The Home Secretary puts Forty Quid on her Boat Race

 

Lend us ten grand? 

I can go, live a country that hates me. 

It's definitely better than here. 

If I don't eat owt, 

or die on the way, 

I can pay you back in five year. 

SEEN THIS RIGHT

BAD ART

         ALLUS THUS 

CONTAINED SALUTÉD 

MAKE BETTER ART 

                     CONCLUS

The Clearing

In the wooded clearing,

the train guard stood a sky-wise glare.

An over-qualified journalist joined at the pit's end. 

The opposite farmer looked up for once. 

They spoke, she translated, they waited. 

I'll miss that - a nuevo-nod to a jaded hill, 

I'll miss that - a crow-wink to a Balkan murder-song, 

I'll miss that - a throw-up to a strewn lamb at

adults’ height ‘neath polished calves' leather,

Swiss Army ’tween its teeth - was that a smile?

It was never yours anyway - a body prod with a

feller's birch. 

As the meteor did it's slow job wrecking the natural

over the native, they stood dusk for the incoming. 

A lynx blew a plastic whistle.

A woodpecker gave a last .-- / - / .. -. 

A vehicle for change came stuck at the border.

A fine was never issued.

The Reporter for Witch Magazine

Getting sentimental, in Pendle

With a modern recorder

For supernatural dispatches 

And I can not afford a

Slip of the tongue 

When surrounded by strength 

On the search for woman 

Who'll go to any length 

To coven her right to

Be what she wants

I discover the night 

And the most silent of fronts

The story looks short

When it's told by a man

For the wonder of mystery 

He'll never understand 

That the blood’s on his formals

Won’t sisterhooded cloaks

Won't croak to the normals

Or snitchiest folks

Who lust after magical 

Takes for their papers

For these are all tragedies 

In black as coal makeup

Of friendship and collectivism

And natural wonder

And kindship unflinching 

In misunderstood thunder 

So take down the Old Bailey 

Raise heads going under

Put out fires decided 

By suited profunders

The docks are for fatcats

And liars in power

And a hex on these men

Each witching hour

This Walk is Long (for Danielle and Liam)

 

This walk is long, we'll be bound, whether mapped out or

whether predetermined destiny is not your thing,

 

whether detail drawn or plotted through operatic soap-sop linguistics, philosophise over a portside pint and bring

 

music, not to be confused with what suckers call

music, but the real thing. Ain't nothing like the family knot 

 

tried and tied and overtired to pick out what's what when,

a strung-out four to the floor sometimes five, gives licks to 

 

the frontal lobe, sending us grinning in strategic wonder, to

hand in hand, stand, and stare this spinning globe.

 

We can take it right back, to where we started from, with

hike-blisters and disco strings, hauling each other up by the 

 

gigs or bins, with a flavour just right, plated to perfection, with only a sprinkle of pretention, for the feast within.

We can walk through Icelandic storms or pop-gloss or some funk from Slavia armed with tonic, for when the kapo fits, play it.

We can long at tractors in monochromic grain for 360 Slavic minutes and pick within it, wildly, fresh flowers and

grip righty, those moments when minutes are hours, knitted tightly and make considered decisions seem like 

 

snap, and likely wonder what the pixel point is of it all. When the smile needs a dress and laugh is an unblocked drain 

 

when the bairn’s face is a mess, but nevertheless, we hit the harmonic at just that moment, to make this road make sense.

 

With certainty, like the tissue box or the opening credits of queen’s pawn to d4, we all know what love is really for,

 

we are in it, and we’ll walk on evermore.

 

 

natalie number one

the fatalist brutality of the

actual actuality 

of the collar done 

nattily is

conundrum 

#1

For Jerry, a Poem

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, threadbare cared for, thrust

in a bear-like, where we lip up the summer,

hoard the winter, where the one in gets supped. 

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

forever be, sláinte trimmed

regardless of footfall or football or wobbly form,

that picks affectation warm, 

in shouts to the brim.

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever, be braw-tale anointed,

unthinned, informed, dovetailed and pointed, never skirting the grim.

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

ever be, tourist info, London-list proud, 

way beyond Engand, library-brained, for all

newborns and all newcomers.

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, victorious, despite the Gunners,

breezing wheesy through a landlady's bain that

loves anny televised sport and hates anny rain.

 

There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, play it nice and cool son, nice n’ cool

where a bar workers’ fall-breaker later

is the exception that proves the rule.

 

There's some corner of Islington, that will

ever be, a game of stool chess, 

the ice-driven politik,

learnt of friends and gentleness,

with a hand on arm and a slop of a kiss,

where they'll turn it up a bit,

where they'll play the drum slowly,

where they'll play the fife lowly,

where they'll pour him a pint as they lower him down.

 

There’s some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, Jerry’s, where sorrow may always be drowned.