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.

When We Fall We Thunder

In our black and tiresome writ,
our right to work kicks back,
aches our whack, takes 
our breath in seams. We’re grateful
temp’ry, to not death walk,

candle shrouded, brow-beat n’ punished.
On rotten beams as bones we lean,
til we’re back with brand tattoos 
on strong arms, raising the alarm
‘cos under brace or baton,

When we fallwe thunder. Beware.
Our dust gets bloody everywhere.

Into every home we creep,
where fires burn, heart yearning,
fair’s all we seek. Cough a pittance ‘to
handkerchiefs you’d mek us wave.  
Grave-faced cage-encased, we drop beneath.

For you are tall, tower o’er us all,
brag dissidence decreed.
For warmth n’ life n’ industry we bleed,
face with bare fists drawn, y’ever growing
dusk swords drawn. Believe,

When we fallwe thunder. Beware.
Our dust gets bloody everywhere.

Saturday, 11 May 2019

Architect Gob

I wanna tell you;
All I have to say.
But brick-house mouths,
Have no nuance, clout,
When they are
Built that way.

Tuesday, 7 May 2019

For Rafa (with the London Magpie Group)

we sing with
voices hoarse
and forever
we’ll be singing.
Don’t say
your reign
has run
its course
when its only
just beginning.
¡Por favor qu├ędate!

Baby Formula

Baby formula

The amount 
Will struggle 
To live
Is equal
To the number 
Of fucks
I give