A Fountain of Polemic

I've got a bad summer cold. There's nothing worse, believe me. I mean it's so unseasonal--no good pretending its hay fever either--everyone twigs you've got a stinker of a cold and thereby assumes you must have a really unhealthy lifestyle, etc. Ho hum. Anyway, it's put me in one of those moods where I won't be taking any prisoners. No, not today, thank you. The muskrat gland is firing on all cylinders (not to mention the mucus reserves) but perhaps one better not mention anything like that--as it could seriously gross out one's Canadian readership, etc (if I have any.)

Here is a poem on a local landmark which has been in the news recently:

Lament for the Mazda Fountain

You were a carbuncle on

the face of the Valley Gardens project,

the wrong sort of heritage,

an awkward pensioner relative,

who has out-lived their welcome,

expensive to keep--

far too prodigal with water

and often the wind blew your voluminous jets 

hither and thither and people walking by

(including the odd wino)

got soaked as a result.

You sported their colour, but alas,

the Greens were never

likely to be enamoured of your

implacably ugly basin with its dreadnought

steel-plating from a coal-fired age--

you were always destined to be an affront to

the ideology--deemed not fit for purpose

(well, you are electric, which

combined with water makes you a rum mix of elements.)

They wanted you out of sight

marooned in Hove Lagoon for the duration

while they commissioned

a nice sustainable water feature

just like that one to commemorate

Diana in Hyde Park--oops,

perhaps not.

You were an obstacle in the way

of their blandscape nirvana--

their picturesque schemes
to plant new traffic roundabouts 
the shape of ciabattas with pretty paved

areas here and there, the significance of which

remains a puzzle to most pedestrians.

Above all, you were in the way

of the cycle path they wanted to build

and everything has to give way to cyclists now,

(although Brighton cyclists are a feral

bunch and rarely keep to paths or give way,

or even understand the symbol for it.)

I’m probably one of a small percentage

who has always been a fan

of your lumbering industrial chic

with all its design fails,

brazenly ensconced at the end of Victoria Gardens,

like a vision from a bad steam punk hangover,

your light show cancelled long ago,

your electric rings splattered with pigeon guano,

looking more suited to boiling an ostrich egg, perhaps.

Anyway, I always enjoyed the spectacle of your lavish jets of water

refreshing that arid corner.

There are rumours of a reprieve now those

Green despots on the council have been weeded out.

Indeed, why should they be the ones to decide

what's good or bad for Brighton?

The beast in all its naked glory (that tree isn't growing out of it btw, just a bit of tromp l'oeil)

So I took my poem down...

It's been a while. NaPo got in the way of my musing. I also took the previous post down as I got a pub for the poem featured in it, 'Bellwether-by-Sea', a satirical take on Hove's status as a marginal seat. Well, it was marginal at the time I wrote it, but towards the end of the month everyone was reckoning it was a shoo-in for Labour, which proved to be correct. 

You can read it in issue 17 of Alliterati which is devoted to political themes (if you don't mind squinting hard enough at the pdf format and fiddling with the little magnification widget). They've chosen a dessicated typewriter font that seems to be in at the moment. All the other contributions, including some intriguing art work, look effortlessly cool next to mine. My poem is trying a bit too hard--like Ed Miliband in those televised debates. It also seems too polite and neat for words. If it was having tea, its little finger would be raised and the sips would be noiseless. (Not sure if that analogy applies to Ed, as he's famed for his inelegant scoffing.) 
Anyway, within this Alliterati gathering, so to speak, everyone else seems to be biting into the rims of chipped mugs, squeezing out the last drop of soured milk from the warped carton (well, the mag began life as a student rag after all). Hmm, does milk still come in cartons? Perhaps not, too nineties for words. Anyway, I'm very proud to be included in the magazine--an old rat bag like me who can recall actual milk bottles made of glass. Oh yes and they would fit snugly inside duffle coat front pockets, if I remember correctly.

Here's another poem to make up for the one I took down. It's about election night, a rather singular take on it, you could say. I was followed recently on Twitter by a Lib Dem policy wonk called Nick. Hmm, don't they have any other names? Yes, they must be desperate for followers of any ilk, so I tweeted the link to my soundcloud reading soon after. Hope he got off on the last few lines :)

Nocturne written on Election Night, May 7th

I watched Cameron's car,

the armoured Jaguar taking him to the count,

as it purred along Oxfordshire

country lanes pitch black and as smooth as

Guinness--red tail lights flashing--

and this time we were the passengers

cocooned inside--trying to read our destiny

in the passing shadows.

I fought the desire to gather the dark silence

of that road and coat you in it

spill the questioning bleakness

into your mouth--a passionless

droll slit--my tongue gaining entry

like a ballot sheet needing to be folded

over again--stamping you afresh

with a meretricious kiss

forcing you to concede as we laboured ahead,

our physical union bound by

a coalition of drunken senses

blinkered by carnality

making us inseparable in that uncertain night--

desperate to escape the gloom

cast by the last exit poll.

My tongue was too engaging to ignore--

offering to lick your stubby pencil

held on a tight leash just before

you marked your cross in the booth where no one

could ever swing a cat--and then only then

was it free to spool around yours,

a fluent consort for the counting hours,

making each of us drool over unexpected results

after the joint declaration--

as partners in the last dance

before the Lib Dem House of Cards

collapsed and a weary Nick

was left standing alone

in his boxer shorts.