Tuesday, 13 December 2016

Last Christmas, I Made Me This Jumper

“Fucking Christmas again”
He says again, as he glances up
From the half-empty December calendar.
It's 4pm, the time that when,
Work Friday drinks chink near,
The chimes of import lager, to alleviate his fear.
Fucking Christmas party plans bounce off beige bureau walls,
On the day before, the annual bore
Of the office party scene.
Where the corporates play at love
An’ Guantanamo his dreams.
Where arrogance is currency,
The flock follow their profits,
Force the fun prescriptively,
‘Tween people that he hates.
“Fuck it” he thinks and walks on out,
Vowing to change his ways.

Trouble is see, to anger-up, close-down,
Fall-out with the world,
Is a waste of time and energy
And he doesn’t have much of that.
So with 5 gold pints and a spring in his step,
He walks on, thinks on, sleeps like a cat.

“Why get so annoyed?” - his morning thought
He doesn't have a telly - no ads to be bothered at,
He never trips down Oxford street – like a sheepish retail twat.
He likes Roy Wood, He likes The Slade,
He fucking loves The Pogues
So why take out the anger, on people he barely knows?
“Fuck it” he says (and he says that a lot), the day is fucking here,
Grabs last year’s Christmas jumper, runs out the door.

Skips past the annual pre-party pub he'd always go to,
To get steaming, get late, get to the do,
Succeed in getting punched
Fail to get fired
And regret it all ‘till next year.
He skips all that, smiles at a dog and feels good for a change.

Gets to the do, all decked out, orders a Bells,
Talks to Holly from accounts.
Shakes some hands, pecks some cheeks,
The usual Christmas jumpers are out:
Flashing reindeers, tinsel Jackson Pollocks.
Eschews the gloom, enjoys the room,
The menu boasting scallops.
He grins with his mithering manager,
With the same voice of Jane Horrocks.
Then horror hits! Gut hits the floor,
Forgets what all the joy is for,
His sweaty face, a picture of
One that has been walloped.
In the massive mirror, sees himself
Feels that he will collopse.
He's wearing last year's jumper! (Fuck)
T’ himself, his brain, it rollocks!
No frills, but hand cut, hand stitched letters
White on black
Which loudly spell out

cov451 (Mark Coverdale)

Tuesday, 18 October 2016

Oddball Faux Rock n' Roll Joe

Oddball faux
Rock n' Roll Joe,
Fiddles and picks
Orange pips
From teeth
Gnashed between
The 7th and the 8th,
On a lowly pew,
Wi' overpriced
IPA sips.

Get the surveyors in
To look at this,
It's drastic, mate.
Not the
Peeling ceiling,
It's the
Somehow free-wheelin'
With less than 5 bob,
In this half-packed
Afternoon rub-a-dub.

Scratchcard table propped
Goths in the corner
Stay away.
He's always
Ligging in the rigging,
But never
Til one day a fat
Rock tattooed fist
WILL put his scrawn

He once was Elvis.
His hands' wrinkles were
Filled with plaster dust.
Now they gape as
Openly as his gob an'
His barmaid directed lust.

With a hops n' scotch stumble,
Waves in the phrase:
"To hell with this!"
All knowing that:
This cider black sticky floor,
For tomorrow,
Be his, for a bit,
Once more.


Cov 451

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

The Lasses Stand Many

The lasses stand many.
Have done for yore.
Amassed, aplenty
They've macked,
They've tacked.
These forestry sentinels.

'Till greedy wind
From Establishman
Without pause (!) causes
A callous decision,
Which grows on
This beating heart.

But! Such pulsating show,
Not beaten yet,
Wind can be farmed
With natures deft.
Ne'er be still
This wicked,
Cutting breeze.
For mighty ant
Rufuses heed.
For it's one of millions
In this bosom,
Can put a stop to
Self-promotion and
Eat the foundations
Of high and mighty
Tree-housed nations,
Shift fragile twigs,
Build the nests for
Brethrens' bones
And repair this
Narcissistic wooden

"Las" in Polish means "Forest"
Search this:
It's incredibly important.

Tuesday, 9 August 2016

Pointlessly Perfectly Pleasantly Pervades Purpose

He holds the object of his lust too close
When 'companied by his closest mate
Who feel the distance at this boring point
In an pointless pub and an England friendly.

The two feint like Gazza leaving patronising tones in their wake
And the defensesless on her backside,
For although
It is unsaid,
But all about that.

Mordern lads' with media hair
And bench-pressed weights to compare
Until their brotherly love is back
To being spread thinly like Philadelphia cheese on the gluten free toast of life,
By the Infadel of superficial beauty unavailable at 0% interest.

Preened cats having a six grand pork scratch
Pondering and trying before buying
The sap
In a badly converted forest
Where wolves stuck together once, honest
And only hunted when nessecary.

One confused woodpecker.
Two plaid-shirted loggers.

Sunday, 31 July 2016

Wembley Way '66

Ah, this old London town.
The music,
The clubs
The girls!
We have 'em back 'ome
They won't change my life.
This just bloody might...

Peak out a window
Wembley way:
"Staindud speciaw!"
Paper boy shouts.
'Pon the grass a boy of 9
Picks a pack
Of Players no 6.
Does the shake then
Arms out spitfire style,
Circles his cohorts,
Shouting "England!"
In his shorts.

Step outside,
This place, Christ!
More popular than Jesus!
As fan-sized ants,
March the street,
To their queen's

Wembley's towers:
Like 2 Pop-art legs wi'
Union Jack suspenders,
Straddle this
Royal factory that
Packs hopes and dreams,
Gives 'em the Queen's stamp,
Stuffs 'em in a Mini Van,
And sends 'em off
'Round the world.
Even in North Korea,
Everyone knows
Who WE are.

Monday, 25 July 2016

O! To be, respectably...

O! To be, respectably
Voting organicratically.
While slogans on the products be
Industrial tagged chic-ery.
Named by Co-op dictionary.
And yours for mere 6 grand fee!
You buy, so good, but not for he;
Who's budget is your nuts for tea.

All-in more togetherly,
Wrestling we bequeathedly,
Resting on 'wor Laurie Lee.
We wish we such could claim to be
Owt as worth t' humanity,
While gorging cheddar cheesily.
Crispy cutlet cutlery,
Wi' knives a ' thrown blindfoldely,
On unknown wheels territorially.
Advantage took now wombling free
Droning on mysteriously,
Bermuda-style trigonometry...
Chalk duster flies. Animosity!
But kills the kid, anonymously.

Sisters' brothers' Europa league,
Tables motions secondary:
To pay the teachers more to be
Pointing out necessity.
For this is what we finally
Glean, deserve, anti-socially.

"Pull out o' there" (expectedly)
England says, then we'll see.
But watch! The signs point eagerly,
For non-observance just could be
Some disaster-film shit-storm-ery.

Lest drain the water from t' lily!
Impression I get, habitually.
Impastoral Imperically
Gauche gouache used liberally.
Colouring blanks so messily,
Connecting dots of society.
We preen and flounce habitually,
Forgetting past grandmotherly
And aunties on the family tree.
For which we now extract the pee
And use for numb-skullduggery.

Alas, stone-type-set 'tis to be.
Deciders deciding, bawdily.
Tripping, stumbling, collectively.
Rumbling, tumbling, blindfoldely.
Tears of sorrow, hold our knee.
Scuffed and bust we are all be,
But, who loves and cares now matronly?

Me and this nurturing tree.

Tuesday, 31 May 2016

The Cat Gets The Cheshire Cheese

If mannequins were orange,
I bet you wished you'were'it.
If ankles could be pretty,
You'd see, you've missed a bit.
Your roller looks now shitty,
Wi' rollers top o' it.

F't petty sake still striding
Down t' long and petty road.
The drooping lipstick lolly,
Observing tarty code.
To shops wi' handbag doggy
To corner shop. Alone.

Flicking though a magazine in the tree surgeon's.

Them gnarled and twisted
'thritic bones
Point out skyward
'next t' people's homes
And finger through
All Goya's tomes.

They prick the sky
Wi' blunted digits
Awaiting surgeon's
Coffin kits, it's
Sapacios lids. It's
Busy business.

Sunday, 8 May 2016

The View from The Packet Inn

Wi' t' looks of Vic n' Bob's
Uncle Peter,
He's the social-fucking-baro-meter.
Matted hair,
Legs walk past
His dog's-eye view,
One pair,
Smiles for himself,
Reminds him of Donna,
Before this blitz,
On frozen pavers,
Can no longer sitzen,
The strange ignore,
And sometimes spitzen,
Whilst dreams are raw
So, stop, take time,
An' fuckin' listen.


"It's cold" we cry,
It's cold,
She cries.
Dispaired of
These Samaritime
Museum Mannequins,
Gawping reflectively,
In their
In their humanitarian
Gap-year educated
Boat races,
'Til rain, turns them to
Duck and cover
Camoflaging t' cries
Of someone's


Often wishes
His patchy fare,
Could be groomed
Like geezer's there,
But the fixed wheel of life
Allows, none of these
Pleasantries and platitudes,
He Angers up,
With their attitudes,
As one in a thousand does allude
To thrust a coin of a ten-bob hue...
But fails.
Plays busy.
Comes in for a pint.


Off the floor to walk around,
Past the old football ground,
Warm the feet, keep them moving,
Before they are involuntarily so.

Occasionally, he hears the roar
Of victory or lucky draw.
His old man once did tell him 'bout
Rental-shop-window tv crowds.
He ponders 'pon nostaligia briefly,
When life was beaten out 'im weekly,
In each round of the sweet FA cup.


Thrust into the gilded street,
Lily-White without the pictures.
Free-papered glimpse
At weekend fixtures.
He'll keep today's,
Might just need it.
He already knows the score:
Capital one.

Sunday, 13 March 2016

The Pallady of Dave Blighty

The grandiose chose well
'His' kleptomaniac
Their house of living swell
'Pon bricks of bric-a-brac
She confiscated bells
Whistles, they ne'er lacked
Till once a deathly nell
With bricks for boots, he asked:
"For why that I must dwell
In silken bag of cats?"
"The canal, my dear ain't well,
Gluttonous Brits it lacks".

Friday, 29 January 2016

For Colin, a poem

With North-East wind,
A broad man strides,
Though hickory docks,
Down Jarrow lines.
The pave is gold,
Soot air picks clear.
Past Wear-side reeds,
Who up and cheer.
By mounts’ t’ west -
Comrades f’ t’ fixed.
Lush locks lavish
Quixotic gifts
With oaken will,
T’ward smoky settle.
Wi’ coal-tressed feline,
In canny fettle.
Maple necked,
‘neath smile, now inked.
‘Bove lowly pitches,
Sage acorns wink.

His step ne’er swayed,
Nor flounced, nor flittered.
It swang, like us,
Souls’ stout, not bitter.
Three, four times stitched,
Us gathered cast -
With charm, not needle:
Raise life’s thin glass.
A gentle-man, allus,
Hence, now an’ afore.
Wi’ heart the size
O’ the Roker Roar.

Tuesday, 26 January 2016

A Worker Bee's Tryptich

Worker Bee's Triptych 

The apis jacket sits,
On bentwood orange chair.
The neatly coiffured spits
Colombian everywhere.
A headline screams out wild:
Of injust 'over there'
While some poor bastard child,
Makes socks for him to wear.
A Paul Smithian malaise,
Spread thin on life's biscuit.
On this, our bee does graze.
Transformed, away it flits.

The insect flies atop,
Through humid altitudes,
Striped Everest of cloth,
Surveys the horrid view: 
Two-legged creatures fuss,
An' toil, cross bloodied tracks.
Through biohazardous,
For queen and export tax.

The queen, they say, she does:
Reign o'er them lot too.
Her golden hive a' buzz;
Grey workers out of view.
These stately 'olidays!
Won't stop the sweatshop truck.
She "works so hard" they say;
Our insect friend is fucked.

For who to be our bee?
A pin-up for the daft?
Or potent allegory:
Six-legged god of graft?
This shallow grave-ed soul
Kept their tootsies warm.
They now turn blue and cold.
Beware the coming swarm!

Performed at Peoples' Republic of Poetry

We Got W.

We Got W.

Knock-kneed willow
My coquettish fetish
This patented Brillo 

Auburn strands
Of sixties bands
Dress that shifts
Tectonic plates of 
Sta pressed lands.

For stands,
Still... to be
Long agos
Worlds apart


A Girl made of Squares Rattles on the Bridge

A girl made of squares rattles on the bridge

She wears a dress all thin 
From the house of knife thrower
With tears to let the wind in
Our beneficial daggers 
Keep Miss

The whip-crack sound is left
A coin sized button or two 
Could shield the river's breath
The two sides of Velcro do
Not match

This pale black ringmistress
Stands tall with empty hat
The fat seals clap in judgement 
The 10 scores acrobat 
Her Back
Back flip

Anonymous splash in wavy capitals
As tourists snap to remember
Stops breathing to forget
The deathly clowns last tear
From ear
To ear
To down there

Just a cardboard name plate left
On her circus office door
Headstone t' bereft
Read aloud folks just once more:
Out to lunch


For Rachael, a poem

A branch near fell
Where good friends sit
Wit' hand you shook
I whittled it.
To call and form:
A bravery stick.
And measure all
Of else with it.


Afore a' knew

Afore a' knew
I sank a seed
Aft it grew
A poetry