Shooting from the Hip #3 (Bolshevik Boogie)

Bolshevik Boogie and Soviet Swing;

nothin' else to it by the riverside that day.

Cheek to Cheek don't mean a thing

behind an iron curtain in a gypsy foray,

where medals are awarded

'for services to Polka', e'ryone talkin' jive,

bootheels shot from so much spinning.

We hadn't laughed so much since Grandma tried

to jump the wall or Uncle Alexei gossiped

he head off listening in for betting tips.

Notes on Breaking and Entering

You’d confiscated my key

so I climbed the drainpipe;

pulled pork, beets and brandy – I dined

well with the folk inside. With all that whisky

spilt down my shirt I couldn’t sit right.

I brought you wine and flowers;

your hound helped tear the trousers

from my legs. While he and I

were making friends, I found

myself chained to the radiator,

with a pair of silver bracelets

that match the drill sergeant’s

epaulettes – he was braced

against the wall, searching

for the alca-seltzer, pawing

through the kitchen drawers.

While a preacher at the faucet

claimed he was pouring holy water,

in the war room your butler

played checkers and a marching

band circled the dining table

breaking tea-cups and jesters

take the minutes of this farce.

All these itinerants were kept raving

by a the extenuations of an alleyway

medicine tradesman prescribing

alcohol for their sores. Offering

to waterboard me at no extra cost,

your lawyers billed the standard fee:

they’d smelt blood playing Double Dutch

underneath the hanging tree.

I wouldn’t’ve guessed I’d be

contested for your lionized

affections – I’d sooner be rid of you

than a pack of hungry dogs;

even with my dying cough I’d rather

roll between the stables,

with your vaudeville chicks painted

head-to-toe, bathed in laughter

and without their clothes.

Shooting from the Hip #2 (Blues Bar)

Man, I had the best time at 20

- I didn't care what anyone thought.
I asked, "You've changed since then?"
No; if I had, I'd've gone mental,
been thrown in hospital,
therapy and all that, I tell you
one thing: I fucking hate Woody Allen.

- Photograph by Sharp Noir, August 2010

Shooting from the Hip #1

At The George Tavern, Whitechapel,
I saw a young man slung
with a Rickenbacker who struck
a good Jean Paul Belmondo;
behind him, she looked like Jean Seberg
with a mischievous journalist,
in a frivolous romance, ready
to take his place, centre-stage.

- Photograph by Sharp Noir, August 2010

Dressed to Kill

Tell Me Now

You’re only as good as your last work;
you're not sleeping until you’re laying in the dirt;
you’ll never love until you know what it’s worth;
you’ll only bleed if you cry out that you’re hurt;
tell me now, in all your days:
what have you learnt?


You’re going nowhere unless you know where you’ve been;
you’ll never win unless you know how to cheat;
you’ll win friends if you know the enemies you keep;
you’ve grown successful when you harvest jealousy;
tell me now, in all your days:
what do you believe?


You don’t need belief if you know the truth;
you can be sure of anything if you have the proof;
you’re only old if you never think anything new;
you’ll never set sail unless you’re one of the crew;
tell me now, in all your days:
what have you got to lose?


You tell me you ‘sleep, perchance to dream,’
– you can’t act unless you’re in the right scene;
you can’t hold up a candle without striking a match;
you can’t walk through her door if I’ve dropped the latch;
tell me now, in all your days:
have you ever shown your hand?

Untitled, September 3rd - I Tell You

I tell you I’ll never enlist
to cook up poppy seeds;
I see the high water rising,
threatening foreign policy.
Who’s going to lobby a million
farmers and their children?
Be damn sure the only dotted
line I’ll sign is a pay-slip.

Don’t get hung up
on your counterfeit ideals
– You don’t need faith
with nothing to believe in.
You’d be hard-pressed
to find the soul of an altruist
it’s spread so thin.
Virtue only exists in
the absolute morality
of the individual
– identity is retained
in logic and reason alone.

Confiscate all the bows
and arrows, teach peace
to the conquered?
– With a gun to their heads,
they can’t help
but love one-another.
I’ve met every casting call
with a grim expression;
to each admissions board,
I’ve read my poem
and, second verse,
they said, “Shut up talkin’,
you ain’t W.H. Auden.”

I’m not waiting around
to be a great man after the fact;
those iconic pen-smith
memories have grown cataract.
I want my face on the cover;
I’ll keep my sponsors fat.
If, like a rebel of the past,
I can steal a couple column inches,
I fear being branded a plagiarist
at best, with impeccable taste,
or a martyr, at the very least,
with much time wasted.