Wednesday, 24 April 2019

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Tuesday, 23 April 2019

A Phrase I Hate

A phrase I hate

When talking ‘bout his chosen job,
He said “I literally fell into it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tom Daley”

So I let him off, a bit.

Sunday, 21 April 2019

Canvas Houses

In canvas houses
All clever thin
We write and blow
From out to in
Till mercy ships in
Docks the lash
For now the still
    Or so we think
As wind will soon as
Screw us up and
Pick us for the bin
Then we realise
We don’t decide
The how or when
Of anything

Black and Shite Friday

Black & Shite Friday

Clock on to this:
The wind behind
Black Friday sails,
Stinks no end,
Human rights fail.

If your gender
Makes you sick,
This time of month?
Tough shit!
You’ve worked
12 straight
Docked toilet breaks?
‘S not good enough, is it?!

No fucks are given
For mouths you feed,
As rows of yous
Top table wait,
There’s none
For your plate,
My mate.
Fuck off home,

Hands off our crumbs,
You’ve zero hours and
Six strikes son,
Pros are nothing,
It’s all just cons.
The tannoy barks
This battery life,
Your card is marked
They’re watching you

Clock out to this:
The road to Wigan pier
Is set,
Graft three more
Without your pay, or
There’ll be no work
Tha’ ‘morrow, pet.
It’s workhouse rule,
It’s a life threatener,
Down Ashley’s
Detention centre.

Mark Coverdale

Sunday, 14 April 2019


‪There’s a dog the size‬‬
Of a large child
Sniffing ancient carpet
& builder’s boots
I’m breaking teeth
On scratchings
Where time & pride
Are in cahoots
They’re lap-topping
Down the local
& missing all the action
Their only words
Are Wi-fi passed 
Say it again
As before I have said
They’re keeping this pub
They’re keeping this pub

Tuesday, 9 April 2019


Penfold manifested
Mickey Mouse iron vested
With a smattering of Latin
To give their intelligence a flattering
Political malignants
Facilitating ignorance
Since 1993

Unity Parks It’s Dog

Are cricket games
In headscarves
Grandma cheering from
Her foldaway seat
To an ice cream van version
Of Beethoven’s Fur Elise

Are dad/son kick-abouts
When knee high to a grasshopper
Are Chardonnay laid down
Without the screw top stopper

Are where shiny new football tops
Kick empty tins
With names on backs that
Weren’t parlance
The last time ‘they’ won anything

Are a peaceful hours work
For the self employed outdoors
Are a peaceful hours kip
For the unhoused and unwaged

Are sniffing grounds
For the four legged waggers
For community support officers
For insta snappers snapping flowers
For skunk aficionado swaggers

Are where fertile roots grow
Where every colour is
Knowingly complicit
Where thoughts
Are rife
Where life’s
The soundtrack so
Leave the headphones at home
Take a book
And pay your local
A regular visit

The Visit

Carnations fail,
Where winds from
Pterodactyl wings

Cast open
Wasteland shadows,
In which through
Perished grass,
Thrusts this’ll
Beak of iron.

The cut up,
Is from seventy two below
To eighty four inch,
Which sticks out a foot,
Over which
We still trip.

Beady vultures
From crooked trees,
In petrified woods,
In Lowry skies
Watch strangle weeds
Round necks
Of equipment collapsed.
We try to revive and oil
This futility
Done for graft,
But it runs deep
This decay
It runs deep
This past.

It juts the death
Of industry gears
Buried heavy clay.
Looms large size.
Sleepers rot,
Ropes untwist,
Steeples plummet,
Stories mist,
Chains still bind though,
Just so you know,
Just a reminder.

Paint this scene
With tar brush;
There’s the
Works’ washed out,
Black and blue
In valleys grey,
Where carbon red
Streams ‘tween
Haunted rock and
Riven bed.

There’s death wash,
In the gobs
Of the forgotten,
The witch,
You thought was dead,

So force a whistle
Through blood drained lips.
Sit this desolate bench with
Plaque engraved
In memory.
Rest your broken backs.
Pull out your bait,
Pull out your corks,
For the end
For the final shift.

Look below,
Look beneath
How we’re judged,
Through the carved up
Way back home
We trudge,
While atop that
Parliament hill
They can’t see,
But they still sit,
Still judge.

Hide your children,
Hide your old,
Your pregnant,
Your ill from
Grave to cradle,
Under the
Yet to be climbed
And beware.

The time looms.
Like death,
The knock’ll come eventually,
For the inherently branded,
Tarred the same,
Carpet brushed
And long grass kicked,
Quietly fighting
Biting winds
And loaded fists
Just to exist.
No muscle move.
As colour drains
From frail faces,
Feeble mouths ask
If time is up.
Is it?
Once again,
Hush now,
It’s lights out,
For here
The visit.

Thursday, 4 April 2019

The Sort of Shit People say on Twitter - A Tanka

Mash’s bit lumpy
But hey, so’s life right? Maybe.
A bit of Twitter
Philosophy’s on me plate
Mate, join in, it’s all gravy.

Sunday, 31 March 2019

Trawler for Ash

Never let the frost bite.
It’s a smite.
But look at us like.
We’s bitten.
Between you and mes?
Fair seas.


The under arches
Of a Ford Cortina.
The rain lets in
Mark two, three, four-uh
This is the
Backwards world.
For which we
Are pourer.

Saturday, 30 March 2019

Masque of the Half Full Galss

And there they gathered
In darkened rooms,
Of wood and glass,
Masquerading as
Functioning human beings.
Places like this
Are great for blurring lines,
Of us and we and they and me.
Is it a community,
Below the disfuction room?
Is it a post-family necessity?
Is it below the tight belt
Of the name
Above the threshold?
At the hostelry
On the Cally Road,
You can bounce
But never leave.

Friday, 29 March 2019

Europe Still - A Haiku

Europe is not still
Forever active come what may
We’re still in Europe

Thursday, 28 March 2019

Sierra Nevada

When Sierra Nevada
Fell off the wall
The locals couldn’t believe it
At all
The aluminium and plastic
Hit one radge
Right between the imagination
And between the restless natives
Rested a beer brand badge
In gassy stasis
And his mind
Ran to the hills

Wednesday, 27 March 2019

Baldy Bastard Takes His Hat Off in the Pub

Baldy Bastard
Takes his hat off
Baldy Bastard
Needs a haircut
This life
Is getting thin
But this size
6 and 7 8ths
Has more swag
In it’s vantage spot
Than all yous lot
So together
Find your necks
Wound in

I used to get paid to cook for people

Everything I eat
Is pizza flat
It’s true that
Each within a variety of stages
Screened for knives
Or lack of dreams
Or imagination an’ that
But hands made these dishes
With too much chilli on it
So I win

Wednesday, 20 March 2019

Milking It

It’s a pile of chickens
The sun’s the colour
Of piss on chrome

Where there’s overproof
Of the underdog
Who cannot find its home

They’re outsourcing
The infighting there’s a
Claret barrack warning

Some boldly bowl
To backward go for
More sad cider mornings

Their preferred topping
Is the sleep in your eye
For their 99th balloon

Of brandy chances are
The spitfire suits are
Dry-cleaning up real soon

There’s a hole that’s drilled
In the silencer
Of your neighbour’s car

They give it one last coat
Of looking at it
Standing round the bar

There’s an inter-cover
Chevron arrangement
If you look two wine lists back

Where interstatial
Slovenly agents
Galvanise attacks

But brass they want us be
With tin tankard clinks
Like facts that lie that flow

Like piss in sinks
Where they die to cast
And where they tap to bend

Say misunderstandings
Have a long life
So be prepared to milk ‘em

Thursday, 14 March 2019


You can’t handle it
In eyes that could be yours
But yours
Are short-sighted
And the rest
And opposite

Skip lanes of ridden highways
To drop a measly
In a cup
Pretend there’s
Risk to your
Personal safety

I could right now
Draw that face
Draw up something
In debt
Move on

Tears in eyes
I’ve got a bus
I’m catching
I can reflect
There is no end of
There is no applause
One minute
Out of respect
There will be no singing
As tethers
Have a beginning

Tuesday, 12 March 2019


It’s a grey and blue freeze in here
Here it’s deja-vu number two
It’s seven pm
She’s lost her voice again
She’ll go for deja number three
There’s a point in here
In this freeze of grey and blue
That lost voices
No longer worth listening to

Sunday, 10 March 2019


Early kick off
I gaze the rainy window
Across the lane
Where the Sunday brunchers
Form snake like queues
Around the block
Play a ladder climbing game
Communist-era Poland queues
At the hip replacement joint
Aperol spritzers with babies
For hours
For quails eggs
On avocado
On walnut slices
An Instagram opportunity
Time waste it’s
Christ it’s
Whilst I’m
With the knockers
In the local
Who describe it thus
What the middle classes do
When left
To their own devices

Sunday, 24 February 2019

Barrel o’ the Same

When t’ beer’s
Bin poisoned
By medal-chested
Knights of the profane,
The consequence
Of inaction,
Is more barrel
O’ the same.

Wednesday, 20 February 2019

Soft Shoe Shuffle

The soft shoe shuffle
Of ghosts.
The grunt nosed trouble
For the most,
Who’re relying,
On drying
Dreaming of toast.
The parliamentary kerfuffle
Is nowt,
To those
Who are learn-ed,
Knowest most.

Tuesday, 19 February 2019

Football Shaped

When all we cared
Was kerby kick-abouts
When the world was football-shaped
When the Alsatian’s tooth
Was the proof
We knew
As today
The Earth was ruled
By those who’d
Have it flat

Sunday, 10 February 2019


It’s not
My fault
You’re a fucking nightmare
With your click
Tap heels
And straight hair
Cultural reappropriation
Has been
Going on
For years

Tabs Out

With a tab on
He contemplates
The tab behind the bar
He contemplates
The tabs in folders
He shoulders
The things
He should have done
To balance it up
The next drinks
Are one the smaller one

Saturday, 9 February 2019

The State of Homelessness

The state
Lies about the problem
They state
That the problem lies
With otherwise
And here lies the problem

And here lies the problem

Thursday, 7 February 2019

Wednesday, 6 February 2019

Find the Gap

Find the gap
Between your brain
And this platform

Crown Jewels

In towers high
The pension schemers
Steal your dreams
To satisfy their glutton

In banquet halls
They’re eating beef
While on your plate
The lamb is really mutton

So here we stand
Hand in hand
It’s these 2 points we’re sticking ✌️

‘Cos it’s hard to guard
Your own Crown Jewels
When they get
A Royal kicking

Tuesday, 5 February 2019

Blood Pumping Station #2

Those Dagger words
He folded
Within a thou of an inch
And slid them under
The loading bay shutter of
Blood Pumping Station

Those Dagger words
She’d scolded
Bypassed safety valves
Raised pressure
Caused critical waged warnings
In the guts
Of his boiler room

Those Dagger words
He hoped
Would miss the piss-taking
From the lads
On the night shift in his brain
He hoped
That maintenance
Would be round
To fix that soon

Sunday, 3 February 2019

The War on the Streets

In the lamp light,
The child’s chair was a dead dog.
In the mourning light,
The bench was a national flag.
The lines had been redrawn badly.

The sand bags gave direction,
As the plastic guard surrounded
The excavated grave.
An energy drink drained
Was a bus stop sacrificial.
The wheel-less bike on the railings
Was a protester,
Chained and silenced and unofficial.

The wrapper discarded,
Was a daffodil,
To mark the start of the callous spring.
Gum chewed and spat by the trigger-happy,
Made bullet holes in the street.
Scaffold clips were lobbed
By the grenadiers of progress,

As the plastic bag kept lookout
In the butchered tree,
Scavenging birds picked the vital bits
From the sickness of scene.
We were caged for our convenience,
And there was no stopping here.

Moss in cracks grew as insignia.
Ring pulls were
Dog tags in body bags,
Tab ends were bullet shells.
Parking tickets rained as
Punishment propaganda.
Communication boxes
Were kicked in and slogan sprayed.
The speed bumps lay
Cemetery straight.

The pigeon spikes saluted,
The empty import lager bottles stood at ease.
The Sally Army bin spewed the guts
Of conscientious objectors,
The DVD box sets that sat on walls,
Provided no subtitles at all.

The battle was timed and recorded.
Holed foxes cried last post.
As the waste lay on the border,
Green boxes rectangular with lids,
Laid bare the celebrations of victors.
Lampposts were clung to
In memoriam.
The wounded staggered
And doorway propped
And bodies lay everywhere.

In the half light,
In given ways,
Through oncoming traffic,
The blood was let.
Through social scrubbing,
Through community conflict,
Lest we forget,
If war is made of memory,
These streets are paved with now.

Sunday, 20 January 2019

Critical - A Tanka

There’s a gap in the
Market for some critical
Thinking the problem’s
Not the thought process it’s that
It’s all just market driven

Friday, 18 January 2019


She brogue-nosed the bouncer,
Then loafed against the bar.
She brown-aled the half glass,
Wi’ pin badge mouth,
Made 5 points sharp,
Each of them blue star.
She liner-eyed the terrace band,
She cut them down
With feathered looks then
Fringe flicked the excess.
These scarf-strangled chancers
Bored her daft,
An’ her Regal hit the deck.
Moves were made checkerboard,
By the eager to embed,
The red-haired queen kept
Hers buttoned down,
As her bottoms belled his head.
Wi’ elbows back,
An’ a dog tooth smile
Drew a smoke ring,
Stood her ground
And kept things done,
Not said.

Sunday, 13 January 2019

Nil by Mouth

Or south
No one quite
I’m tired
Like Kathy Burke
From her
And south
In Nil by

Saturday, 5 January 2019

The Art of Listening

The art of listening’s

To the man sat on the street
To the fan in their seat
The art of listening’s

The self-appointed
Cultural representatives
Have currency in their ears
Through the nose
It’s us
Who pick up the

Figureheads figure figures
Run their lines
Line their own and
Run their stones
Gather no

Fibbers fib
Fiddlers fiddle
Groups fill forms
Form fillers form groups
Pints get thinner
The art of listening’s

They spiel
We pay
We pay to view
Yet another 3 points

It’s killing us
When we cannot get
These points

In questionable times
This Groundhog Day
Is bleak on repeat
Is covered in

The art of listening’s