Bull taming time

Tamed it already,
Took a few months
But I’ve calmed
a vicious beast.
It was going to destroy itself
I told him ‘that’s silly!’

The creature just had enough,
It was of no use to anyone,
It said!
Nonsense ofcourse!
This creature was beautiful,
Powerful beyond necessity.

I presented no threat,
I’m no matador, the bull
Just wanted a chat.
Knew he had a short fuse
But he knew I was there to help.

There was a sadness
Seeing such a majestic beast
Out of sorts.
Guess life can mess us all up.
It’s sorted now,
Out of anger came a friendship.
Still chat to the bull
Now and then.

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Filed under Birmingham, blog, life, light, live, London, Poem, poetry, uk, verse

Bad dream

Not had a bad dream in a while,
Maybe this is it.

It was crazy, think I cried.
A lot of poor people died
A tower fire in a modern city,
They can’t enjoy the sun today.

The leaders were lost and didn’t look sad.
Then people killed other people
Because they had a different skin,
Skin made different because of the sun.
Don’t hate people, hate The Sun!

People didn’t like other holy books,
So they attacked the believers.
They don’t have to read them!
If only Roald Dahl could have wrote them all,
He would’ve been a good leader,

In my dream I stood on a plug,
On the floor
And it really fuckin hurt,
I don’t feel physical pain in dreams,
So guess this isn’t a dream..

(Roald Dahl around 1939)

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A voided moment

This nothingness is boring
nothing ever happens.
What to do next?
Who shall I text?

I do nothing but slide fingers
across touch screens,
Can’t remember when
I was last touched

Motivation has left
the smile went too.
Maybe they booked
a cheap holiday,
To escape my way.

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The Midlander

I know who my people are
they behave like me
they sound like me,
but not all look like me.
In my middle England.

I like it’s rain, I miss it,
though some may think
I like the sun
Without knowing
That’s my names even Sunny.

I walk faster now
with no destination in mind.
Because I am a lost Midlander
in a capital city
out of the Midlands.

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Death of real pubs

Where are the proper pubs?
Local boozers with locals.
Where all the geezers?
That used to go to the pub.
Reebok classics on the feet,
tops with three stripes.
You know if you know!

Kinda miss that
That tiny little line,
Used to be called the edge.
Where things might kick off.
“Haha haha you’re alright mate.”
Maybe their approval meant alot
Maybe that was just Birmingham

Now I sit in pubs with higher classes
And girls with no arses
There’s a knobhead sitting
By the fruit machine,
With his silly red cider
Oh cidre not cider
Must be made with French apples.
Ed Sheeran t shirt
But he’s not a ginger
His girl is a minger
But it’s him looking at me.

“You looking at me?”
“Yes I’m looking at you.”
Firing some spears
And watching them land
“Only winding you up mate,
Have a good one.”
Knobheads.

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Cheap​ red wine

I like my grapes
red and fermented.
I don’t care for their names,
Not one for pompous games.
Cheap egoless wine
does me most of the time!

Who the fuck,
Can say one wine is better
Than another?!
Maybe the same fool
Who thinks he’s better
Than another?!

A grape is a grape,
No need to hate.
I like all red wine
And so should you.

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Like a pauper

Fight like a pauper
But be gracious as a King,
When you win.
Spend like a pauper
But give to others like a King.
Serve others like a pauper
They are Kings and Queens too.
Do family fun like the Dutch,
In a Jan Steen painting.
Work hard like a pauper
Harder than any King
Make love like a pauper
And treat her like your Queen

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