Dressed in this Union Jack
suit with it’s big feet
and oversized hands,
young people put the boot in.
I’ve got bruises like watermelons,
my knees are butter mountains.
They don’t appreciate I’m a man
in here not a cartoon.
It’s like a burqa. People can only see
my eyes. I’m a security risk. Police
ask for my I.D. , regular. Where’s
the fun gone in dressing up?
My bulldog mask doesn’t help.
I get my ears tweaked,
snout grabbed with two fingers,
“onk, onk.” I sweat
like Billy O, and toddle
the hashish canals until my next
bruise. A toke or two relieves
the pain and I’m glad for the money.
My landlady between tricks
hands me her shopping list.
Once I’ve got heavy bags
in each hand I’m an easy target.
Regular football chipped and sliced.
Received good wishes from D.
Sometimes she’s not all there,
other times she’s wick.
Please send another £300 quid.
I might last a month on the street
theatre then have to consider
factory work, or god forbid, office.
Yours in Europe,
(F to G)
You know when you have
all yours keys out, but for the life,
can’t remember what locks
they all fit, or even what doors,
for the life, I can’t recall why
I’m writing to you. I’ll try jog
it in the right order, sometimes
it comes out higgledy wriggledy.
Tell you about what’s happened.
E is bound for death in a handcart,
or wheelbarrow. He’s on leave
from Europe or remaining a cartoon.
I took the washing upstairs
because it’s too rainy for the Siegfried
line. Hung it on the clothes donkey
until it’s dead dry, shaken not stirred.
Fabulous to you,
PS The street signs tell me The Greatest is Dead and Jesus is Alive.
(G to H)
I am waiting in the hospital cafe
run by volunteers. I arrived too early
with a vote of confidence
from the weather that has let us off,
with a caution, for now. Most folk
are after asking what most things
are for and where they’re going next.
I had a black coffee and Bakewell flapjack.
We’re all waiting for results. Yay
or nay. Decided by other folk.
Heard a lady in Tescos shout:
“I’m not having you order me about.
I’m not having anybody, least of all men
dictate what I must do!” I smiled at her
and she scuttled past. Not sure she saw
me with how folk are always rushed
with this mindfulness and filling in
colouring books like as if they were kids
in junior school with a bit of time
to themselves which they haven’t
got with these SITS or is it SATS.
I know they’ve to sit down to them.
Testing their incompetence
says E. He’s gone foreign now.
O. Just got call for my appointment.
Well chemicals did bugger all.
Must be ripping my head open now,
then. Aye, that’s answer all are waiting on.
Good Outcomes and God’s Best to thee,
(H to I)
Our love is a dream of Europe
united, my Big Ben and your
bateaud Seine. My Bratwurst
and your Bridge of Sighs.
Saw a chap today trundling down
what few cobbles we have left
a coffin with a wheelbarrow in it.
“What did the wheelbarrow die of?”
I shouted. “No wheels” he replied.
Have to make sure wheels don’t
come off our barrow my love,
else we’ll be manuring the cemetery.
Our Polish Deli is now a supermarket
of foreign goods and phrases. It’s
like a puzzle. I’m defeated
when I’m forced to ask for help with the labels.
Hope our love isn’t a puzzle. Or
at least only a quick crossword.
I’m your Greek bail out,
you’re my Referendum.
Decide to see me soon.
I’ll suffer more austerity,
be on the bread line
for a touch of your lips.
Hot for you,