poets corner

[luplowe]

The Last Ten Miles.


It was early one Sunday 1030 or so , the spesh was oiled and ready to go, Your washed and dried sun tan lotion applied time for the lycra time for the ride.. The computer is charged and attached to the bike-- right profile selected as it beeps with delight..--the backpak is packed with a sandwich and some reading- and all those bits you hope you wont be needing.. Your still wearing that helmet even though its busted then on go the shoes and are suitably adjusted. You throw your leg over the right foot clips in
You sit and ponder before the ride begins… You pull the trigger and push of with vigger oh the need for a good average speed.. At first you feel cold you think shall I go back but then you remember its always like that. You look up at the clouds and give a cautious grin the blood needs to pump so its time to spin. 20 30 40 miles go by but sometimes you cant help wondering why. You beg for forgiveness and hope for some grace but wherever you turn the wind is in your face. The cars lorries the other cyclists to some times they wave but mostly they poopoo. But then the sun breaks through and there’s no need to threat but your backside is sore cause its swimming in sweat. You flick through the gears using total integration your body aches from the bumps and vibration, Mouth full of sawdust from the lack of hydration- so you just keep pedalling trying to keep a clear head knowing things will improve soon- cause it’s the homeward leg the work is done the hills are climbed 10 miles to go and thers beer is on your mind
People must think your bloody crazy but the last 10 miles are just pure gravy..

 

[PaulB]

PSYCLE SLUTS (PARTS 1 & 2)

• part one...
  this disc concerns those those pouting prima-donnas
  found within the swelling j. arthur ranks of the sexational psycle sluts
  those nubile nihilists of the north circular
  the lean leonine leatherette lovelies of the leeds intersection
  luftwaffe angels locked in a pagan paradise
  
  no cash
  a passion for trash
  the tough madonna whose cro-magnon face and crab nebular curves haunt the highways of the UK, whose harsh credo captures the collective libido like lariats
  their lips pushed in a neon-arc of dodgems
  delightfully disciplined, dumb but deluxe
  deliciously deliciously deranged
  
  twin-wheeled existentialists steeped in the sterile excrements of a doomed democracy, whose post-nietzschean sensibilities reject the bovine gregariousness of a senile oligarchy
  whose god is below zero, whose hero is a dead boy
  condemned to drift like forgotten sputniks in the fool's orbit bound for a victim's future
  in the pleasure dromes and ersatz bodega bars of the free world the mechanics of love grind like organs of iron to a standstill
  
  hands behind your backs
  in a noxious gas of cheek to cheek totalitarianism
  hail the psycle sluts
  
  go go the gland gringos
  for the gonad a-go-go age of compulsory cunnilingus a...
  
  
  part two...
  the dirty thirty
  the naughty forty
  the shifty fifty
  the filthy five
  zips, clips, whips and chains
  wait for you to arrive
  hell's angels by the busload
  stoned stupid, how they strut
  smoked woodbines till they're banjoed
  and smirk at the swedish smut
  
  life on the straight and narrow path
  drives you off your nut
  by day you are psycopath
  by night you're a psycle slut
  
  on a bsa with two bald tires
  you drove a million miles
  you cut your hair with rusty pliers
  and you suffer with the pillion piles
  you got built in obsolescence
  oh you got guts
  but you don't reach adolescence
  slow down psycle sluts
  
  motor cycle michael
  wants to buy a tank
  only twenty-nine years old
  and he's learning how to fiddle
  yesterday he was in the groove
  today he's in a rut
  my how the moments move
  brut fun psycle sluts
  
  he cacks on your originals
  he peepees on his boots
  he makes love like a footballer
  he dribbles before he shoots
  the goings on at the gang-bang ball
  made the citizen's tut-tut-tut
  but, what do you care, piss all
  you tell 'em psycle sluts
  
  now your boyfriend burned his jacket
  ticket expired
  tyres are knackered
  knackers are tired
  
  you can tell your tale to the gutter press
  get paid to peddle smut
  now you've ridden the road of excess
  that leads to the psycle sluts
  or you can dine and whine on stuff that's bound to give you boils
  hot dogs direct from cruft's
  done in diesel oil
  or the burger joint around the bend
  where the meals thank christ are skimpy
  for you that's how the world could end
  not with a bang but a wimpy.
  

 

[ColinJ]

Well, if we are doing John Cooper Clarke, how about...

Beasley Street (He does the verses in a different order on the video)

Far from crazy pavements -
the taste of silver spoons
A clinical arrangement
on a dirty afternoon
Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud
are rendered obsolete
The legal term is null and void
In the case of Beasley Street

In the cheap seats where murder breeds
Somebody is out of breath
Sleep is a luxury they don't need
- a sneak preview of death
Belladonna is your flower
Manslaughter your meat
Spend a year in a couple of hours
On the edge of Beasley Street

Where the action isn't
That's where it is
State your position
Vacancies exist
In an X-certificate exercise
Ex-servicemen excrete
Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies
In a box on Beasley Street

From the boarding houses and the bedsits
Full of accidents and fleas
Somebody gets it
Where the missing persons freeze
Wearing dead men's overcoats
You can't see their feet
A riff joint shuts - opens up
Right down on Beasley Street

Cars collide, colours clash
disaster movie stuff
For a man with a Fu Manchu moustache
Revenge is not enough
There's a dead canary on a swivel seat
There's a rainbow in the road
Meanwhile on Beasley Street
Silence is the code

Hot beneath the collar
an inspector calls
Where the perishing stink of squalor
impregnates the walls
the rats have all got rickets
they spit through broken teeth
The name of the game is not cricket
Caught out on Beasley Street

The hipster and his hired hat
Drive a borrowed car
Yellow socks and a pink cravat
Nothing La-di-dah
OAP, mother to be
Watch the three-piece suite
When shoot-stoppered drains
and crocodile skis
are seen on Beasley Street

The kingdom of the blind
a one-eyed man is king
Beauty problems are redefined
the doorbells do not ring
A lightbulb bursts like a blister
the only form of heat
here a fellow sells his sister
down the river on Beasley Street

The boys are on the wagon
The girls are on the shelf
Their common problem is
that they're not someone else
The dirt blows out
The dust blows in
You can't keep it neat
It's a fully furnished dustbin,
Sixteen Beasley Street

Vince the ageing savage
Betrays no kind of life
but the smell of yesterday's cabbage
and the ghost of last year's wife
through a constant haze
of deodorant sprays
he says retreat
Alsations dog the dirty days
down the middle of Beasley Street

People turn to poison
Quick as lager turns to piss
Sweethearts are physically sick
every time they kiss.
It's a sociologist's paradise
each day repeats
On easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy
beastly Beasley Street

Eyes dead as vicious fish
Look around for laughs
If I could have just one wish
I would be a photograph
on a permanent Monday morning
Get lost or fall asleep
When the yellow cats are yawning
Around the back of Beasley Street

 

[PaulB]

I love that Beasley Street but when I went to see him recently and the crowd demanded it, he said that it had gone upmarket and is now called Beasley Boulevard and did a newer version where all was well in that particular corner of the world.

 

[luplowe]

The rain falls hard on a humdrum town you notice it more when cycling around,
Cold hands cold feet is that really what you need you checked the forecast but you
didn’t take heed ,the only consolation being a better average speed .

You ride from town to town for no apparent reason I guess you have to go there
At least once every season, but every now n again every once in a while you get
opportunity To make someone smile,, a person in need !a person in need!! you get of your bike
And you do a good deed, but the lycra the helmet the mirrored visors you ride away and no ones The wiser.
.
The rain falls hard on a humdrum town you notice it more when cycling around,

But there comes a point where you must turn for home but spare a thought for there are those
That don’t- where we turn and run they ride on by they ride into the moonlight in the sky
They carry there torchlight’s they carry there tents the eat baked beans and sleep by a fence
So respect to the cyclists that don’t turn for home that read by torchlight and sleep on foam
For there still rolling when were back at home….