SELECTED POETRY

by
Michael James Treacy

NUMBER 2.75

In the early �70s,
I had a semi-Afro hairstyle
and a full beard.

I thought
I looked like
the lead singer
in Mungo Jerry.

These days
I�m clean-shaven
and a semi-Afro hairstyle
would look silly
with the Kalahari desert
running from north to south.

I go to a unisex hairdresser;
a young lady
with a lisp,
nose ring
and jasmine fragrance
asks me if I want a number 1.

I tell her to aim for number 2.75.

She chuckles
and says I remind her
of her grandfather.

Even though
it�s summertime,
she�s never heard
of Mungo Jerry.

� Michael James Treacy

---

TWENTY YEARS LATER

I�ve tried them all:

American,
Russian,
Cuban,
French,
Turkish,
Columbian;

tipped,
untipped,

low tar,
high tar,

mild strength,
full strength,

nub-ends
in the bad times,

Havanas
in the good times;

I even tried a pipe
(to enhance my poetic image).

I was so cool�

a pack
of Old Holborn,

a wad
of Auld Shag,

a tin
of Rasta-Man-Special;

sneaky roll-up
in the boys� bogs,

full packet
with six pints,

contented draw
after sex,

crafty blow
with the factory bad-lads,

10 cigars
on Christmas day,

hurried gasp
in the office toilet;

rasping drag
in the garden shed
when the missus
wasn�t checking.

Took about
twenty puffs to start,

cost about
twenty grand to do,

took about
twenty years to stop,

knocked about
twenty years off my life.

� Michael James Treacy

---

SUNRISE, SUNSET

Whilst traversing
the top end of the M5,
I heard Topol sing,
�Sunrise, Sunset.�

You had to be driving my car,
bombing up that motorway
with two quid in your pocket,
with petrol tank on zero;

f'ing and blinding
at every other motorist,

with my propensity to tears,
my haphazard disposition,

in my frame of mind,
with my memories

to understand
why I cried.

� Michael James Treacy

---

THE PROBLEM WITH KNICKERS

I recall a time
(too many years ago)
when I was a strapping youth
and I courted a comely girl named Marie.
Stuttering hearts in the infancy of first love;
she was the answer to all of my prayers:
every stomping, young man�s dream.
And then one day in October,
we were round her house:
holding hands,
exploring,
discovering,
plying secret trysts
and my loins were on fire;
I thought my libido was about to burst.
And then suddenly, her Mum entered the room:
a formidable woman of mountainous dimensions.
I was the epitome of a nice young gentleman.
But then, equally suddenly, it turned nasty:
Marie and her Mum began arguing.
Something unresolved,
raised voices,
tempers flaring.
I didn�t know what to do.
I sat there like a lemon (as you would).
Marie�s Mum then made a dramatic gesture
and her knickers fell down around her ankles:
huge, voluminous, parachute-sized bloomers.
There was total and utter silence in the room.
Then suddenly, Marie�s Mum shrieked,
stepped out of her fallen knickers
and ran from the room
at an amazing speed.
Then suddenly, Marie shrieked,
quickly gathered up her Mum�s knickers
and ran from the room at the same amazing speed.
I was transfixed, staggered, not knowing what to do.
Then Marie returned, sheepish and embarrassed,
and told me that her Mum said I had to leave;
her mum never let me see Marie again.
I thought my life was ended.
But then I met Julie
and her Mum
was petite:
much slimmer.
A very friendly lady.
And Julie�s Mum�s knickers
were never any sort of problem.
But that�s another story, for another day.

� Michael James Treacy

---

BOYS FROM BRISCO MOUNT

Boys from Brisco Mount
were not expected
to be high achievers,
although the brightest
might attend tech college
and aspire to be fitters
at the biscuit works.

According to general opinion,
we came from a long line
of lower-class, no-hopers
and were scheduled,
as a matter of course,
to keep with this tradition.

A legend concerning
a hapless native,
caught defiling
a helpless ruminant,
had led to us all
being labelled
with the same tag
and added
to the consensus
of inbred ne�er-do-wells.

Factory fodder
was the destiny
of most of us
as we left the school gates
for the final time,
which was a better deal
than previous generations
whose destiny,
(apart from sheep-shagging),
was to be cannon fodder.

� Michael James Treacy

---

A BIT-PART IN A B-MOVIE

I wanted to be
the hard,
handsome hero:
earning ten million dollars

with sculpted sinew
and rampaging manhood,

that invaded the badlands,
swamps and sewers

with gas grenades,
grappling hooks
and anti-tank weapons,

to sort out the dinosaurs,
giant �gators
and blood-crazed aliens

that were escaping their confines
and eating the workers,
helpless lawyers

and nubile females
with partially-exposed,
heaving bosoms

but I ended up
with the wrong script

and there was no handsome hero
or blood-crazed aliens;

no avenging angels
or swinging dicks;

no inter-galactic adventures
or glorious sunsets;

no nubile females
with partially-exposed,
heaving bosoms,

just a limp libido,
an empty bottle
and a bit-part in a B-movie

� Michael James Treacy