John Whitworth: Three Poems

Banished

Banished to his desert island
For a thousand thousand aeons
(Trust me guys, he had it coming),
Lex Luthor listens to the classics,
Longhaired stuff by Brahms and Mozart,
German mostly—yeah like Hitler—
Sweeping in and out like sea sounds,
Crashing waves and shimmering shipwrecks.

It’s a cinematic shorthand:
Ancient music equals madness,
Madness means world domination,
Splattering shells and marching armies,
Fascist boots mean sounds orchestral.
Democratic guys like demo-
Cratic music—yeah, like Elvis.
Superman would kill for Elvis.

                   John Whitworth

 

Dad’s Moral Compass

Dad created such a rumpus

When he lost his moral compass.

Did he leave it in the boozer?

(He’s a constant boozer user.)

In his local betting shop?

In the bus or the co-op?

In the bath or bedroom maybe

Of his current shady lady?

With that odd Macartney fellow?

At the Japanese bordello

Or the Irish laundorama?

It was gone. The thing was karma.

Now he’d have to do without it.

On and on he went about it.

Who was weaker, who was stronger?

What was righter, what was wronger?

What the why and why. the wherefore

What a devil’s fart is there for?

What the dance and who the dancer?

What’s the answer? What’s the answer?

Whirling like whirling dervish

We were all distinctly nervish.

It was weeks before the cat.

Sicked the thing into his hat

(Serve him right!)

                              and that was that.

                         John Whitworth

Little People from High Up

“Dirty people of no name”

—Clarendon

 

Looking late and looking down

Little street in little town,

Tower, rooftop, dome or steeple,

Little town of little people,

Parasites and mendicants,

Multitudinous as ants,

Rich and famous, poor and nameless,

All are guilty, none are blameless,

Any time and every where,

Up a passage, down a stair,

Born of beasts in sin primeval,

Dens of dread and hives of evil,

Dirty people, talking, talking,

Standing, sitting, running, walking,

Talking early, talking late,

Talking wickedness and hate,

Talking madness and unreason,

Spreading lies, fomenting treason,

Sloth their habit, crime their wont,

Now you see them, now you don’t.

Now you hear them, soft and clear,

Here and here and here and here

Talking early, talking late,

Talking crimes against the state,

Thugs and felons, thick as thieves,

Dree as drifts of blackened leaves

Sneaking, skulking, planning, plotting,

Squamous, fetid, rancid, rotting,

Black as night and black as badness,

Hatching violence and madness,

Cunning as a nest of vipers,

Agitators, bombers, snipers,

Weasels, jackals, monkeys, apes,

Fiends in scarcely human shapes,

Vagrants, migrants, loafers, loungers,

Laggards, idlers, spongers, scroungers,

Bigamists, immoralists,

Muggers, buggers, terrorists,

Begging what they dare not steal,

Traitors to the Commonweal,

Meditating sin and slaughter,

Doing what they didn’t oughter,

Venal, treacherous and clever,

Sabotaging all endeavour,

Now you see them, now you never,

Extirpate their seed for ever.

John Whitworth