His Foxes Cannot Get Me Now

He can no longer spitefully hiss
The terrible command
For the hook nosed Jew boy
To climb across the room
And into his stinking
Piss stained bed
He can no longer invoke the foxes
To bite at the boy’s ankles or head
He can no longer create nightmare’s
Filled with sheer terror and dread
He can no longer climb
Like an incubus upon the boy’s back
Fetid breath panting on his neck
Arm wrapped tightly around his throat
All this must happen before the boy sleeps
He can no longer implant the thought
That the boy must dream in colour
For those that dream in black and white
He often tells the little boy
Are scared of the nights and what they bring
Now the boy doesn’t have to dream
Of the Paisley pattern to fill his head
And take away the terror of what
Had just happened.

Comments

The Protein Man of Oxford Street- Stanley Owen Green.

I wrote this Obituary piece for The Guardian about Stanley Green while I was an undergraduate at Goldsmiths' College. I contacted The Guardian and asked them if I could submit it for publication. It was sent off to them and I waited in eager anticipation for their reply. It was published on Wednesday January 26th 1994, the Editor made no changes or additions except by adding some photographs (the photographs used here are later additions by me): "A Consuming Passion.... Stanley Owen Green who has died aged aged 78, was that tall thin man with steel-rimmed glasses who marched it seemed for an eternity up and down London's Oxford Street. It was his banner that made him famous, held high above his head and proclaiming "LESS LUST FROM PROTEIN" in large white letters. Underneath the banner he endured the taunts of sticky schoolchildren and the spittle of office workers alike, to bring his unique, indeed puzzling message to the people of London. He later wate...

The telephone, the typewriter and the confused.

My life seems to be littered with conversations such as the one told below. If you look on my blog you’ll see ‘Hypo or Hyper’ and ‘The Blackbird in the Garden’ and the triumph that was ‘The Telephone’. All are based on the other person’s misunderstanding of a content of my life, or their life. I sometimes, in fact often, continue conversations purely for the humour that results from them. # Ooooowh, what’s that noise? It’s just my phone. #Sounds like an old typewriter Yep, it is. It’s for my texts. #That must take a long time. What? #Typewriting texts. It doesn’t type them, it’s only a notification. #Mine is a ping, like a microwave. Mine was too. I changed it so I would know I have a text. #But you must have to wait a while for it to be typed. No, it’s just a notification noise. I downloaded it. #How does it send texts then if it uses a typewriter. It doesn’t use a typewriter, it’s only the notification sound. #Mine just pings and the message ...

The Music Teacher

I recollect aged about 10 having an argument, a strong disagreement, with the music teacher at my Primary School. Iin fact it was one of many that I had with her. I don’t why but she just irritated the young David; she was not a soft teacher, she had no hesitation in throwing you out of the room. Possibly that was it, there was physical retribution taken, she was one of the few teachers that didn’t mete out the ruler or cane. I had to test her. Of course I did, it was natural for me to do so. Anyway it started out with her plonking away on the piano as she always did at the start of a ‘lesson’; lesson being a loose term for her didactic approach to teaching, we had to enjoy music, we had no choice. I did in fact love music, I still do.I just found her approach less than welcoming. As she plonked away on the piano for a few minutes we took our places on the floor. She then dramatically stood up in the way teachers with an artistic bent do a...

I often think.

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