Thursday, 10 June 2021
Wednesday, 5 May 2021
The Fluer de Lys sing a version of Circles, as her
long lens snapped at his. I didn’t put on my best for
this kiddy shite, the world is round the corner and man,
I want to hear the thud and bounce of ball on wall, an’ all
your doings are getting me soaked.
In this game, pigtailled charm, don’t cut it. You can
cast your heart if you like, but my trainers are spanking, this is
an orbit, in which I won’t admit, I want to glow too.
But, in these lines of best-fit, chewing on the words of others,
just makes me spew.
How’s life in the smoke he said? I said, follow me –
We’ll greet the ex-drinker blagging a tab outside the boozer.
It’s all the aftercare he’s got. Where the old boys talk of when
Georgian was council, and the Irish pubs spilled out.
We’ll filter up the park, where those with gardens, write letters
about those without. We'll bbq another dying library.
We’ll trip the socially-cleansed churchyard, where the
scaffolders stopped spitting on the homeless when the clips
ran out. God, as ever, said nowt.
We’ll laugh at the bike-locked slippers outside the mosque, as
the fella off the telly downs a miniature before the bus. There’s
nowhere to sit these days for that amber buzz.
We’ll refresh the commemorative flowers wilting on the site of
another stabbing, on Supper street, by the café elite.
We’ll sidle the queue on benefit day, snaking the same
stretch as a baker's dozen estate agent's. It’ll take five minutes.
We’ll add up fag packet road closures, times by cycle lanes, equalling
a fine of 65.
We’ll picture the Prime Minister’s old house lying canny
in a row.
We’ll gentry-push towards the Emirates, past her cries for a quid, past
another ex-record shop, past our masters in high-viz.
For tender is the bid, they’ll tweet about who’s won.
We’ll ask the support officer about community, they'll say –
you’re in Islington now, son.
Friday, 23 April 2021
Friday, 16 April 2021
Tuesday, 30 March 2021
make it clear / they call it chaos
a wounded deer on the straight road
though the pines. low on fuel and signal.
crows survey the failing light. burger sauce
on a national trust map.
it is not
confusing / complicated / hard to navigate /
or make sense of / it is
straight forward /
we are not in chaos /
we have turned sharp right
you know of those / who drove it that way
your job is to make them
Wednesday, 24 March 2021
These warnings, are trusty
The workers are tired,
trapped with absolute terror.
Touchy wardens, are they.
Toyed with; artists, truly
taxed, worried and torn.
Try whimsical, after ten
totalitarian weekenders, a thousand
totalling wind-ups, against tinsel
titled wankers all tucked-up
toasty, within allibaster towers.
Theiving, wherever. All tokenistic.
Triumphing worthy altruistic tendancies.
Trust. We’re all tuning
to whatever airways, trading
tik with any tok.
Tories will always try
to wantanly alienate, to
totemically wrest, auto-tune tribalism,
top-down widespread allied tabiod
toss, whenever attitudes tire.
This, when actual tradespeople
turn willingly against themselves,
taking whatever acid treaties
they will accelerate tomorrow.
Think why, allus this.
Treat without all thoughtfuness
these words - and these
three-line whipped and tyranic
tuchusleckers will always triumph.
These warnings, are trusty.