Saturday, 16 October 2021

natalie number one

the fatalist brutality of the

actual actuality 

of the collar done 

nattily is



Tuesday, 12 October 2021

For Jerry, a Poem


There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, threadbare cared for, thrust

in a bear-like, where we lip up the summer,

hoard the winter, where the one in gets supped. 


There's some corner of Islington that will

forever be, sláinte trimmed

regardless of footfall or football or wobbly form,

that picks affectation warm, 

in shouts to the brim.


There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever, be braw-tale anointed,

unthinned, informed, dovetailed and pointed, never skirting the grim.


There's some corner of Islington that will

ever be, tourist info, London-list proud, 

way beyond Engand, library-brained, for all

newborns and all newcomers.


There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, victorious, despite the Gunners,

breezing wheesy through a landlady's bain that

loves anny televised sport and hates anny rain.


There's some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, play it nice and cool son, nice n’ cool

where a bar workers’ fall-breaker later

is the exception that proves the rule.


There's some corner of Islington, that will

ever be, a game of stool chess, 

the ice-driven politik,

learnt of friends and gentleness,

with a hand on arm and a slop of a kiss,

where they'll turn it up a bit,

where they'll play the drum slowly,

where they'll play the fife lowly,

where they'll pour him a pint as they lower him down.


There’s some corner of Islington that will

for ever be, Jerry’s, where sorrow may always be drowned. 


Tuesday, 28 September 2021


the halfscarfwankers biscuitarsed drinkfast to pasts while brass fucksoff in onetwofive paced plasticclass grasps at presents wrapped in clart and regard for footballdoneproperly has justa bout phonedoneinagain which

ain't too smart

Tuesday, 21 September 2021

Monday, 6 September 2021

a theatre of bream on a bike



nice scarf she said

100% synthetic I said

like jubilee doors squeezed

from tubes to stop the falling 


queen that bloody pleabargain yeah

the review read four star and

the unleaded pencils tookover

the spencertracy takeaway 


noted the tuesdaynight breakout

grooved the spinningdicks cut south

waxing their extraneous gout

borders as guardas and pandered


nuns pistolwhipped the tripdown

the lane called st louis memory

sweetjazz had lost its charm

the theatreposters were all tory


the largeman in the toilet was

offering a goodkicking for a

quid sunderland snakes played an

eightbot game named fuckthehumans


the bikerace was won by a smartdog

who couldn't even spell the warondrugs

listless fuckers rocked frocks

with those who chose pegs fornoses


as the callingcurtain closed she shot

her glancingblow fucking sue me groovy

and the mice in his glassjaw

bared their arses to the world