Things to look forward to when you’re 70! (apart from a delayed pension).

Things to look forward to when you’re 70! (apart from a delayed pension).

I’ve O’D’d on Glucosamine Sulphate, so much I’m mentally scarred.

It’s escalated now I’m 70… I’ve even mainlined on my Senior Railcard…

I bow down to the Norse God Voltarol… He eases all my pains…

and there’s Deep Heat, Germaloids, even Anusol for the other stresses and strains.

The wondrous Winter Fuel Allowance! That’s what lights our lamp these dark days - 

ahh, those twilight hours

But after the logs, it’s not Leccy or Gas we crave? No! We buy booze with ours…

the Whisky, Gin, Vodka, Wine; a drop of Brandy too.  It all helps to numb the cold

and memories of happier times gone by - brighten up this bloody growing old.

Supplements, sterols, statins, aspirin, beta blockers… All the heart meds - life really is a battle.

In the 60s it was Sex and Drugs and Rock ’n’ Roll… Now there’s less sex and a lot more rattle!

Viagra fails to make it now - “no more”, after the last time - she said!

These days the only thing it does is stop me rolling out of bed!

The bus pass used to to let me roam the world… from John O’Groats to Land’s End.

But these days I travel locally - Southwick, Lancing, Steyning; only sometimes to a cousin in Southend.

Further afield; abroad perhaps? Well no…In the past it has been Newhaven for the Continent. 

But now that I’m over 70, well, it’ll just be Worthing for the inCONTINENT!

And… did I say? Not that I was ever in the habit of measuring it - or straightening out the kinks

But I’m pretty sure that these days - and ’no’ it’s NOT just the cold… 

but, your once adequate dick - it shrinks!

Or is it just me?

Don's the One - I'm Trump

Don’s the One… He’s Trump!

Back then - as a lad he picked up his millions from his dad. He’s Trump.

Yeh - Dad made millions… passed one on… he picked it up and started the run - 

Need to make a zillion? Just watch this - be rude about people take the piss

Buy a bit of land - build a casino - use slave labour - treat em like dirt - we know,  in Atlantic City, It’s a dump… 

Moves On. Stamps on the meek makes ‘em squirm - He’s Trump.

Do something naughty - Oi - we saw yer - I’ll cover it up - get a good lawyer.

Loves the limelight can’t get enough… Porn Star? Can’t tell the truth makes up stuff

One rule for me - one for you… Fancy a slinky bird will she screw? Fancy a hump?

Say you didn’t do it - who’s to know. He’d refuse a pardon to an innocent on death row. I’m Trump.

I’m a bit special and Life’s a doddle… Havin’ it off with a Slovenian model (or two)…

Yeh…fancy a broad grab her pussy… I’m up for President and obviously I’m not fussy

Behaving like a total shite house doesn’t stop you from reaching the white house… He’s Trump.

He won the nomination and the election - power makes him nuts, gives him a cerebral erection. He’s Trump!

Smarmy? Yes…but in charge. Yes! Barmy! So I won’t let gay people join the army.

Immigration control Law and order?… won’t let Mexicans cross the border.

Heavy malice aforthought and negative intent. Bloody hell I’m the President. I’m Trump!

Thinning hair - Tonsorial arts…let it grow… swirl it - coiffe it - spray it gold, spray again with ‘hard to hold’ - I’m Trump.

In the wind it unfurls and makes him look like a twat…but he has the answer - the baseball hat… 

And the cap allows him to carry the message… Making America Great Again!…impressive!

The permatan the orange strangulated hues… completes the picture, ties the noose…  Internationally - Bit of a chump

Sociopathic Narcisist! Personality disorder…Doesn’t drink so he can’t be pissed - But He’s Trump.

Tells a lie, a big one - denies it. Most sensible people wouldn’t even try it - but he does. 

Whatever you think… and it’s been said, he eats big Macs whilst he’s in bed - tweeting!

How does he do it, what a nerve - a shining example to the people he should serve… 

They could be doing ‘the dump’.

Foreign policy? Ask the Pope. He summed it up in a glance…Nope! Putin ‘Nyet!” Macron ‘Non’. Stumped! 

He insults the press corps at home and abroad…It’s fake news this - fake news that. Read the message on the hat!

“Impeach… Impeach” some folks cry… “Fuck the lot of you it’s do or die! 

I ain’t going down without a fight” - 

So, after all the brickbats, guffaws, jeers and jokes… He loses it… lights the fuse… 

That’s all folks! That was Trump!

Trouble is he could take a lot of people with him!

Cuzz... A poem about Ted Slade... a cousin

'Cuzz'

By Chris Slade

This new friendship. This journey on which we were just setting out.
How will we work it now you've...well...gone?
It was going so well. That's the way I saw it anyhow
It had only been a year - we two - back in each other's circle...
Same planet - different orbit. Though I'll never know now what your thoughts might have been..

This 44 year gap in our 'acquaintance', for that's all you'd ever say it was,
...it closed at dad's (your Uncle Bud's), funeral - as he leapt 'on-flame' to the ether.
He didn't half  want to go..."Why don't they just let me slip away?"
And then It was you I wanted to know amongst those finger buffet scoffers.
Those ribboned aces never knew that Bud just kick-started their Lancasters and 'Spits' at Leconfield and Liberia.

Bud's morphine muted passing proved positive,and thankfully at last - 
(he might remember now) - he helped kick-start too this belated kinship between us.
Jack would have been pleased about that...(Bud too I know)
"a good trade" he'd have called it. "I'm knackered anyway".
I was always curious about our respective dads - they only ever sent Christmas cards...no letters. No love.

Bud gave me a book  before he swapped "heaven's hopper" for the "take & bake".
"Eer-yar" he wheezed...this is more up your street than mine..."
"Yer what?..."Poetry?...No... I can't make head nor tail of it. Like Shakespeare...Where's me glasses?"
and, with that ,the "Last Arm Pointing" welded that closing gap between us tight shut.
I read 'Mystery  Tour' to Bud...about Jack's 'motorised passing' and he cried. So it was up his street. after all.

Your words filled me in on distant memories...made solid.
Missing chunks I'd seen but never written down
Of Withernsea and its winter isolation
of Jack, his life - and how it intertwined with yours.
I've not found too much yet about Phyllis. Is there a darker story there? Who'll tell me now?

Your final work, tireless as ever, from your New Malden 'crow's nest'...
was steering your second collection to print...and then...
Your literally-literal Mugs and Sweats - flying off the shelves of a California warehouse.
Disabled? Pah!  Why should they ever know the what & why behind the who and when?
Your 'disability'...would only 'publicly' let you down if your trike sustained a puncture in Richmond Park.

"Hi Cuz...Where do I go to get mugs and sweat shirts printed?"
And, whilst I was looking through directories & old invoices,
you whizzed across the earth on the wings of your laser guided mouse.
By the time I'd got the phone numbers of long distance, half remembered contacts -
you had designs submitted, distribution and royalty deals sorted and were planning the next big thing.

Your freehold on the planet was the web...your very own super-short cut.
Who needs invalid cars when you can 'fly digital'?
You were a lover of the dub-dub-dub which loved you back in floods.
Now, even when your body has deserted you - it still throws us pages and pages - of you - and about you.
The Noddy Holders and Wes the Western Gun-slinger, pale by comparison, they'd envy your PR knack.

Instead of trying to phone, (these heavenly BT - or is it ET-connections often end in wrong numbers)...
and, because a lot of the time talking took it out of you, I'll keep writing like I did before.
Replies would be good. But I often used to write out of turn anyway.
So yes, things could get a bit one sided...forgive me if I 'go on'...and you don't.
But I'll keep writing to Ted@poetrykit.org and read the answers in your books and old e-mails of the family's past.

Cheers Ted...Lots of love Chris (Cuz) Slade.