David Trippas

It's days like these, you sign on all year for

Those few days each year, when it's t shirt weather,

and for once the cannabliss plants look satisfied,

pink milky babies bottles of cider,

fuking fluoride for this rotting tooth of a nuclear nation,

it will take more than the flashlight of authority,

to turn of the light in a chillum of this starlit warm night,

those who say the solstice moon does not affect us,

should hear the chemical chains rattle on the asylum on the hill.

It's oak wood elm of a sunny lake herb garden

and it's dancing hot days like these, you sign on all year for.

A country pub back garden

The air conditioning roars,

like they're testing a jet engine,

cigarette butts litter the parched ground.

Little dots of bright colour,

from the retirement garden centre,

sets of the indifferent bushes,

the wild sycamore triumphs as usual.

A swing for bored kids,

munching on a packet of salty crisps,

creaks in the dull day.

A local comes out to smoke a fag,

glares at us as if he's,

wanted by the police,

but just can't face going home.

The car park takes up half the pub ground,

the fizzy real ale is just about drinkable,

it last saw a wooden cask in 1934.

Chubby builders arrive,

looking at their tri-quarter,

dream of a chocolate éclair,

made by a girl in a huge shed in Kettering,

she dreams of love,

on a beach in Rhyl.

The traffic roars bye

and the Mrs. takes a smiling pride,

as she says the food is of,

a lone blackbird,

has given up listening for the sound of worms,

in the rock hard ground,

a women has been sentenced to be stoned to death in Iran.

David Trippas © 2010