Sunday, 15 September 2019

Save Me Gravy - A Tanka

The pious pie us
With custard hangovers mash
With liquor thicker
Than the tie-knots of auction
Corpses by Christie's vicar

Saturday, 14 September 2019

Pound for pound

The person spits the
Person eight
Stones throw from there
The change
Never comes
The crater in
The mini
The sound
We cannot

Pickle This

A day to remember.
Pickle this
Freezing cold weather.
A custom
To preserve this onion
In Baltic jar or
Use for soup
That sits
That's klass.
One score n' eight
Ingredients as
There's an island
That wants
The cream turned sour.
Dill with it.
It's pickling hour.

Tuesday, 10 September 2019

Curtains - A Tanka

Cardsharps twitch in the
Hermitage practicing the
Darks arts of online
Gammon paper backing and
Putting rents up summat harsh

Monday, 9 September 2019

From these Spines, Aloof - A Book Title Cut-Up

The Moonstomp
is clean. 
the dream. 
Brilliant be the poems, 
on Alternative Street. 

Against the Mann
with the 
personal smile, 
these prison happenings
have an 
orange affair 
with the truth. 

As we tango
like penguins
in the darkness, 
a two-bob freedom
is best selected, 
from these spines,

Tuesday, 27 August 2019

Franciszka Themerson's Thoughts - A Tanka

City days endless
Talks with the bowler hatted
Businessmen who stick
Fascinating games of small
Talk issue avoidance tricks

Wednesday, 21 August 2019

Thee Slone Ranger

Thee Slone Ranger

Sums it up for me
Thee Slone Ranger
Gleefully pearling their signage
Let's go W.T.O.
Best Chelsea smiles
Alright for you
Chelsea smiles
For the rest us

Do the Write Thing - A Tanka

Do the write thing hear
Listen the one before you
Leave peaved for those who
Don't listen for the second
One's the hardest to retrieve 

Insect Inspect

Fruitflies fuckin' love
Fresh French polish
Not quite wet
Appear from fuck knows
Elect to inspect
Your chiffoneer
Or jewellery box
With daffodil inset
Look close host
See these
Marquetry gets
Perusing all over
With tiny
Fuckin' clipboards
I bet

Friday, 16 August 2019

Pub Conjuror - A Tanka

Thought for a minute 
That some magic bastard had
Erased my pages
Between smoking practice and
Disappearing my wages

Preston Rules - A Tanka

She'd greet "Alright bird?" 
No matter if male or a
Rizla 'tween pref'rence
Skirt's airline or crack's hairline
All fine lines blurred "Alright bird?" 

Thursday, 15 August 2019

Continuous Bar Retainer - A Tanka

Down the pub nods he
Keeps wearing glasses while I
Keep wearing glasses
Schtum starring in the crude noise
Wearing looped glasses anon.

Wednesday, 14 August 2019

Plasterek (Slice) - A Right Pair of Tankas

Bored son chef cook with
Knicked hands peers out on spaces
Left by revellers
Regulars suits and suiters 
Blue plastered white fingers tap

Blue and white collared
Post-workers plastered themselves
Round the bar half not
Knowing how difficult or
Expensive plastering is

Tuesday, 13 August 2019

Sap - A Tanka

The lass off the graph
Is last having a laugh 'cos
For once the ensconce
Is not the brew of the room
Or about you or your sap

Saturday, 10 August 2019

Fitzrovia Byway Patrol

Massive beard
Arms out 
Massive window
Massive arms tattooed
Dog unit 
Chips all round
Dog pound

Looking for Poets in Parks

Looking for poets in parks Looking for poets in parks What?  A prepensity?  A pretentiousness of?  Give us a clue Chuck us a bone Alls've got's me lateness Map on me phone In hat in orange top 's me Do us a lemon please Or'll write Another bloody poem ' bout logistics Not trees

Hating Trainers whilst Admitting That They Look Good on Some - A Tanka

Loose done trainers aren't 
Even fucking shoes in their
Prepensity to breath as
Clues but bequeath legacy
As jokers below the knee



Tuesday, 6 August 2019

Framed in Manchester - A Tanka

Girls dancing window
Cocktails aloft alarmed 
Scaffolding eagles
Par the purity of their
Security shanks right rough

Melancholic Tonic (Summertime Blues)

In whithering blue
The baking wind
Bites the bitter haze
On the barley scene 
As Melancholia pours itself
In cut grass
Accent days
Green in red slides
A distant 125
Bites the bitter pill
And all that's left
Is to run
To the autumn hills

Saturday, 3 August 2019

W.B. Yeats’s Wine Lodge

Gathered lads
Grope for the point these
Sloganised mads
Rhyming Hodge
With football shaped frowns &
W.C. mates
Sign ‘Podge’
Machismically rutting in
Ten past nothing rounds

Blathered sads
Rope up the joist these
Over-leaked rads
Customising sods
With Browning’s bait down
W.B. Yeats’s
Wine Lodge
Fullwittingly supping in
Ten past nothing town

Monday, 29 July 2019

The Sham New Tuppenny Waltz

The mafia waiters
The shoehorn marked foreign

Boxing Matilda with
Not much to go on

As Vladimir Eatwell is
Toasting the sink

I'm in t' cleavage of rain
With the boys on the brink

While def’rence presides over
The classes will clink

How plastic and trite
Sycophantic we think

As the wig n’ the gown set
Tug off their peers

We pick up our teeth from
The blood and the beer

And the man in the fox suit
Is pissing his sides

Claims corporate constructs
Do pretty our skies

Vacant in all sense that
Nobody’s home and they’re

Pointing their best points
With fingers of foam

At the bears and the bulls game
Getting pregnant with paws

But our talons lack sharpness
With no release clause

As gaffes trill’ion penny
Fly by unchecked

We’ve damp on the walls
There out of respect

As the bricks that we throw
Only ripple the pond

We still roll out the carpets for
These budget James Bonds

In make-up that’s fulsome
And grinning like plums

So declare y’self pointless
If sat on yer bums

All waving at pictures ‘cos
There isn’t no sound

For these scarves are for tying
But not that way round

As the queuers they queue
Cos that’s all they have got

And drink down the rainbow
Piss missing the pot

As the strawberries flower
In the fields of uncouth

They sew in the labels
In the clobber of youth

And toasters post toasting
Are thrown in the bath

And we all fall on someone
Under austere attack

'Cos the blisters of kickers
Are red raw like knives

And the jack boxes clever
In these times of our lives

But the circles decrease
As you get near the front

As peace passed us last week
And chinned us the brunt

‘Cos bands are tuned auto
Any fight left absconds

We despise all their success
But still sing their songs

As the bass it gets louder
And trebles come thicker

We’re freezing to death but
Still dance in our knickers

'Cos deference paid to
Is sanity lost

Your 20p sunshine
Will headline the cost

When it suits them to sell more
We’ll lap it up quick as

Incumbents get thicker
The sicker get sick as

They bruise the accused an'
Establish who’s fault

If we paint ourselves wallflower
We comply this assault

As the 45s spinning now
Fire off like Colts

We all dance the Sham
New Tuppenny Waltz

Thursday, 25 July 2019

In Critical Response

In critical
Response and how
Stanisław Szukalski
The sculptor
Went full sepulchral and
Laid them all to waste.
“I’m not going to kowtow
To these phoney arbiters
Of corrupt taste.
Fartists!”    F

Wednesday, 24 July 2019

The Rule in the Art World is – A Tanka

The failed artist stole
Ben Hecht’s words, proclaimed his oath:
‘You cater to the
masses or you kowtow to
the elite; you can't have both.’

Monday, 22 July 2019

Purple and Green and White - A Tanka

As he ordered the
Purple and green and white scarves
In site of the crown
Those colours the nemesis
Of the white and red somehow

Day Dot

The swinging dicks
began the gender cleansing.
Day dot,
cottoned on.
The optimistic thought,
s’alright for a bit,
they were drip, drip, dripped

Thursday, 18 July 2019

Unbridled Nonsense - A Tanka

It hangs unbridled
Nonsense rusting there on the
Washing line of hope
Waiting for the bait on the
Misquoted coast to elope

Tuesday, 16 July 2019

Electrocution Lessons

She used to be confused
‘bout the bucket of used fuses
she was forced
by her form-master,
to carry on her head.

When she saw
the electric core
of his gymnasium floor;
Man! She did her homework.
Oh boy! And she read.

She was live to this earth, so
She amped up the ante;
three phased the in flagrante,
and watt smiled, as he fried,
at her plimsolls made of lead.

Monday, 15 July 2019

The Miner’s Rest

From the Miner’s Rest
Where the rays flay your
City limbs best
The swallowing view
Of grass carpets ‘neath
Rolled gold
In a sky blue suit
Our eyes march as
Penguins look on
In convivial persuit
Draw yourself a red balloon
Fill your pencil full of lead
Where troubles beware
In the vista
The glare
Replenish your luck
Where valleys
Ramble on
Churches rest
Like swans’

Day Out

The lady on
The radio
Is right pleased
With her plug

She courts this
Mass participation sport
Retail runs
A common thread to bear
In this
Fifty first
State of affairs
Effusing the illusion
That this
Is some day out

She runs coach trips
To the world’s
Largest Primark
From Doncaster
To Brum

You can bag it
For a score
Keep the receipt
In case you
Change your mind you
Can’t  bear
What we’ve

Sunday, 14 July 2019

Magpie Cider

Magpie Cider*

There’s the fat fruit farmer
There are fruit flies
There is fruit

Kick an apple in black and white
And unite to quarry
Branch and root

(*Serve with a variety of reformed meats)

Friday, 12 July 2019

Heated Rollers

Rumour has it
Has half-inched the ice bucket
There’ll be no oyster party
No biscotti
No coffee
Not very soothing
Is it?

Added heat

As the sheepskin preachers
Bless their balls
The treads of strippers’ slippers
Bite like summer hornets
And cornets fanfare
A bit too sharp
A bit too picky

As the farmer’s hands
Make hay with
Unseemly dreams
Of Rene stir sweet
And creamy
In cups the size of
That take the

As the dockers ask
Stick of rock cock?
Their carved visages
Blisters on the vista
Guarding the coal shed
Double locked and

As the haze
Glazes these chickens
Down the road
The load of the situation
Becomes like buns
Soft and

Thursday, 27 June 2019

Barbed Wire

The barbed
Wire salesman,
Approached the
‘Lighter than air,
Stronger than whisky,
Cheaper than dust.’

For keeping
Cattle from
Other cattle.
In wild western
Spiked steel they trust.

In the Somme they
Thrust upon.
On the prison wall,
On the railway bridge,
In camps,
Where heads and souls
Are bust;
‘Lighter than air
Stronger than whisky
Cheaper than dust’

Head Office

Close by
Carriage C
Chris calling
Clinton Cards
Head office
Can’t corral

If the branch
Has no power
They aren’t trading
Pounds per hour
This quarter
Chris wonders
If these people
Ought to
Have power
Robotic semiotics
At the
Counter productive
Calls conclusion
With a “Fucks sake”
And pounds
The empty seat in front

Tuesday, 18 June 2019

Workplace - A Bosnian Tanka

At the edge they stood
Assumed positions as if
It was workplace but
No place for neighbours with guns
To bury neighbours with none

The Godfather of Dole

His language used to be industrial.
Then it were desperate,
Now it's academic.

His heart,
Closed and blackened,
Like the slag-heaped upon
Bits of pits which
Dig bits of
Physical ticks that twitch
And conflagrate
And agitate
The propped nature of
His strong fragility,
His hard sinewed inability
To comprehend,
What they call
The end.

Wheeled monuments
Astride the landscape,
Like rugby league
Heads down grafting,
Huge shoulders strain,
To scrum the earth,
Extract the ball,
Pass it on
From theirs before,
Who've passed it on
From theirs before,
Who'll pass it on
To theirs no more.

Stick a miner's hat on
The policeman’s baton,
The excessive force
From the perspective
Of a skewed directive.
Game no more.
Faith no more.
Work no more.

Red cabbage blood spots
On the grey scale pitch.
Tip buckets filled
For battered pride n’ chips.
Legs set, backs bent,
Arms out for the onslaught.
Give blood,
Play rugby,
Play war.

The crowd that
Engaged and
Doffed caps to
Hand-offs and
Are now enraged,
And off caps for
Hand outs,
For lives back.

This is Northern
Back-breaking music.
This ain't no
Wilson Picket song.
This tune's 33 year-old
Played at 33 revolutions P.M.
By The Godfather of Dole.

Wake up Maggie,
I think I've got something to
Say to you…

Sunday, 16 June 2019

Queen Ham Pop

(All fun in The Sun)

As queens take each other on
Draught style
The most boring Geordie we’ve ever met
Regards the revellers
Middle aged

In t’ times of their lives

Solid types in liquid dresses
Glamorous girls and
Dance floor mixers
Wi’ ‘I’m not gay or owt’ lads
On amyl nitrate to the karaoke
Tongues the texture of suede

In t’ Bradford on the tiles

Between bouncers
Flouncers and nails
Long lashes and fake knockers
The adverts on the telly scroll
Ham Sandwich
Ham Sandwich

Wednesday, 12 June 2019

Prize Plum - A Tanka

The Eton tosspot
Politics lecture does fade
Into lunacy
As the plum is popped from the
Gob of this simpering tit

Friday, 7 June 2019

Abutted Toast

Half cut
Points abut
Like council meeting minutes,
Or unlucky sods
Who bump
The big man
On the the way
To the bogs.
In the back of the head
It seems sincere,
But they’re all
Out front
Round here.

For Lviv

In West Ukraine
a blue crane
lifts the barley
from the guts of the town.
In this accident of geography
she found the only puddle in the city
and made one hell of a splash.
Blonde and pleated,
tall and static,
a well trod speaker’s corner
she stood.
Her hometown was a
Bureau de Change
above a laundry room.

She could
not have the patience
of the flower seller.
She did not believe
in the sound of the sea.
The hurricane from the away end
blew the crosses from the hilltops
into her psychology,
blew the fuel from the reservoir
and filled her stomping ground.
Statuesque she daily flung
her concrete words ballistic
against the amassed and fascistic.

To mark the tenth anniversary
of her death,
football scarves were laid.
A small boy all neat and auburn
offered his historiography:

Fuck your vile corrupt 

Spat and turned
Into the café he burst
already old enough to drink
5 star Hararava
lit up his cigarette,
eyeballed the old patriots in the corner
who ran off
handing their beer money
to the beggar woman in the street.
He bowed toward her stomping ground
and sniped:

Never admit defeat!

Wednesday, 29 May 2019

Hip Sheep

The man
In the Clapton Tracksuit’s
On the blower
The progressive regressive atmosphere
Here’s no grower
Where a blooming
Girl with the public smile
Describes it for us for a while
All loon clobbered in obvious style
Prescribes it zone 3
2 mile
As much as they need electricity
To power this eccentricity
They google authenticity
On the outskirts of the city
Stroll on
Push through
Don’t pull over
Where provincial hipsters
Move much slower

Sunday, 26 May 2019

Funeral Parlance - A Tanka

Jesus! Came the news
He shot himself in the foot
So he couldn’t have
An open-toed sandal at
His own funeral. Scandal.

Saturday, 25 May 2019

The Fug on the Fringes

The sun was the colour
Of piss on chrome,
Of marigolds in baskets,
Of marigolds in sinks,
Of lager
in the last flat roof pub.
The riotous fug.

Al limped in.
He’d worked in Bloomsbury,
before the concrete set in.
There was a moment
When 50% cotton,
50% polyester,
Felt like silk on skin.
He was made of XS,
But took a XL knock-off
Ralph Lauren in white.
The lash.
Bog rolls on string.

They’d got their Sunday’s caught
in the zip of the afternoon.
Kev of Mancunia,
was double cross.
‘Av shot people for less’,
Would not leave it out.
Till Lydia,
Cut his throat with that look.
‘Missed Frank earlier’
She said out the side of her mouth.

Al thought:
‘I don’t need to miss this place
to know that they were there.
I took photos of fairies
in the willow by the canal,
when I walked me dead mum’s dog.
Did you see them?
Do you even care?’
Another version of him
walked the awful meadow
of dead tree stools,
bar mat lilies,
unpolished brass,
and lino grass, unkempt
and took the sharp step
down to the gents.
A patchouli bottle,
salvaged from Mum,
Holloway, early 70s
raised to his undamaged nostril,
veiled the stench.
Eyes to the heavens,
He’d daily threw
and was home,
Somerset 1922.

He flicked his thinning overgrowth,
nicked his finger
on the crack in the safety glass
And gave his lips some rouge.
He tied a Help The Aged
ladies scarf, tight.
Thoughts came like
pretty girls on crutches,
with glossy dogs, then
in flaxen highs,
with dandy handsomes
all camomile lawn laid.
The fug of the day.

The fruit machine flashed back.
Fellow nymphs,
gambolling through beck and field,
were fellow scrimpers,
gambling through Sky Sports racing.
John Maynard Keynes
would have had a
good-to-firm field day.
Cornflower pens
behind ears.
A horse named Ripp Orf ran the 2:15.
Kidneys processed the chop.
Al raised his Chianti coloured conk
and silently declared:
‘A damn fix, unfair!
In all my time recorded,
such power, such grace
should not go unrewarded!’

The vape was opiate.
the insults, appropriate.
The expression
On Dave’s dog’s visage.
The brawn by the pawn shop.
Salute tattoos on the arms of Ian.
All soaks, masquerading
as functioning human beings.
The sadness in Al’s jade eyes,
named each:
‘That ghastly prick’,
as the fug of the day came in again,

had a perfectly working
washing machine,
but preferred the launderette.
Odds-on there was a
gender mix-up in under-garments,
or something to that effect.
Meaning he was cubicle confined
To pass the Danish export flat,
else the question;
He dared to be asked,
by none of these oafish oiks.
The lash.

Last month, he’d arrived
on his import flat screen,
at The Danish Girl on ITV 3.
It made his year.
He was awake at 8,
to watch the re-run
of Match of the Day 2,
The Arsenal’d won and
time and talk had to be passed on
and on and on and on.

He filed each nail,
each visit,
on the breeze block
in the bogs.
Spat on the toe of his Reebok,
polished it on his calf
and saw the reflected portrait
of a young man,
never aged.
Not half.
Vent Axia was magnolia fly-stuck where
The buttoned-up let loose.
Money was tight.
Unlike his arse,
From the pills, twice daily,
He took for his heart.
He sniffed up at
the narcissus ivy,
that fingered its way through
the window.
It wrapped his imagination
like the dress,
on the absinthe advert,
next to the dartboard.
It was a story full of holes.

The fug of the day came stronger.
With relief,
Vanessa tolled, unamused.
The crowd predictably
and life would be:
‘Same again love’
as both
Al and Algenon,
all too bastard knew.

Wednesday, 22 May 2019

Parliament Gob

In the gob that was parliament
The members of teeth sat
In shades of decay and stability
To bite down on an issue
That was fed to them
On a drunken night out
At 3am
The upper and lower chambers met
To vote for the words
To stay in or
Get out

Molars in the upper chamber
Waived lead ballot papers
The incisors were indecisive
But went with the majority
The canines bit sharp
And pointed at the opposition
The gold tooth at the front and centre
Suddenly felt uneasy and alone
The rest of the front bench
Who got all the attention
Were mostly false
And had nothing of substance to contribute
The committee on the right at the back
Had ground themselves down
To a hardened position
And any wisdom teeth
Had long been extracted

After the river of salivation
Crashed open the lips to the public
The rotten bastard at the back of the chamber
Sucked out any juice in the room
After the gob
Got together
And voted for the words to
Get out
Under the glare
Of the dentist’s chair
The experts decided
That the evidence
For such a statement
Just wasn’t there

Wednesday, 15 May 2019

The Sum of Some Parts

Some morning
Some way to go
Some let the car doors slam just because they can
Some overrate the sun’s rays and catch an edge and walk
Some think it is an advantage to shortcut through
Some other’s workplace to get to their patch of platform quicker
Some are wrong
Some walk in military step
through a gallery of tattoos who defend the bus stop as if life depends
Some acknowledge postmen and always bin their tab-ends
Some wheel around handbags on wheels as if life was in miniature
Some addicts queue their half-lives for the asos or the amazon
Some will never return
Some queue to sign on
Some queue to sign off ill
Some know what was in that bag by the lamppost
Some post no bills
Some skip round bins and say morning to the sweeper of the street
Some are leashed and shed their bark and walk on skitty feet
Some notice shoes
Some haircuts
Some trees
Some see the fella eating Tesco sushi for breakfast and ask what kind of prick is he

Some mum loses the plot
Some dad proudly carries the school project he’s made all on his own well done
Some doubt that life is a catwalk
Some wolf whistle to themselves
Some hold their phone in both hands ‘cos what they’re like round here
Some words are dubbed
Some words are dreaded
Some do will not have their hands free where they are headed
Some wonder how much phone conversation is ever really needed
Some struggle to race their tax breaks over sleeping police
Some really laugh when cars kick right off
Some skip the strewn fox legacy thinking it might be nice to wear a watch
Some really care about the typeface
Some get up when they want ‘cept on Wednesdays
Some with headphones can’t walk the racing line
Some have no chance of performance enhancing
Some up for general classification
Some free bikes fell off the waggon

Some paint lines round corners
Some are dress-code complimentary
Some vend
Some flyer
Some are out of order
Some engineer
Some time
Some get the papers get the papers
Some mouths like beermats
Some warnings about smoking
Some hemline round gas works where it all feels a bit floaty
Some unpruned weeds and prune skin bare
Some tans
Some factors
Some like the fact the work’s being done it’s the swearing she can’t bear
Some shit in the woods
Some in the grip of cans
Some fortify the whining
Some books on the wall
Some mummy’s hand
Some short skirt salivate
Some never ever indicate

Some pass the half hour quickly but wish they had the right sort of Rizla
Some know the blinking habits of every crossing on this patch and forget the names of every street passed
Some wear flip flops
Some wear beats
No-one wears a decent hat
Some high five
Many high viz
Some genuinely don’t care if it rains but wish they hadn’t stepped in that
Some will never be called the space cowboy and are really fine with it
Some argue in the shop
Some can spare a little change
Some pretend to not
Some can’t recognise when it’s all over
and don’t know when to stop
Some can’t recognise when it’s all over
and don’t know when to stop
Some can’t recognise when it’s all over
and don’t know when to stop.