Bo-Lo
The arc, left-shaping swoop
Bodily it curves,
Dutch shaped in entirety
The sun mouth opens.
Suspended in animation
A spherical undoing.
In that second of wholeness frozen
The experience is missed
Lineality shattered he stands
Flamingoed.
Zen-Den
Rush of metro-train past empty stations
Duality of name and action at once
Rounded, sharp.
Foremost frozen and screenbound
Whilst eyes draw to the closing cleft.
Trout-silver the ripple,
But one man's rapture arrived seconds early
Not one witness to his sun mimicry.
Monday, 31 October 2011
Sunday, 30 October 2011
The QPR Home Kit 2011/12
The hooped jersey
Lacks all majesty this season,
And the less said about
Away, third and change the better
But perhaps.
O! Perhaps
It is fitting such an illfitting kit exists
To be worn by
Shaun Wright-Phillips
For he was cheap
It is cheap
Joey Barton too
And I'm sure Clint Hill can't have cost much.
Lacks all majesty this season,
And the less said about
Away, third and change the better
But perhaps.
O! Perhaps
It is fitting such an illfitting kit exists
To be worn by
Shaun Wright-Phillips
For he was cheap
It is cheap
Joey Barton too
And I'm sure Clint Hill can't have cost much.
Saturday, 29 October 2011
What Manchester United Losing 6-1 At Home Has Done To Football, OR, Elegy To The 1990s. (With utter contempt for myself and apologies [again] to William Butler Yeats)
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The left back cannot hear the gaffer;
Things fall apart; the referee cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The sky-blued tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some substitution is at hand;
Surely Berbatov is at hand.
Dimitar Berbatov! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste Mancunian grass;
A shape with Charlton's body and the head of Keane,
A gaze blank and pitiless as a Neville,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant Djemba-Djemba, Fortune.
The floodlights drop again but now I know
That three decades of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough diamond, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Old Trafford to be born?
The left back cannot hear the gaffer;
Things fall apart; the referee cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The sky-blued tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some substitution is at hand;
Surely Berbatov is at hand.
Dimitar Berbatov! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste Mancunian grass;
A shape with Charlton's body and the head of Keane,
A gaze blank and pitiless as a Neville,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant Djemba-Djemba, Fortune.
The floodlights drop again but now I know
That three decades of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough diamond, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Old Trafford to be born?
Saturday, 15 October 2011
I'm Sorry
Apologies to Juventini
And also Paolo Maldini,
For I have a soft spot for
A man who did once score
A goal against Germany, you see,
To put into the final, Italy.
My favourite left back of all time O!,
It is Fabio Grosso.
And also Paolo Maldini,
For I have a soft spot for
A man who did once score
A goal against Germany, you see,
To put into the final, Italy.
My favourite left back of all time O!,
It is Fabio Grosso.
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