on the morning of yet another
royal wedding i got up late
and unplugged the telly
choosing not to watch bargain hunt
(not rhyming slang) with all
that royal doulton royal worcester
all kinds of chipped and broken royal tat
or some other boring daytime chit chat
about what colour
kate’s royal knickers would be
‘cos i knew that today the media
in a bid to patriotically outdo each other
would be non-stop waving union jacks
as a regressive demonstration
of what a backward nation
we really are
with all that ancient pomp and ceremony
uniforms and royal etiquette
curdling the milk of me cornflakes
and when cutting a slice of bread for toast
it made me think of eating cake
madame guillotine
and finding the money to pay the bills
twenty first century job seeking man
running amok
in the museum of modern england
© Paul Levy
The Royal Wedding
------------------------
P.A. Levy has been published in many magazines, both online and in print, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’, and is a founding member of the Clueless Collective.
Friday, 29 April 2011
Thursday, 28 April 2011
An Invite to the Wedding
I didn’t get an invite to the wedding
and, frankly, it is hard to mask the hurt.
I suppose there isn’t any point in threading
this button on my Marks and Spencer’s shirt.
My present lies beneath the stairs, inert,
(newlyweds cannot have too much bedding)
but, feck them, it’ll stay there gathering dirt
‘cos I didn’t get an invite to the wedding.
The postman brought no invite to the wedding.
Apparently I amn’t on the list.
This was the very thing that I’d been dreading –
being callously and royally dismissed.
Frustration at my absence from their tryst,
like poison, through my psyche has been spreading.
I’m sure my august presence will be missed
by those that got an invite to the wedding.
It seems that I’ve no invite to the wedding.
My diary is empty for that date.
I’d booked a B and B in downtown Reading
beside a nice industrial estate.
The yellow men behind me indicate
the salty trail of tears that I’ve been shedding.
Snubbed, not just by William, but by Kate,
I never got an invite to the wedding.
Did I mention I’ve no invite to the wedding?
But Ryanair will recompense my flight.
My Gatwick ticket’s only fit for shredding
but the airline’s sympathetic to my plight.
Thanks to this right royal oversight,
it isn’t down to London I’ll be heading.
When I get married, they can go and shite
if they think they’ll get an invite to my wedding.
© Peter Goulding
Riffraff at the Royal Wedding but no Tony Blair
----------------------------------------------------------
Peter Goulding works in a warehouse in co. Kildare, Ireland and has bribed editors in four continents to accept his poetry. He has no practical talents whatsoever.
and, frankly, it is hard to mask the hurt.
I suppose there isn’t any point in threading
this button on my Marks and Spencer’s shirt.
My present lies beneath the stairs, inert,
(newlyweds cannot have too much bedding)
but, feck them, it’ll stay there gathering dirt
‘cos I didn’t get an invite to the wedding.
The postman brought no invite to the wedding.
Apparently I amn’t on the list.
This was the very thing that I’d been dreading –
being callously and royally dismissed.
Frustration at my absence from their tryst,
like poison, through my psyche has been spreading.
I’m sure my august presence will be missed
by those that got an invite to the wedding.
It seems that I’ve no invite to the wedding.
My diary is empty for that date.
I’d booked a B and B in downtown Reading
beside a nice industrial estate.
The yellow men behind me indicate
the salty trail of tears that I’ve been shedding.
Snubbed, not just by William, but by Kate,
I never got an invite to the wedding.
Did I mention I’ve no invite to the wedding?
But Ryanair will recompense my flight.
My Gatwick ticket’s only fit for shredding
but the airline’s sympathetic to my plight.
Thanks to this right royal oversight,
it isn’t down to London I’ll be heading.
When I get married, they can go and shite
if they think they’ll get an invite to my wedding.
© Peter Goulding
Riffraff at the Royal Wedding but no Tony Blair
----------------------------------------------------------
Peter Goulding works in a warehouse in co. Kildare, Ireland and has bribed editors in four continents to accept his poetry. He has no practical talents whatsoever.
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