Sunday, 5 July 2020

10,000 Spoons part 2

10,000 Spoons when
all you need is 2...

Fill a glass half full with beer
top it liberally with trepid tears.

Use used roll for bunting, 
memes for fruit machines.

Throw shoes at perceived loved
ones, piss all over your own floor.

In cash, withdraw all wages, use
them for the pages for your next 

novel graphic, penned in sans-serif xeno-bic equivalence. Set them on fire. 

Carve the cross of St. George all
over your face with the shattered 

remains of your own existence.
Do your own Spoons. Raise a plastic.

Friday, 3 July 2020

Tuesday, 30 June 2020

Thursday, 25 June 2020


Same question everyday:
Did you see that video of Trump? 

Is it his funeral?
Confederate men
being folded and burnt
at a wake of ten? 
The melting of guns by
women in burkas
to a sarcastic lament to
fries and cheeseburgers? 
Policemen in skirts and
severing in streets by
crowds representing
the non cis percentage? 
black womxn holding 
'loft the appandage? 
News foxes bagged and
thrown Mississippi? 
Oil taps turned off at the
new White House squat? 
Babies taking away
The last KKK? 
Where there are no
tears shed? 

Then I won't be watching.

Tuesday, 23 June 2020

ameal aday

a mealso
richyou could
only eat
it once buere 
blanc cheques writ
in truffle
blood reduced 
day cooking
wine lay with
the motion™️
under the

the ablecanes
their cards & 
traded pub
& manlay
in waiting
staff under
from the kitsch
annette to
the gravewhile

were ready
with salt are
you hungry
love wasthe
carline straight
a long the 
who opened
doors forthe 

& very
thirstof times
laid thekids™️
to rest in
der lies the
wishing it
couldbe some
any foo
king funny

Friday, 19 June 2020

Double Tanka Down

you don't remember
do you she wet eyed asked again
in that case I have
forgotten three times a day
each day for the last three years

he saw his record 
lay before him as the road
that lead to and from
the goldfish sieve factory™️
it was black and white alright

Wednesday, 17 June 2020


Blakey-Come-Lately Biff! pulls the limbs off thatta crawling boy Bang! goes the moth mise-en-scène in the destroy Kiss the bulb and Pow! lights out hold on enjoy

Saturday, 13 June 2020

The Same Soppy Northern

typical brazenorthern
brace of lemoneyes
swagsmiler cheekbrass
dotingtest of porkfat
ripling nail charm
bythe schoolskip
knowthat brace
let himin cozwhen
likepiss ona

Monday, 8 June 2020




Thursday, 4 June 2020


Triumph > when we walk that hill,
when we walk that hill, 
to a red Vaux beer on a box car top. 

Acclaim > for we're off the upper
in the three point rain,
waiting tables turned.

And the striding pain is just a sprain.
And the tracking's listing,
the steering's shot, but look

*check the sideways lingo* Listen.
We'll be high on tops of keys
we'll drift in green and lush and

split these pick beak bills, thus:
we'll steer ourselves shifty, feed
ourselves fifty, stay hungry and dig, 

we'll Leatherette lick the postal
order toward a brighter one. 
We'll save the cow today.

On the island of small victories, 
sacred moments come.
Peak attitude is sheer collective

and the view up here,
shall earn ourselves
some handsome. 

Wednesday, 3 June 2020


spit that dummy of guilt
it stops us calling out

switch our phones
from echo mode
pull liking fingers out

power up and ask
why we sat inside ourselves

outdoors it's going off

did we ever learn in school
black lives matter too

or have we just forgot? 

Saturday, 30 May 2020


The shiny minded
in this mangled moment
empty smashed packets from
shorts too short for their own pockets.
Even empty bottles have weight
and break and blow where
everything shows and
flows as it's already
quarter past far
too late. 

Monday, 25 May 2020

Hypocrisy Tweet

Gait of bacon stoops the tannoy for the next world guff. In awe he thinks we are. Pat rules screech the nation. We stitch scraps.
He cleans up down stepstools to an unlimited. Jags off, fuckem shouts. 'Lectric window, lobs it out.
A1 kids catch the bag.
This our cat?
Never, lads.

Thursday, 21 May 2020

Tuesday, 19 May 2020


I love the look of fire alarms. 
Wink waiting for the fire
that plastic look of buttoned cheek, 
shall realise that the rich
even this petty peak, 
have stolen

Sunday, 17 May 2020

The Long Walk Home

There was no football today. 
Time is now a prize to be eaten.

Alive, are the curtain twitchers, 
ounting cold coffee cups, bars on

heaters in rhythm with the vidi printer.
I'm lucking past indoors, where I know,

inside feels like winter. A porch. 
She keeps her head down there.

I’m past fixed set frowns. A torch. 
He hides his record in there, where

mat painted post is scared of itself 
and she is simply laying down.

The 'ee!! Iife eh? commonality adverts,
as if life was Coronation St. 

Crumb confinement for solitary some.
There's somehow sick, on this beat. 

A crouching builder Slavic saddened,
a man fills an already full bin.

Magpies on chips and dogs over
three-legged loved cats, fight. 

I chew through garage lands where
Tesco keeps the tree bag flying,

Jason keeps Lambrettas, 
a geezer kept his sleeper, 

until yesterday. His bird will sing.
I'm past bawdy bars, behind boarded bars, 

where they knock, but they don't ring.
No more time, gentlemen please.

We're still 1 up, before 5 minutes of extra
and 5 down, after 1 minute of closing.

Time is tight, round here.



Saturday, 16 May 2020

A Book Title and Other Stuff, Cut-Up #5

Caffeine, was like a strut down
Fear Street. The hunger joy of the

dog volunteer whistling Who songs
was no act, on the way to the

Bosnian verses Blake match. 
Past that old brown statue,

but he wouldn't snoop for
all the pubs in Newcastle. 

Kick him in the Peanuts Me Old Son! 
Grow your own Ball! Good Play! 

- flying down the wing, until felled like a
Corona Stone. On 8 minutes, a booking. 

At half-time: There's Class Lasagne, 
Bird Pies, The Benefits of Charlie,

Hey, You Ate All the Glue! 
The future saw your turn 

with the fixer end the fun. 
It ended one-all and no one won.

Friday, 15 May 2020

A Fortune

The hamsters
drop their
then march back
on the wheel


Saturday, 9 May 2020

… and he reached into his tin of stablish mints

Desk jock
Key string puller
Of phantom limbs
Spelled out his score
Well up on the language of war
Well up on the language of war
Well up on the language of war

Friday, 8 May 2020

A Letter from Anthony Hill

The arrogants climb the hill,
soily mob footed. 

"We allus have it" 
They chant in unison. 

As a result, some fuck off
to join another can. 

Can sycophants are atop a' ready, 
drinking the liquor's arse and dance. 

In a shallow 'neath a cross, 
The dilettantes offer a toast

"To the cod psychos". Connected,
they eat aspirations and finger

for an excuse to bin the lecture off
and forget the where of

the paper on recyclability stance. 
Happening to be ants. 

And I'm much more not
than you. Respair and

wig out chaps,
with thanks. 

Thursday, 7 May 2020

Some Crumby Tanka

Say some built my box
From what's frittered ego crumbs 
And it's not dead good
I can get back in easy
If someone 'live' nods I should

Tick Tock Tanka

The clap bag's emptied
To crumbs sewn scattered for old
Machines tear new ones
Clocking packet masks from the
Fifth biggest to the second

Wednesday, 6 May 2020

As He'd have it, Marijne the Lady of the Flies

When software went regional
and lost its own map, he asked,

"Can I kiss you horrendously?", all hyped-up
and disorganised. Nothing worse than a part-time 

perfectionist with only half an idea, shame-faced and satin-eyed, "You can be as wild and free as

you want to be, but it doesn't mean you're any good!"
It left his lips in bits.

(I dunno, I just plough it out).
She, breaking down the clown barrier,

"I need a compass" said, "and all I get is bricks". (it was then asked that minutes passed).

Over a briefcase, staring, he tripped,
"It only works if you keep an eye on it" 

Her reply, proper dry, "Cry, it's good for you". 
(I really don't like men to smell of anything). 

He store out his window, with a half-eye on the blue inanimate that scares to rust

the clearing in the woods. Fingers in ears, 
he drew cartoon dynamite and blew,

"If only we didn't have flies", so camply angry, he'd let the dog do all the talking.

(You were always in the favour of the lion tamer). The truth under a roof, and final.

In this streuth and strewn, he had the thought of selling coal in the north, but settled shallow,

to compose a ballad for the lead singer of Salad. It played heavy and unnecessary, and was

obviously shite. 

Monday, 27 April 2020

Another Right Royal Tanka

Give over at least
One palace/bed it's simple
Wartime language stops
'Cept these are field hospitals
And do not do not do not

Saturday, 25 April 2020

Nirvana's First Release

with plastic duck-necked clout
germ free on the in
blue on the out
for all the face squealers
easy peelers
into your arms

feel us

Career Path

Job title:

Leaf Blower
Royal Correspondent


➡️Public speaking on the necessity of the giant wasp
➡️Conversion course in oil to hot air without sound loss
➡️Upskills for when something trivial crops, a tiny gust, to pop
➡️Weapons grade in invoicing cost
➡️Ability to show established dead matter who is boss

Wednesday, 22 April 2020

Kaffeeklatsch on Sedamplatz

Show yourself, you callous fuck… 
was his prod to the purposely blurry. 

How much the mostly guys, are costing us? He gob asked and head shook

to the smell of burning laughter as
another pointless shower counts the cost

of the part spun, half done brainwash. 
His requirements were notes on a pizza box 

and a dry cigarette, his adamants
felt the ease of their flaneurial disease

and in his boys' broken down urchin shirt, 
he saw bistro chairs snap over contract

with the air of permanent flair, normally reserved for the undeserved out there.

Keep off the Brass

In a brass neck romance,
you self-wind out
and then back in again,
'cos your glory morning
Seb Coe technique's
of more peak import
than fucking anything.

Tuesday, 21 April 2020

On the 451

On the 451 pieces of '81
Garfield shoots across the cornslips

The spark of the millionth
crash causes pot stir

as the Wednesday Whitmans
scope strip horrors in a blur

The sleepers cover faces
at Orient vs Rangers

and the programme note reads
1st page: I'm gonna miss me

Saturday, 18 April 2020

Candid Dates

Vote for the candid
Date the leaders who aren't that
Into the crude noise
Of their bonce
For once

Late Night Momentanka

Love pickled chilli
Cig'rets poetry of heft
And redder wine left
Crap flapjack self-laced with choc'lot
All else can fuck right off