous landscape
Fools to deceive, carries no warning
And conceals within its folds a feature
A mountain range of rock
That simply isn’t there
A massive hole of empty space
An accident of geology in its prehistoric making
A crack, a gash, a split, a weather-riven wedge
A canyon crack in the planet’s crust
A trench of impossible scale
That seduces the senses
Its blues and greys shimmering
A shifting drift of haze making a mist of distance
Belying its terrible depth
Down, down into the abyss


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Sunday 25 June 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 25th June 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 25th June 2017

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Devizes:
                                                  
1.      Well it’s been music, music, music all the way in D-Town this weekend as the nationally-famous love-in that is the annual festival takes place.  Nearly tens of people flocked to The Green to see such headline acts as Amy Ciderhouse, Rusty Springboard, Charles Aznavoice and Riff Pilchard appearing on the Wigwam stage.  The much-expected rain did not appear, so there was no mud – a major disappointment to the town pervs, who normally enjoy watching scantily-clad young ladies in their wet t-shirts.

2.      And great excitement in the town’s Council Chamber this week when the Lady Mayoress formally opened proceedings for yet another year.  Remarks were made about the Mayoress’s hat, which bore a striking resemblance to the green and white stripes of the Wiltshire flag, perhaps a coded message against Brexit (borough exit from Wiltshire)?  It was also a nice touch for her to bring her young son along to proceedings, perhaps with a view to him one day becoming the mayor himself.  Bless.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-Off.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Saturday 24 June 2017

Red Shoes

Red Shoes

It’s a strange kind of wanting
An emptiness you could call it
But there is a hankering I have
A longing, a long-held desire
To complete my wardrobe
And fulfil a need I’ve had since youth
But had not the means
And when I knew no better

I must have a pair of red shoes
To peer out shyly from my denims
And show the world that I still have some style
And that I am still alive

But they cannot be bright or brazen
The wrong shade, not Royal Mail red
But dark as ox-blood, deep as bleeding
Soft, gentle tongues
Lurking beneath eyelets
With laces pulled through
And carefully tied with double bows
Hard soles and calf-leather uppers
To embrace my aging feet
And carry me through
Until I need footwear no longer


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Friday 23 June 2017

Early

Early

Risen dawn-early to get about the jobs that must be done
Pale thin ghost-light, ice-coldness
An echoing emptiness mocking the night before
Of fire-lit warmth and conviviality
In the sharp crisp-hard silence of morning
Each sound resounds, rings hollow

The chores of clearing up and cleaning out
The grey grate of soot and cold embers
A grim dismembered mess of cinders
The chill cold of metal brush and pan
Tar-blackened pokers and tongs
The clang and scrape of the battered ash bucket
Scratched and dirty shovel at attention to do duty
To shift clinkered residues
And make way for the laying of new materials
For a future conflagration

Grimy newsprint and candle-ends
Under criss-crossed kindling
Cradling the careful stook of splintered logs
Creamy grain, hard-twisted knots
Backed by soft-lichened bark
Of once-glorious greenwoods
Rough scabbed surfaces scratching fingers
And scuffing dirty knuckles
The colourless morning, bleak and bleached
Leaching into harsher daylight
An involuntary shiver at the deadness of things

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017


Thursday 22 June 2017

When I Am Sixty I Shall Wear A Hat

When I Am Sixty I Shall Wear A Hat

When I am sixty I shall wear a hat
Whether it be cold or not
I’m not sure what you think about the idea
The weather notwithstanding

I feel the time has come to adopt a little style
To assume a certain persona
A characteristic feature by which I am known
And seen about the town

I haven’t yet made a decision about the gloves and scarf
Although I think both are highly unlikely
For I do not want to be too encumbered
In my daily perambulations

But a modest titfer perched aloft
Covering what remains of my thin hair
May be that thing which is missing from my life
And makes a certain statement

And although it may slow me down
Owing to wind resistance
Its shape being unlikely to be streamlined
Perhaps I might appear a little taller

And people will recognise me from a distance
As I go about my daily business
And say to one another ‘there he goes –
That man who wears a hat because he’s sixty.’


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Wednesday 21 June 2017

It Being Solstice Day At the Stones.....

Tunnelling

The journey down to Devon and Cornwall,
In the Summer wasn’t always great fun -
Sitting in traffic-jams and congestion,
Whilst travelling down to the sun.

But there were sometimes compensations,
Like Wiltshire’s rolling scenery to see:
Everywhere grand archaeology,
During standstills on the A303.

And nowhere more pre-historic,
Could you think of by the side of that road,
Than the formation known as Stonehenge,
Built by some chaps covered in blue woad.

It dominates the very landscape,
The greatest monument for miles around:
A Bronze-Age millennial survivor,
No finer inspiration to be found.

They’ve stood there for so many centuries,
Weathered sarsens of an age Neolithic,
The cross-lintels and the earthworks,
Whose meaning has passed into the mythic.

But now the bureaucrats have got a hold,
And in a mass of red tape it’s to be bound,
Not satisfied with the Visitor Centre,
Everything’s heading under the ground.

Yes, they’re gonna build a big tunnel,
To whisk through the traffic in the main,
Beneath the wonderful countryside,
Missing the glory of Salisbury Plain.

They’ll be watching the route on their sat-navs,
And yakking away on their hands-free phones,
Whilst hurtling under what’s interesting,
The majesty of those standing stones. 

But that’s what happens with progress,
It’s a great pity, and I’m willing to bet,
It’s not about myths, or megaliths,
But “are we nearly there yet?”


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Tuesday 20 June 2017

Sex Toy

Sex Toy

I’ve been hunted down by a cougar:
Compared to her I’m nothing but a boy.
She’s an older woman with libido,
Now that I’ve become Nancy’s sex toy.

That woman’s fierce and relentless,
And she never seems to tire.
At nights she keeps me prisoner -
I’ve become her object of desire

I’ve told her I’m too old for this game,
In between my wheezes and puffs,
But she just smiles back at me sweetly,
And whips out the pink furry hand-cuffs.

I mean – it’s tiring for an old guy like me,
A weak excuse it’s got to be said,
But it’s pretty difficult to argue,
When she’s got me chained to the bed.

She’s got this amazing repertoire of tricks,
That reduces us both to wrecks.
There’s nothing she draws the line at,
In her pursuit of over-age sex.

I do what I can to satisfy her urges,
And I’m not trying to be coy,
But it’s really quite kinky,
What she does with my winkie,
Since I’ve become Nancy’s sex-toy.


 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Monday 19 June 2017

Vegas

Vegas

Across an open trackless waste of nothing, big emptiness of sand and grit
bare, featureless but for random rocks, burned-brown mineral wilderness
tinted yellows, golden ochres, burnished reds
small, sharp shadows etched into the earth by a relentless sun that scorches,
torches out its solar energy, unchanging, fierce and blazing

crumbled endless horizon, heat-hazed beyond the cactus-pocked wasteland,
desert spikes the only landmarks in the monotonous sprawl
fit for snakes and scorpions, bleached-white bones scoured and scrubbed,
sand-blasted testament to creatures that once expired, fried alive, tired and shrivelled
beaten by heat and thirst, exhausted years before
in vain attempts to cross the arid expanse

the dust eddies and whorls aimlessly
tormented, driven by staccato wisps of wind, mindless in their rolling, roiling,
un-tamed in their blowing, drifting, piling, through the thin air of nothingness
scraping, scratching all before them, hot-raked, roasted, parched and toasted
in this waterless wasteland of nowhere

and the vast-canvas painted azure mid-day sky a painful, brittle, acid-hard mono-blue
shimmers unending, clear and cloudless, oxygen-free and static-loaded
an all-embracing carapace of glare mantling over distant concrete structures
The Strip, Caesar’s Palace and Luxor, white and crimson neon ads rolling
enticing punters from hot sidewalks to step inside their cool and dark interiors
for cold beers, slots and tables, the flimsy-dressed hostesses shivering
in the chill of dam-powered air-conditioning


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Sunday 18 June 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 18th June 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 18th June 2017

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Devizes:
                                                  
1.      Citizens of the town were left shocked and bewildered this week when the leader of one of the minor parties in the Town Council resigned his position, citing incompatible differences between his public position and his private beliefs.  Tim Carryon of the Local Independents of Devizes for Democracy (LIBDems) said that his personal faith in Devil Worship and Animal Sacrifice had made it difficult for him to represent some of the farmers in his local constituency.

2.      And the Leader of the Town Council, Theresa Green, has come under fire by members of all parties after failing to show sufficient humanity in her dealings with the great unwashed of the borough.  Following the death of one of the town’s revered pigeons in the Market Place last week, the leaderene did not attend the memorial service, nor contribute to the fund for the support of the pigeon’s relatives.  It was left to the leader of the Opposition, Jezza Bored-Thin, to carry out the required emoting, by becoming one of the bird’s coffin-bearers.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-off.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Saturday 17 June 2017

Menage A Trois

Menage A Trois

I’ve always fancied a “menage a trois”
(That would mean two others plus me),
But what is the right combination

Of the two sexes required to be?

Of another man I might become jealous,
And the woman would always be tired.
Two men are bound to be competitive,
For which one of us she desired.

Two women and I’d be caught in the middle,
Then again that might not be a bad thing,
Although I’d be the one that was exhausted,
No – the alarm bells are starting to ring!

Perhaps such an arrangement isn’t for me?
Three in a bed and you’re never alone!
No – scrub that one for an idea -
I think I’m better off on my own!


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Friday 16 June 2017

It's Complicated

It’s Complicated

Ernest courted Mary for many a day,
But I’m not telling it strictly right,
As it was Mary that courted Ernest,
For commitment gave him a fright.

The two walked out for many a month,
But Ernest never asked her to wed,
So Mary, becoming impatient,
Turned to Ernest and imploringly said:

“You’ve been avoiding my family,
And you’ve not met any of them yet.
Why don’t you come and meet mother?
I think it’s time the two of you met.”

So Ernest said he would, but didn’t mean it,
For he’d heard all about mothers-in-law.
He was sure if he met the old lady,
She’d soon point out in him every flaw.

So he’d walk Mary up to her house,
Always refusing to come in for some tea,

Then he’d give her a quick peck on the cheek,
Before turning on his heel to flee.

Then one day the lovers were out walking,
And bumped into a young girl passing by,
“At last! You get to meet my step-mother!
Didn’t you know that she’s younger than I?”

Ernest was thus introduced to this beauty.
He was overcome and soon lost his head,
In fact he preferred her to Mary,
And presently married her instead.

Now his mother-in-law is his wife,
And his ex-fiancée is his step-daughter:
You see-  I told you it was complicated,
When men don’t behave like they oughter!


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Thursday 15 June 2017

Audrey's New Man

Audrey’s New Man

Apparently, Audrey’s got a new man:
She met him via internet dating.
For she’s been far too long on her own,
And it’s time that she got back into mating.

On good authority he’s a nice bloke,
Quite chatty and easily amused,

Only one previous relationship,
Almost new, because he’s hardly been used.

So - not much renovation to be done,
And little reconstruction needed.
He’s almost ready to be moved in with,
And there are no warnings to be heeded.

Yes, Audrey’s very pleased with her new man:
I hope that this time she’s going to be happy.
She’s a bit of a man-eater to be honest -
No-one knows what became of her last chappy!


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Friday 2 June 2017

Don't Tell Me

Don’t Tell Me

Don’t tell me what his bloody name is, for it’s not at all important
And don’t tell me how old he was, because I do not need to know
I don’t care what he was like to be with at his school
Nor which college he went to, or what subject he studied
Whether he was a good student or not
Don’t tell me all about his family
Of his mother grieving in her disbelief
Of his father long gone missing
Or of his brother now gone into hiding
I have no interest in his general profile
Of his background and how he was brought up
Don’t tell me about the places where he used to go
And do not guess at his beliefs, religious or otherwise
And spare us all the speculation on his motivation
The careful planning and the murderous intent
Don’t tell me whether he was a person of special interest
Or whether he was known to the security services
And do not talk of the limits on immigration
Or of second generation integration
Nor waste my time explaining the meaning of jihad
Or about the programmes to prevent radicalisation
Because none of that really matters now
In fact you can spare me the whole bloody back-story
Because I simply do not want to know

But tell me more about the victims
Their names and tender ages
Unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time
Caught out by the bomber’s blast
Who suffered and were caused to die
Tell me about the devastated families
Who will have to live forever more with grief unbounded
And to make the funeral arrangements
For their dearly departed loved ones

And tell me about the paramedics
The emergency services and the first responders
Those who risked their lives to try and save the wounded
Those whose job it was to pick up dismembered body parts
And to re-assemble them to make them whole again
To allow their formal identification

Tell me about the police and ambulance men
The forensics and the explosives specialists
Tell me about the homeless men who tried to help
The taxi drivers who offered lifts
The cafes that gave away hot drinks
And the hotel workers who offered rooms and blankets

I want to hear about these heroes, not that villain
And please - don’t tell me that I’ve got that wrong


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Thursday 1 June 2017

Escape From The Zoo

Escape From The Zoo

It was nearly midnight in the zoo,
And hardly a creature was stirring.
The lions and tigers were fast asleep:
All you could hear was their snoring and purring.

All except for the armadillos,
For they are nocturnal you see,
And on the inside of the compound,
Is not where they wanted to be.

 


They’d started digging three tunnels,
But had only managed to create holes,
So they’d done a deal with some of their friends,
And drafted in an army of moles.

Construction went on almost constantly,
But, of course, it was safer by night,
And there was only a hundred yards left,
Before they could say good-bye and take flight.

But the zoo-keepers became suspicious,
Realising that not all was still fine,
For leading away from the enclosure,
They spotted ten molehills all in a line

Next night they suddenly swooped,
And moved the armadillos to a new pen,
Where the floor was made of strong concrete,
Saying “let’s see you get out of that then!”


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017