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

Friday, 17 April 2020

The Architect - A Book Title and Other Media Cut-Up #4

The architect's craft prospers
across the pond, alright. 

He closes the metal polish tin, 
sinks the rye, 

tips his small felt hat to
the long mood that looms. 

As calling birds
weed out the soft centres, 

the hive war's blank havocs
labour under cold dot tests. 

He buys a website: governmentmanspocketnutmeg.neveragain

He writes: Book the Summer Motel. 
Book the terrible flights. 

He finds the 'country girl' cover, live. 
He finds that sketchy neon superheroes

do the minimum. 
He writes: This Life is Wearing

Not a haiku #71

You've not read Pre-Tend?
Should read Pre-Tend. He's very
good this time of year.

Poli Tanka Walk

A walk down the street
Is akin to politique
The left's fine with us
The right we know all about
Beware that shifty middle

Thursday, 16 April 2020

Gobwork Clock

Brace yourselves three times a day.
Do not wait for an appointment.
Salivate at maximum rate.
Don't buy mouthwash.

These socks will knock their ownselves off. 
This badge is kicking it right fucking out.
This hat is not a communist threat.
This protest is not a tick, cock.

This is not a wind-up.

These shoes may be bourgeois affectation,
But these teeth are mobile factories,
These fillings are miner's craft, 
This floss is weavers' work, 

This dance is diff'rent. 

Handed words tonguing flyered gums, 
Petitioned thoughts that breech, 
The dam of speech from
This damn mouth.

Clock it. 
This movement is fucking knockout. 

Midnight Cowboy

Kids across the way
In a Polish sort of way 
Are doing
What twenty years ago say
We did parky with
Sparks and swears
Your Mam jokes
Stokes us back
To youth
Tough on the out
Soft on the in
Behind tins
Near midnight bins
Are memories
To the midnight smoker
The exoticly familiar
To your doorway
Pint sized clans
Brim with daft
And those who'd have it

Wrocław 2019

Clap tanka

As Maureen thinks it's
Monday now pans over used
Give an eight o' clock
An avian migration
Makes a V with wooden spoons

Wednesday, 15 April 2020

Take me Back

Take me back
To when the bands’ width was narrow
Cheeks were sharp and faces sallow
When the oars
We rowed in calmer waters
Were not for sticking in
And the points seemed less sticky then
Where colours were nailed
Where bouncers were nails
Where paint was on nails
Where walls were adorned
With paintings not arguments
Where serious words were forgotten
And song lyrics were remembered
We were made of rubber
And bounced off pavements
We stretched our necks
And necked in stretches
Were stretchered off
To standing ovations
When the game was simple
Before they changed the rules
And took our haircuts
Replaced dancing shoes
With grafting boots
Swapped the breeze with
Cares cut from a heavier cloth
So take me back
To when the cap still fit
Pints were pocket sized
And life was a piece of piss

Leg Up

He’s got a Dragon Stout
Bottle top in his pocket
Had a leg up in life
But he can’t
Cock it
Had the inch wide
Vent side
Done up to the top with
Coke in rum
Coke in rizla
A French parted
Saturday night
Of a rocket
Had the steel comb
Mirror shine
Mary Quant locket
Had a soul step peacock
In and out the shop he
Had a leg up in life
But he can’t
Cock it

The Harrow Cries of the Public Cats Tanka

Cough up the hacks the
Harrow cries of pub lick-cats
Lead on the snoop's list
Ne'ers fishing for meaning hooks
Read 'till they lose their herri

Tuesday, 14 April 2020

Ah Miss the 'ills

Ah miss the' ills
Their tawny sound
Ah miss the brill
That lamps on sods
'Neath 'brellas of sups
Ah miss the thrill
Of bartered
Pints back 'ome
T' tarns and torn
An' ev'ry
Witch does tell
Of mem'ry served
While ten past
'Tis swell

(First Published in Pondweed - Greenteeth Press)

White Cat Black Roof (Three Courses with Katerina Gogou)

I got up there late, usual. 
Even on time, I'd still be late. 

There were stories that I wasn't up to. 
The sky was ok. 

My get up, though spot on, bold as fuck, 
was shot down without a word.

The factory extractor bore loud holes
in either small talk or deep and meaningful. 

There was nothing in between. 
She meant, pointing at my keen ears. 

A view was pointed at somewhere. 
She leant on, I sounded off. 

See the fence and wire and them and us and there is not enough cabaret up here

and down there we're all dead? I'd armed myself with a rusty ladder graze

to pick me off the floor, in case. 
To be clear, her address was bang-on,

a suitable finger at a sarcastic bird,
in just and only communicado

and there were no war planes that day. 
Was that terrible? Fuck knows. 

The streets were pretty shit. It lasted forever, I got hammered, I knew nowt.

Learned shitloads though. 
The coffee, though spilt, was alright. 

The liquor, never enough. 
And I came away stuffed. 

The entire meal, was the stoppage time between cig'rets

and she fucking loved cig'rets. 

Monday, 13 April 2020

Ah Miss the 'ills - Urban Version

Ah miss the streets 
Their brawny sound
Ah miss the drill
Of freight train plods 
'Neath trails of planes
Ah miss the quench
Of hard earned
Pints back then
And fuss and torn
An' ev'ry
Snitch does tell
Of mem'ry served
While air and health be near and clear
'Tis swell

Saturday, 11 April 2020

Sausage Exorcisms Tanka

Resplendent organs
Sharp in the hunting pulpits
Decree with sausage
Exorcisms for the staunch
And that's as far as we've got

Friday, 10 April 2020

Wartime Bullshit

Pick for Britain.
Britain picked.
Now look at it.

Run to the Mills

The diploma mills did some light leafleting Adjusted by knobheads Forever were the dial analysts They cried for presents recognition money something They flared against these narrow-eyed optimists They plan hatched Chicken-ran under speed & collectively gathered their wrists