Saturday, 30 December 2017

Bosnian Tanka

You never put two
Donkeys in the same field, as,
They’ll eat all the grass.
We have plenty of donkeys,
But we’re running out of grass.

Wednesday, 13 December 2017


Seen as only superior,
On the exterior,
They tried to break
A butterfly
Chair sitter,
On the wheel
Of Wapping lies.

Infamy, infamy,
Who’s on who’s knees?
Kohl black headlines,
Spray set daily.
Trialed lies from
Beaks crossed,
Before the beak.

Just a cigarette
And a cup o’ tea,
Naively, for she,
As the men that be
Oath swore and
Sword fell, typically
Not honourably

As a guide for the social
And sexual divide,
When another man of power,
To not sully and save pride,
Would deny profusely,
As Mandy said:
“Well he would, wouldn’t he?”

Tuesday, 12 December 2017


Whether Jack boots or
Clogs, pull a cracker, it’s that
Era, not a bad
Lad, through Viz smears to Extras
Spots, to Cheggars! Off he pops.


I’m not like everybody else,
He whistled to himself, as
He imagined bus conversion no.19,
Where the worst kind of 19 year old,
Blazered knight of the round glasses,
Lower decked Upper class,
Departs with a pointless, sly aside:
“I don’t like your posture”
To which he replies :
“I think you should take that
Oar you stick,
Plunge it in the Henley Thames
And to where you came from,
Back off you fuck”.
It was then he realised,
He’s just like everybody else.

Thursday, 7 December 2017

They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?

(Warning, this poem contains actual language
From the Georgia State Police Dept.)

Lady Jane
Of which we’re Fonda
In a
Marathon humiliation
For fame they
Will do whatever
Needs taken
For every user
Of fake n’
Primary sourced
Evidence possession
For every Police
Every force for the bad
There’s force for the good
For every state
There’s cause for the hate
For every act of
Follower engagement
There’s evidential
And rightful proper
Segregation cop
Gets commendation
Let’s hear it
The highway horseman’s mouth
It opens
To a haywain
Pulled-over vehicle
‘They shoot horses don’t they?’
“We only shoot black

Wednesday, 6 December 2017

Chrissy Deckies - a Tanka

You finding Christmas
Decorating stressful? You’ve
Only yourself to
Blame. Done my gaff, it were easy,
‘Cos it looks the fucking same.

Tuesday, 5 December 2017

Time of Day

Have you got the time of day?
On your Instagram device?
Eating off photographic plates
With cultural currency cutlery.
Just the time of day,
Might be nice.

Have you got the time of day?
Strapped upon your arm?
To counts the calories
To knock the edge off
Your cinnamon buns?
Toward your daily goal scored,
Celebrations danced,
On the daisy pressed pitch,
Not the shady corners
Of luck and chance.

Have you got the time of day?
There on your mobile jukebox,
On the way to work,
Blotting out the real world
With another band, another dj
Playlist that befits your mood.
Grey and treadmill like,
It feels, you say.
Easy for you.

Have you got the time of day?
On the train home,
While digital smiles,
Hearts for friends and causes
And angry face reactions
All given in the time it takes,
For real human interaction.

Losing connections to
Those who don’t have
Wi-fi connections,
Those who roam
For food,
A tip-off,
A score,
A safety net,
Not data,
Not updating,
Taste making,
Or boasting, I bet.
Those frustrated by the battle,
The disconnection to the world,
The disconnection between
The 2 foot square
Of pavement occupation
And the hate makers,
Who choose to gloat their status.

Have you got the time of day?
We chuck thumbs ups,
Like cigarette butts,
From motorway windows,
Past thumbs turning blue,
Itching for lifts,
To some place,
Any place

We are only a cup of tea away,
Between the prison guard
And the prisoner,
We have the same skin
The same within.
In this day and age for ‘sakes,
There’s a fence,
On which either side
You may fall,
You may land,
You may find your place,
You may never fall at all,
But just sit on the fence and
Pass the time away.

Have you got the time of day?
Pause the video.
2 minutes.
And think
Before you comment.

I grant this, it’s
Not a lot
To be asked,
So please,
In times like these,
The time of day,
Must be given
And not be passed.

Friday, 1 December 2017

The View from the Packet Inn 12" version

‘Cross the bedevilled
Mahogany bar,
I fill and pour and fill and pour,
To chippies, cabbies,
Drinking plenty,
All bleedin’ shop talk
And rolls of twenties.
The plumbers always
Push their luck.
The joiners join t‘ sparks,
In not giving a fuck.
The plasterers question
Your pint pouring punctuality,
Then when plastered,
Your sexuality.
A gender imbalanced pack
Of specific wishes
All crack and racing
No hands washed pisses.
A job,
Wi’ as many fag-breaks
As time allowed,
But that was then
And this is now.


The carpet’s blood,
A working-class ghost.
The machine that dropped quids,
Pours Ethiopian roast.
The coiffured non-quaffers
Have moved on in;
They reserve tables,
Talk profiles in

The pubs interior’s
Not changed a jot
The punters, in a decade,
A fuck of a lot.
But the view from the
Hand-etched Victorian window,
Out to the cold, cold street,
That’s what chills my very soul.

It used to be, all
Dull traffic spats
And near collisions
Now it’s Hogarth’s
Living breathing visions.
As the politely heeled
Nest and root,
(Priced out locals
Given the boot).
In perfect correlation,
Across the way,
The desperate gather,
Beg and pray.
You’re about to meet some of them.


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.

Thursday, 30 November 2017

The Steven Patrick Morrissey Equation

Flower waving and Marr’s guitar,
Neither a positive or negative effect
On me at all.
The number of Smiths records I’ve owned,
Is the equal to the sum of my respect:
Zero. Cock all.

For some, a torn bedroom wall hero,
This arrogant oar sticker,
Daily Mail Elvis, La La La La La Le Pen,
Whilst his blue shirts wait,
At cemetery gates,
Big mouth strikes again.

Tuesday, 28 November 2017

Once Again, Don’t Speak For Me.

Buzzcocks paraphrase,
They says, that ‘Everybody’s
Happy, everyone
Loves that Harry nowadays’.
Don’t! Speak for me, anyways.

A Girl Made of Shapes Rattles on the Bridge

She wears a dress all thin,From the house of knife-thrower.
Any beneficial daggers
Keep miss, miss, missing,
In pissing rain, just
The whip-crack sound is left.
As if a coin-shaped button or two
Could shield the river's breath.

Frailty doubled, by waxy
Moustached must-dash
Supposed strong men.
Passing shots in a game of
Set and match-match-macho.
But, it's a thumbs down from
Public balcony above cold
Concrete coloured colluseum.

No longer lashed by
Steel rope to the crow's nest,
A steely glare fixes on
Her young face's crow's feet.
Bitter wind, bitter wind, better end.
The audience gathers in suspension.
She gathers herself off kilter.

This pale black ring-mistress
Stands tall with empty hat.
The fat seals clap in judgement
Our straight ten acrobat.
Seahorse cantering waters
'neath cantilevered crew.
She backs away, away she
back flips.

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

Just a cardboard nameplate left
On her circus office door
Headstone to the bereft
In marker pen
Reads out loud, folks once more:
"Out, out, out to lunch"

Let's drink to the salt of the earth
Let's drink to the salt of the earth
Let's drink with salty tears
And vow.
To at least … try,
To end homelessness,

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Pretzel Heady Logic

Can be political.
They have
Will ensue.
I’m Spicing up me pint,
At The Lamb,
For which
I’m weak.
So sue
Me a packet of Jalapeño
Pretzel bits, man,
For they
Don’t half
Make yer
‘Ead leak.

Shamping ‘69

As I lace me boots,
Think of my German roots.
Nothing like the hike for a
Spike in my efforts to
Face egging myself on,
For a damp canvas ejection,
With sleep kaput.

Campsite, I
Imagine them exercise,
A DDR Fitness Programme,
Old women, men
On damp grass,
Getting stretchy
With Bletchley Park precision.
What a carry on!
Maybe it’s my roots?

Four days pass.
The half-arsed light,
Brings breath like schnapps.
Not razor sharp,
Fresh-faced and fiddling fit,
I’m a clammy,
Razor broken pit flea.

I look like
Sea Sick Steve.

So much so,
At the last pub for miles,
A local (the Don Arden of

“Are you
Sick Ste?”


Monday, 13 November 2017


Is your jacket quilted?
Your bog roll,
The same pattern?
Whilst your
Bright house derrière,
Does prepare,
On the golden throne
You’re sat on?

Pants by ankles, hoping
The golden retriever,
Doesn’t leave you,
Jilted on the John.
After you wipe your arse,
With paradise paper,
Just remember who
You’ve shat on.

Sunday, 12 November 2017

The Descision Maker

This poem is going
To cost you fifty five
Pence a minute...

You are not eligible
To receive any poetry

Washing Day

Don’t make no difference
To me
There’s a train
With your name on

Take your council ticket
You’ve come so very far
But it’s time to go home now
To the land of bruise and

Scars behind the door behind the screams
Behind the house behind the dreams of youth
Violently wrenched when we didn’t listen

But listen
Seat 43 Carriage G
Sit there
The quiet zone
No speaking
No volume

The real rain has come
And we’re doing
Social cleansing
And we reckon
Need a wash

Saturday, 11 November 2017

An' Then It Hits (7" version)

You never get
Past delving but
I’m past delving
An’ then it hits

I’m over-dressed
As always as
Open doorways
Lend posing posts
A vantage point
To nights into
Days like these sweat
Down collared necks
Hemlines expand
Round increasing
Circles grips guts
From sprung decks that
Reflex rise from
Hammond pulpits
Stranger welcome
An’ then it hits

Soared up with damn
Pride like timber
Sport gratis points
To exchange in
Church halls civic
Duties round in
Seven rare inch
Vinyl waves with
Weightless feet light
Years away though
Some seeps like lime
Through mill stack brick
Yet some’s between
An’ then it hits

Runs like blood through
Veins this thing floods
Bites ankles slow
Like bubbles in
Cheap pints hairs rise
On new crops flex
Unbranded land
Like Nadia
Tens for two an'
'Alf ‘till four to
Floors before three
Before eight in
Crates we’re shipped weight
An’ then it hits

Engineered spun
Jen dolly drops
Honed within a
Thou’ of an inch
Non-stop train steam
Covers pea wet
Smother soup eye
Line euphoric
Smog cut sketches
Scribbet scenes of
Me aside no
Posers there’s no
Fighters jealous
Alright some glossed
Over posers
An’ then it hits

Thousand strings voice
Volcanic melt
Belts you gob wise
Martial moves clap
From floors catch a
Lowly figure's
Spotlight seven
Twenty spin sets
RPM 'cos
The sting’s the thing
Furthest from our
Within there’s nowt
Be taught but these
North Atlantic
Sweep grace of waves
An then it hits

Us off our feet
It’s valve powered
It's electric
It's brass showered
Up to necks it's
Collective it's
Life corrective
Non-standard of
Vict’ry time lag
Hearts on sleeves we’s
Raising flags t’ward
Heavens with these
Eyes n’ fists this
Never ending
An’ then it hits

Friday, 10 November 2017

Sat’dee Morning Rochdale ‘Spoons

Sat’dee morning 11 am
Ash brushed off jackets
Shoes burnished on
Trouser legs
Cans passed round
There are some
Proper folk
Getting draped
And hitched today
Our wings drop feathers
As we wait and shake
In Rochdale cold
On the hill

From our point of vantage
To our disadvantage
Despite this canny scene
What catches eyes down there
Between jokes
Is the ‘Spoons
We thought
We wished
We’d eyed up earlier

Two tall white men
A Stella glass
I can spot a mile off
In hand
A scarfed lady
Pushes pram
Head down
In a family way

The tragedy
Erupts centre stage
Jeans come down
To announce
A disgusting
Brewer’s drooper
That bounces
After their
Quickening pace

All for daring to be
Sharing space
For deigning
To exist
As some not
As pasty red
Or twat hatted
Or plain white
Dough of head

We’re the lucky ones
We don’t have to deal
In ev’ry day this survival game
Just temp’ry
Sick in pits
Images to be
Photoshopped with
Wedding champagne
In a bit

We’ve all got a brush
Tar feathers
Carrots sticks
Do we choose to disjoin?
Or do we choose to fix?
Either way
We are sick

We need
To get

So lift your head up
And get your head down
There’s still plenty of work
To be done see
As we learn this moral trade
Just use your tools
Very carefully

Tuesday, 24 October 2017

Hip Art Equation

Hip art equation:

See this hip bar, all that art, yon?
- Heart
- Balls

= IPA Tony Hart Shite

Thursday, 19 October 2017

Pat Hodge

 brazen exclusive

embattalic egotist

typical balls out

totemistic kowtown

backward suited

masonic lodge


i’ll mention my

intention for the

strong part be played

by patricia hodge

funny maybe

funny nay see


here’s a squeeze on

these cumabund

gut containers

what ties the

old boys to the old boys



women are

on parapets

carved up

on the outside

and silently

carved up on the in


carved up like

buffet meat

ignored like water

passed like port

thrown again the

fireplace like vodka


downed swallowed

spat out carved up

on the inside carved up

on the out yet still

yet still being beaten

by doubt

The work of Poetry on the Picketline

Excellent interview with Grim Chip On Write Out Loud Here

Tuesday, 17 October 2017

Out of Town Football Ground

Ten a penny
Ten a penny
Ten a penny
Ten a penny
Ten a penny
For the
Ten a penny
Out of town
Ten a penny
Football ground
To compound
The profound
To cement
Some liquidity, it’s
Two a tenner
Ten a bullseye
Three tenors
It’s all up to you
It’s all
Out of Town

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

Empty Upstairs

Empty upstairs
They are empty upstairs
100 flats
That I walk past
For 25 years
They are
Empty upstairs

Saturday, 30 September 2017

Eagle shit's no good for roses

Eagle shit's no good for Roses
The neat neat neat
Rows and rows is
Seeds to grow
Appear as
Helicopter shots
Of marching trots 
In sight
Still black with white effort
Feed the 
The new breed
They say no-one enjoys what
But girl!
And boy!
The clout!
These shoots are for the top corner
Leaves leave
Green keepers no chance
As arm in arm
Sway dance in soil
Fertile from the soot of
Past fires
Before the eyes
Let freedom ring
With a weed killer blast
For growth in spirit
Not tin economics
Fighting cats
With hot placed sonics
And water
The audience
With the cries what oughta
Our daughters fought a
Cataclysmic burial 
Of nuts
As standing firm
In the firm of the crowd
The numbers
Not ifs or buts
Away day fouled 
The dug out turfs out
Turnovers proud
With produce
Of apples
That are more than
Worth owt
Will produce
Our worth
In laboured fruit
Dig it kids
For victory
It is
We dig

Thursday, 28 September 2017

Restaurant Car

He stood
And tipped his hat
Down toward soup
Of depth and zest
As good a Polish uncle’s
He never possessed
On the table in front
In the restaurant car
With steel spoon
In one
And glass pint
In one
To prevent sliding past
Parked themselves in sidings
The track wound quickly
Old wounds healed slowly
The folks reheated
And poured and blew
In and out the carriage
On windows
The trees they drew
Straight lines
Battleship greys and
Army hues
And under that hat
Last week
Seemed autumn 1972

National Poetry Day Conclusion

More badly plated
Words than usual
Shoddy verbs
As polished turds
Cut in thirds &
Served as haiku
Basking lazy
With horny sharks
In crap shoes
My killjoy
Velvelette exclusive:
I’d rather listen to
Roxy f***ing Music
(& that’s really
Sayin' something)

Tuesday, 26 September 2017

Call one for me, Über alles

I’m a phone app
Not a taxi service
I’m a phone app
Not a tax avoider
I’m a phone app
Not an employer
I’m a phone app
Not an monopoliser
I’m a phone app
Not a crime ignorer
I’m a phone app
Not a detail storer
I’m a phone app

I see you’re affronted here.
These are the voyages of a
Cheap trick enterprise.
Slowly going, where
Everyone has gone before.

But unsustainably cheaper.

When you’re crying
In to your online petition,
Think on this:
To cry ‘anti-competition’ means,
There has to be competition.
When you’re missing
Your £2:50 chariot home,
Singing “Call one for me, uber alles”
Think on twice:
There’s a fair price to be paid for
And when the price ain’t fair,
Someone else
Pays the price.

Monday, 25 September 2017

A right pair o' tankas: 'Kaep & Nipple


Colin Kaepernick
The kneerly man
4 years hence
Dynamic Danger-ous
Makes statement thus
Now can’t
Get work?
He’s on my team bus


In plastic moulding
Process, judge me right on this;
The nipple, at the
Pit o’ this plastic barrel
For ideas, I suck on it.

Trap no. 6

Start the firing pistolet, kids,
It’s time to rub those last bin lids.
Together we stretch,
For the basic, is less for more than it 
Once wore.
Applications for ointments
For coping sores,
The cats stopped swinging
Long ago, see,
The room we see grows no larger,
On bended knee.
As we’re asked to kowtow round corners,
It cuts, like the tightest of collars,
Round this crumbling coliseum,
We prepare the mechanical rabbit, that
We have to chase for aid,
Us parade Queens and Kings,
On the high street
To see what the pawn shop brings.
It’s the badhead debt collector’s jubilee,
And we go pogo, ‘cos
It’s got nothing to do with your
Forked-tongue berk elite,
You know,
Or the bloggers,
Or the clowns,
The clowns,
The clowns,
The clowns…

Sunday, 24 September 2017

Wrestling in Gdànsk

The bendy bus is full
The car in front
Blocks the way and
Empties an old man in glasses
Onto the tarmac
Curving 50 yards
From the airport door
He wrestles with the barrier
As a woman who’s
Out the door who’s
Hair as black as a rooks beak
Wrestles with the wind
As her mouth wrestles with
The driver
As airport police appear
Scratch heads and instruct
And point and conduct
A twenty nine point turn
As us meerkats on the bus
Laugh and helpfully suggest
Let’s say
After fifteen
The car makes way
The bus driver exclaims
“I’ve got a bus full here
Missing their flights,
Do you think I’M on bleedin’ holiday?!”


Sometimes the people let the train doors slam,
Just because they can.
I’m standing there and everyone’s just fucking gawping.
I’m the one left holding Misty’s collar.
Noses pressed against breath misted glass.
A hundred faces.
The cover of We Are The Pigs.
My mousey hair coving red ears over blue anorak slouched.
Now they all know.
A square of dead empty, sits on platform 3.
A grey void, behind gritty yellow stripe.
They won’t leave me alone now.
It’s frozen.
A barren abstract photograph,
That however many pieces in which I tear,
I just wish Josie’s dad was here.
Drips off my nose.
They all did see.
They all now knows.


From us, we
Megaphone diplomats,
They feline fattest
Play contract dominos,
Let bridges disrepair.
The ignorant,
Will always cross
Lines with glee, see,
For the pound note,
Is the driving factor
In days like these.

Running at
Right angles
To progressive
With aggressive,
Profit-margin decisions,
To write reports,
To find the chinks in,
Our ideological
But we’re not
Armed to teeth,
We’re armoured,
By numbers.
We chisel beneath
This cerebral slumber,
For all we ask
From those
Up there;
Not much,
But just
Fucking fair.
Not much,
The short straws
We clutch,
From this, raw
Communal air.
Not much,
We ask
But just,

Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Turkeys for Christmas

The future is stupid,
The past, is a bastard
The present, coalescent,
So what’s left?
‘Bout 52%

Monday, 11 September 2017

Routemaster of Fuck-all

Thomas Heatherwick and
Thomas Crapper
Have a row.
In the despicable
Arena of Mexican
Horse boxing,
And how!
This is a two horse
An’ one
An’ only
One Tom’s
Today’s nap.

Grant you this;
If one’s time
Was another’s
On that albatross bus
He’d piss.
Nought close to a
Anything master.
A Boris Johnson
Back-hander receiver,
One who has never
Sat on one,
A porcelain
Graced, egalitarian believer;
Lay to waste
This public money waster.

The garden bridge
Is burning down,
So flush that dream away.
Toe to toe,
The crapper difference
Is on display,
The Bobby Moore
At 1861 – 1,
Are that,
The odds are stacked,
A pristine record,
Left intact,
The crowd soar,
Let go a roar,
As Heatherwick’s
Out they
For those
Who forever be
Be trained
And nurtured,
Be Crappers
And that’s
Ladies and Gentlemen,
‘S a fact.

I've Got Edge

I’ve got edge.
Not my collar
You are feeling,
More the screw head
On which I’m kneeling.
I’ve got edge.
Not by pseudo-
Energy drinks manufacture,
More trimmed
By Major, May and Thatcher.
I’ve got edge.
Not after blinds
Are raised,
Dealer button shifted,
More after
Free bar,
Spirits lifted.
I’ve got edge.
Not thanks to the
Map of the
Manor House maze,
More the map
Out the ground, in a haze.
I’ve got edge,
Not white cliff over,
Not chalked up,
More frightened divers’ soul, I’ve
Got edge.
Not a madding sword,
More the madness
I swear, I saw.
I’ve got edge.
Not racing line,
Performance enhanced disgrace,
More the descent
Of hill, the dissent
To be faced.
I’ve got edge.
Not to second,
More to where
Forth reckoned,
Should’ve been.
For the edge is,
The best place to see,
Not to be seen.
I’ve got edge.
A thick,

Wednesday, 6 September 2017

The Seperatist

The Ethiopian looking lad
Plays with the
English Rose
With a basketball
The pale and pasty
Sunbathe and gossip drop
While the dark Irishman
Chats holidays with
The Antipodean lady
And the estate dog
Sniffs the Georgian housed
Near the grassy couple
Hotly aroused
As the young black lads
Sip brandy and tunes
Whilst laughing at
The owd cockney geezers
Wheezy jokes
While one of the kids folks
With the Moen Ali beard
Shouts praise for the
Scooter race
The Mohammad Ali
Raises the bar
And old friends embrace
Next to the
African cup of nations
Five a side final.

The only one
Unrepresented here
Is the separatist.
They have their own park
And believe me,
It's shit.

Monday, 4 September 2017

Les Dawson Face

As you enter
The pristine
Gallery space,
Pull on your best,
Les Dawson Face,
Get all Norman Stanley Fletcher,
At the attendant, I betcha,
That’s all McKay slanted smug,
Get Dick Emery make-up
On yer porcelain boredom mug,
Do yer best Tommy Cooper,
At the painting
Boundary ropes,
The sculpture,
You won’t,
I hopes.

Sunday, 3 September 2017

Dock Tarn Duck School

If it’s possible
For them to look
Then gander at
This orange billed
Native naive grebo
Of Dock Tarn

Not shy to greet
The solo youngster
Has yet failed to find it’s
Feeding feet

Not yet out of it's bairn colours
It's ducking and diving
And sifting of morsels
Has a wind-swept futility to it

But with persistence
Clocks our gifts
And we become
Decreasingly miffed
With aim of cake
To the game it's brain awakes
And slowly gets that
These morsels
Ain't fake
And diving gets reward

Our offerings
It sifts
From still waters lifts
It's status from dumb oddity
To graceful gobbler
We continue to launch
Some lunch
A foot in front
And slowly
Watch the poor sod
With a head dip
Until we move on
With the hope it finds
Another mother

Saturday, 2 September 2017

After, After Dark

The quarter bottle
Of pre-club gin
Tastes like soap
As we early cue up
With the other soap-dodgers

Vodka and lime
Arrives right on time
As the old Caribbean boys
Slam their bones and
I brush ash
From my tie

The stage is set
For frugging
As gods
And moths
Dance with
Indie darlings
And sweat
And smoke
Down black walls
Drips and rises
What the DJ plays
Holds no surprises
But at the After Dark
We weekly do
Our weekend bit
‘Cos it the only
Club in Reading

(And now the
Flat Bastards
Want to tear it down…)

A right pair o' tankas and a little 'un: Massive R.I.P. and Afternoon Surprise

Massive R.I.P.

Each week radio
Tells to me: another dead
Celebrity. Their
Celeby friends fling phrases
Such as: Massive R.I.P.

Afternoon Surprise

A day-glo phrase
On some fucking unfunny
Radio 4 in
The afternoon plays was read
“Pill munching Scandi rave head”

Modern Rewrite

Tyger tyger, burning bright,
Filmed with iPhone,
Put on Facebook.

Thursday, 31 August 2017



The eagle covers
Eyes with shame,
As ruling vultures
Pick bones and blame.
Line up your trees,
Line up your judges,
With catholic rollers,
With rhetorical fudges,
As spite pours from hate spouts
They state;
‘For you lot, we have our uses:
You will, in numbers,
Ideological abuses’,
With ancient wood
Burn’d power,
In constitutional corridors
Comes forgone responsibility.
As rights opaque, transpires,
Become kindling for ruling pyres.


Amass, the Caring Class,
With candles, songs of hope,
For surprises, can be realised,
Away from t’ gaze of
Press and Pope,
The collective noise
In town and village grows,
Pan/Pani Europe,
The reach does flow…
A deafening role of
Charges jump off,
For those in charge,
The definition
Of representation,
From it's
Dusty dictionary, is woken.
For spirits jump off shelves
With proof!
It’s the people
That have spoken.


Light up the skies
With freedom cries,
With flags unfurled
‘Gainst believe-d liars.

Stick and slogans slick
We stick,
Noses, where not wanted.
We take to streets
With pleasure, wanton.
We pressure measure
Tar and vulture feather
With our protest hats on.

Victory today,
Sup merry, we mack.
For we, the many
Are the straws,
But wary,
For t’ camels

Diamond Geezer

Diamond geezer
Hatton Garden boozer,
Wants to stand
Us two, a pint.
Which is grand, but
God, he
Rabbits on about it…

He wants to do this
To reach hands ‘cross waters,
‘Cross different lands,
‘Cross cultural quarters,
To celebrate capital
And diverse habits,
And on and on and on
He rabbits...

Want to stand
With rival fans
And try an’ watch the telly.
He wants to
About the size
And shapeliness
Of business,
His over turnings,
His jewellery yearnings,
His silver 925 tongue,
With rabbits-foot
Lucky charm offensive,
He wants to tell
The boozer
He frequents, his
Acceptance of all of
Life extensive,
Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits

But then scandal!
He expresses
His staff
Give looks
Of internal grief and
Commiserationary embraces,
Hop around with looks of
Watership down
On their faces
And quietly rabbit on about it…

Not quite what he'd planned.
Which, he **** on about
For ten minutes,
Which is a bit
A bit lively,
As we drink
Our free one
In five.

His trouble is, see,
He wanted to buy a couple
Gay fellas a drink.
We may have been
Well turned out,
But to his shock
It turns out,
We ain’t.

We hare off,
And leave them to it.
And f’t’ rest of the night
Cos we see fit,
We rabbit on
About it,
A bit.

The Onion Song and One After Marco Evaristti

A Tanka

Preserve the customs onion
In Baltic jar or soup.
Take your pick, or
Your gravy’s
Weak as liquor.

After Marco Evaristti

There’s rows and rows of
Filled with single fish.
Gold and swimming
Unaware. The blenders
Have half the power.
Fingers twitch,
Over the ‘On’ switch.
How low is set the bar?
Who’s got the
Turns out
Someone did.

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

Passing Comment & The Gorm

"Passing Comment"

I’d say
Six foot two
Of terrible print
But who am I?
My tongue
Gives out
For lint

"The Gorm"

Anthony gormless
Modern man child hands free fuck
Can’t heed or believe
Anybody’s personal
Spatial or decibel needs


Tuesday, 29 August 2017

A Response From Henry J.Heinz

The year I wrote
To Mr. Heinz is sometime
„I try what I can,
I can what I try”
Now that,
Is very clever.

Monday, 28 August 2017

State Prest Trousers

The state press,
Another many grand.
What a fucking pair,
To swear, by window dressing.
The cut is
Decreases sharper.
Circulation clotted,
The cream come a cropper.
In this Albert Hall-shaped
Stitch-up, that ensues;
If retail
Is detail,
They've dropped,
Quite a few.

Friday, 25 August 2017

Friday Big Irish Lads

Three quarters of a dozen
Conor McGregors
On this Friday night
Round twelfth table
Fight for the right
To get points in
Edgeways in
This a favourite pub
But the only ways
It’ll eventually end
Is frame concealed
Beer belly up
My friends
Experience tells
This a favourite
Will always win
Whatever the weather
May bring

For Jersey, a Poem

Jersey Poem

It’s square sausage
And egg on Portuguese,
Mid jammy wasps,
On ice-cream knees.

It’s cloudy crab sandwiches,
At the Paddle board meet
And coffee mugged histories,
As the mermaid’s tail beats.

It’s Squelchy field records,
By Archie and The Rondells.
Beach skimming gull-duggery
Plucky sea crabs, not many,
But I reckon
St. Catherine would…

It’s basking crickets
And random acts of dog.
At risk of surfers, curses
With beardy rocks and
Plenty of pie and Cornish.

It’s Translated books
And Indian phone tricks
With old chinas,
But not a single bit,
Washed up.

It’s a lashing down oyster,
Risque de chute de pierres
It’s random-shaped debate.

It’s ball chucked to the
Opening growler
With water up t’ ‘is bonce.
As the bowler
Bowls another howler,
Happy hour
in Fronce.

Thursday, 24 August 2017

Soup & Golf & Jersey Haiku

Tanka "Soup"

Dedicated this
Poem is like soup makers
Shit takers survival
Cognoscenti unlike
The wanton negligentry has

Tanka "Golf"

Catching a bit of
The Solheim Cup in the pub
I’m thinking Europe
Love that that golf-wear like that
That golf on telly hate that

Jersey Haiku

On coat-tails damsons
Un-distressed hang peace couthy 
There in the coatil

Wednesday, 23 August 2017


Me Dad, now,
Looks a bite like
Alan Sugar.
The 60s blows in
An apprentice, he was.
Down The Oak Tree
By unlit fire, draughty,
When work was tough,
Before ale was crafty
And pints were rough.

‘How’s the beer tonight,
(Who sinks another)
‘Be glad
When ‘ave ad enough!

Tuesday, 15 August 2017


A wasted trip,
To buy some,
Japanese kit,
Was saved by No.6.
I was born too late
For this Tokyo Saint, but
I got me
Sunday Afternoons
Caught in the zip
Of the pub.
A strangely quiet-ish
Camden Irish,
Showing "Danger Man"
Episode "Koroshi".
I Una Stubbs
Me sunny cigarette
And me and Patrick Magoohan
Escape for a bit.

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Tanka Tourette's

As I see first hand,
Another young black fella’s
Arrest; seems, they gets
Paul Weller Tourette’s, as it’s
What they see, is what he gets.

Saturday, 5 August 2017


As the psychosomatic
Cough at my
Tabby walk
I ask myself
Who would pay
To do press-ups
In a window?

Thursday, 3 August 2017



Everything’s wet
And if it ain’t just yet
Just wait
Inside outside
You I say
Get upset pet
Sounds of rain
You bet
Call for the
Captain ashore
Let me get set
Everything’s wet

Slate Scum

Slate Scum

(A true story)

There are certain snags
With crags.
A two and a half thousand foot trek
Above sea,
From Buttermere landings
To Honister Pass.

Up rainy rocky,
Past the disparately flocky,
My companion,
Not so keen on
Sheer drops,
But ploughed his
Furrow bravely,
Past desperate
Watery falls,
Without stops.

Furrowed brows allowed
In misty mountain views, as
We abused a slate mine fault
In the instructions and
Laid bare
Our misguided optimism,
For the shortness
Of this first leg.

For an inspirational leg-up,
At the top of,
We spied a slate structure
Of café proportions.

As we neared
It reared it’s head
Made of massive disappointment.
This nirvana, here’s
Nothing but
The mountaineers’
Club hut.
We took the fresh-faced
Advice given,
By the weather-beat and driven
And hacked on,
Hacked off,
Up the slate path.

But a brace of minutes
Past that hollow house,
Upon quarried steps,
Of windy quarrels,
In a kiddies hand,
For all to see,
(For me,
It was surely done)
An inscription, clear and
Current as the falling water:


I smiled
And walked on.

Wednesday, 2 August 2017



Five days spent
Within sniffing
Or spitting
Distance of

Never heard
One laugh

I got off my train
To sit for a snifter
And a spitting
‘Weagie girl

Laughed like one

Rain Camp

Two things spring to mind
Listening to the rain

#1 How long will
This supposed poet, stay in his bed
Wondering why
He hasn’t got a pen?
About and hour and a half.

#2 How long will
This supposed poem, stay in his head
He can borrow a pen?
About an hour and…

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Cumbrian Tanka

Sun's search-light scans
Lichen graffitis
Waterfalls shout
Flares light pine placards
Lakes keep peace
Wind has a whip-round

Nature demonstrates

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Conkers haiku

Pull your strings
Scratch your conkers
Don't bark your thoughts
But pickle your best ones

Thursday, 29 June 2017

For Mrs Duckett

JCB digger
Window cleaners
An icy one
For white wine days
A pink plastic one
With matching spade
A coin collector’s
At the demonstration
One of lead
For a numb arm sensation
One with sawdust
When sick on the floor
A watery one atop a
Downing street door
A guilty milky one
Pay the farmers more
One as a hat
F’ Madchester dancers
One full of coffee
For the Starbucks wankers
A firey red one
Full of sand
A coaley brass one
Filled by yer gran
A scruffy blue one
Full of tools
One full of glitter
F’ us clowns n’ fools
One to piss in
When you need it badly
A holey one,
Dear Liza Radley
Two words
For the tickets
You can't resist, yes
It's my fucking
Bucket list

Tuesday, 27 June 2017


Twitch a step t’ where the business class
Raise the camera atop the mast
In their closed-circuit mis-wired pride
Observing closely you and I
The underclass neath the underpass
Of the byway to the retail church
For non of faith they take the birch
Sacrificially offer gift vouchers
Blood vessels now replaced by lifts now 'cos
One arrow up, the other down
From the street up to it's lift-shaft crown
No longer built by hands of craft
The totemic shrines of steel and glass
To con the hard-earned
From thee attending mass
The regressive day out, where
Silver screen heros abseil past
As day-trippers worship
And pass the plate
Where prayers are answered
At an interest rate
Buying power muscles flex
Fingers flick the consumer catalogue
Prices index
Where shares go up and
Never fall
At the out-of-town
Shopping mall

Monday, 12 June 2017


Don't Underestimate People the
Disenfranchised Ubiquitous Proleteriat the
Dormancy Upsetting Progressives who
Declare Unquestinable Proposals these
Diverse Underdogs Propagate
Democratic Uncertainty in Parliament by
Dumping Unworthy Policies and
Demanding Upstanding Principals
Definitively Unhinge Politics by
Denouncing this Untenable Party
Demonstratively Uber-Privelidged
Difference Underlining Practitioners who
Doctor Universal Parchments with
Dictatorial Unchecked Pomposity of which
Discriminations are Upheld Pervasively with
Demonic Unedifying Proclamations
such as their
Disgusting Uterine Pronouncements 'neath
Dishonest Umbrella of Pro-life and
Dangerously Unhelpful Profestation by the
Didactively Uncomfortably Pious
Decrying Unchristian People as
Degenerate Underclass Perverts whilst
Destroying Unionised Paradigms and
Defending Underground Paramilitaries
Deploy Unethical Practices to
Demonise Underprivileged Public and
Disgrace Undergraduate Protests whilst
Destabilising Unable Population and
Doing the Utmost to Patronise the
Disabled Uneducated and Poor they
Deal in Unethical Patriotism
Dabble in Ultra Protectionism
Denying the Unsustainability of Planet with
Dogmatic Unhelpful Postulations these
Dug-in Undercover Partisans
Dictating Unadulterated Preservation of
Divisive Unpalatable Projects spouting
Diatribles Under Pressure these
Disingenuous Eulogising Pricks I
Dare Utter Polemically

That’s enough about the Tories,
What about the DUP?

Sunday, 11 June 2017

Plain Clothed Officers

Plain clothed
Down the park
Standard beards
And sunnies
That it's
Near our spot
The rugby ball
Or that
In charge

Hay on Tribes

Bernie Sanders believers

White bobbed
Zombie fiction
Frenzy feeders

Pointy prosecco
Prose persuers
Keep calm carry-on kids

White face
Red haired
Jewelry over-staters

More white
Beard cultivators

More white carriers
Of books
With less
Life left
Than time to read
Per square

Tribes defined
My thumb is sore
To be fair
But still

If I want to stick out
In the rain
Over there
And smoke in my loafers
I bloody will

Bus Stops

She he
Pays bus
Sits top
Quite far bus to work
To work bus takes concentration
Concentration’s bust on quiet top of bus
Boss at top of firm cleans up
She he’s
Firming up for cleaning work
Bus stops
Work starts
Cleaning low with concentrate
Conscientious cleaning for top of firm
Pays low at bottom of work
Quite far from bottom to top
Works quietly from top to bottom with polish
Spit for top bosses
Conscience far from clean
Low pay
Stops hard work
Clean bus
Sits firm on bottom
Bus starts
Never stops

Open Return

Two seats down
Open window
Bothers me
I get up
Ask if I can
Shut it
No bother
In the first place
They open themselves
I shut it
I sit down
I didn't bother to
Open my mouth
To say thanks
It opens itself
Where do I get off
Maybe I
Should have
Shut it
In the first place
Maybe he
Opened it
In the first place
Now he thinks
I’m a twat
Now he’s
Getting off
I'm not

Saturday, 10 June 2017

Small Town Shite

Sat’dee night
Sun’dee mornin’
Small town shite.

I don't knows,
Mumbo Jumbos

Bounce off
Bigger bodies,
With voluminous
And throw-up
In to  the task,
To find this
Holy grail.

Fuelled by amber nectar
Lit by amber warning,
Outside of
My window,
Sat’dee night

For The Betsey, a Poem

Stands out
She stands out
like a pacifist 
in a field of coppers,
he wonders what wonders,
beneath that bonnet,
for arty opportunity,
we take it as read,
we're walking in your shadow
as the Uriah Heap song said.

We take part & sup,
lock-in to the ethos,
we make art to chuck
& for keepers,
we catch a surprise,
in this kingdom of merry,
as time flies behind
the curtain of mem'ry.

We congregate,
up junctionally,
celebrate unpunctually,
lick wooer’s wounds
adopt bar fly stance
from city types
to Trots, we tug our
locks unsubtly,
bawdy bow &
canny curtsy,
triumphantly raise
tankards brim,
to those without
& those within,

The Betsey.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

Black Cat Cross

To those, who oppose
The wind farms’ saving grace.
May you wake with a black cat,
Pissing in your face.
May the cat leave carbon footprints
On your nimby, pristine sheets,
Break into your 4 x 4
And shit all over t’ seats.

May the hedgehogs eat your guts.
May your fracking heart to burst.
If it’s all about appearance:
What the hell looks worse?
A harnesser of wind,
To slickly save the planet?
Or shitty stickers
In prissy windows,
Declaring there to ban it?

I wish you nuclear family fallout.
Forever poison, in your waters.
A pissy cursed life,
For smoggy sons and daughters.
Hope first team dreams will rot
In the unsustainable reserves.
Have your fucking ‘unspoilt’ views,
Get the planet you deserve.

Tuesday, 30 May 2017

Vauxhall, Keep Off, Gridiron Lady.


Scotsman Politics
Apathy Tube
Loves London.
Hates Celtic
Likes my Shoes
Ska-man! He calls me
Biggots, The Sour Sturgeon,
Over we chew
Shows me his Partick Thistle tattoo.

Keep off

Don't punch
The bees
Don't feed
The pigeons
Save the
Hate religion
Hate the

Gridiron Lady

As successful as
The Cleveland Browns:
Unity projects
In England's smallest towns.
That's what they want you
To swallow down.

Kingston Train Station Observational

Hot pants and tears
At the suburban
S’alright he’s
Got a comforting
Suit on.
Not comforting really.
As right and
Proper as the pigeon
In his investment,
His Chicago bears
Play the bulls
“No, love
What I meant to say
Is” not
Paying the bills.
S’alright though,
He's got a suit on.
Over the shoulder
Mascara drips,
Behind previous I
Text message tiffs,
Waiting room doorway
A tear-drops hits,
Price drops,
Rain drips,
Time slows, ticks
By an obscene
The necessary
Train guard waves.
They both
Never ways.

A Couple or Three Down The Compton Arms

A Couple or Three
Down The Compton Arms

You always push it
An hour, see.
I don't care for Dave
I don't care for Kev
I don't care for Billy.
I care like you
For an hour.
For me.

A couple of 4 short ones

A Haiku

Fifteen point, nine point,
Five point plan. By! Each day ticks
Tips hat to You, Gov.

A Tanka

The Art of Being Straight

Straight lines straight lines you
Straight call lines these straight lines call
Straight these call you lines
Straight you call line straight these you
Straight up lines you call these lines?

A Haiku

Feeding season,
May Stable bolts, not strong to keep
Hungry mice at bay

A Tanka

One shows oneself, up
One shows what's behind blue eyes
One shows neck of brass
One commits to maintain one’s
Personality bypass

Monday, 29 May 2017

For Manchester, a poem

I wrote this in an hour,
Which was not an act of flippancy
Or braggery, just an an emotional response.
I'm not from there, but close enough.
It's a city I worked in and had some of the
Best nights of my life in.
This is a city I know and love
And if you spend any time there
It becomes a bit of you and
You become a bit of it.

For Manchester

Throw that shit at us?
Take it on the chin, mate
You ideological blagger.
Chest it down,
Volley it in t' top corner,
Celebrate with swagger.
More soul in these
Dancing shoes, mate
Than your empty, selfish jabber,
'Cos we're spreading
Love not hate,
Singing unity songs,
Casual, yet dapper.
'Cos defiance flows,
Like lager in the rain,
So, sort yer neck out,
You ignorance projector,
You pointless Beswick Bag Collector.
Whatever shit you throw at us,
This City is United.
With industrious creativity
With balls, with soul, with chivalry
As Tony Wilson said:
"This is Manchester,
We do things differently."


Sunday, 28 May 2017


(For a bit, at school, ‘ess’ was shorthand for ‘essence’,
meaning 'brilliant’, i.e. ‘It were ‘ess' = 'it was brilliant')

Blokes debate
The necessity
Of the
‘-Ess’ suffix.
To excessive
It's important
To them, it seems.
In, the barperson leans.

These cerebrally
Impotent bloke-esses,
The unnecessary-ness
Of lack of success
To homestead press
Such Jurassic parquess
There’s a
Verbal express-ness
Of the unequivocal-essness
Of the mandatorial-essness
Of the quintessential 'esses'.
The barperson expresses
Some distresses
Without successes,
'Cos the bloke-esses
Have myopic deafness.

Is the assertives' assetess,
Manifesting in this
Manesses’ congress,
Putting to press
This malevolentess
Seethers' digest
Of incomprehensibleness.

These imbalanced genderists
In the bars' breasts
Nest and coalesce
And request:
No more outspokenness!
Or balance upsets!
'Cos lest we forgets:
That's just
The way
It is

Thursday, 25 May 2017

Trees, School Dinners and The Daftest Thing I've Erver Written


Yew trees hear you, oh?
Yew turns season's tree you coat
Yew turn away, u-turn.


You child! Yes, you there!
Give us your dinner money!
There's a fault line in
Our faulty fiscal figures
And it's all your fucking fault!

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

Me gustan los árboles

Me gustan los árboles
Se puede sentarse debajo de ellos y escribir sobre ellos
Nuestros líderes son como árboles
Se sienta debajo de ellos y
se escribe sobre ellos
Me gustan las motosierras

Read in Solidarity with the striking LSE cleaning and security staff with Poets on the Picket Line

Sunday, 14 May 2017

After, After Noah

She's beautifully strange
She's always a-la-mode,
A David Bailey model
Quite the Queen,
Of King’s Road
A style of, fifty years
Either side o’t’ 60s,
(You think she looks good now
You should see her, come Christmas).
A welcoming one, a teacher
She’s what you might call ‘Clahssy’
The friendly face
Of re-invention;
Just occasionally arsey.
She's kitsch, she's kosher,
Consistently contrary,
Her family of catholic-size
Are hanging round St. Mary's.
Been knocking round for donkey’s,
Always on the blower,
Swapping gifts
For smiles
In retro-fitted aisles,
Eccentricity’s a grower…
Go see her sometime,
She’s getting there,
Like a Hamley’s train set,
But slower.
If you knew her,
You would love her,
But to love her,
‘Ave to
Know ‘er.

The spurious sham summation of a stitched-up snooker showdown

After the break of 27,
Not clever,
He sits down
On the exclusive
Green leather.
It's late in the game
And most of the reds have gone.
He takes off his
Clip-on tie and bows with shame.
If only,
He laments,
The budget cue
He rents,
His refusal
Of a long and easy rest
Taking the low scoring yellow
Instead of
The smart safety of the green
The bloody difficult blue -
He could’ve easily potted,
But! outside the rules
The referee re-spotted,
The white gloves,
Pulling strings,
And ultimately
The thing
That he could do.
No Chas and Dave
To whistle,
A baying crowd of hacks
Bristle and
At his marching shoes,
At missed pinks and blacks,
They go for the throat
Of his high-vis
The resentment grips,
The match a fix
And this’ll
What different
It could've,
If the the match
Had been
On the
TV screen.

Friday, 12 May 2017

"Severance Pay" and a right pair of Tankas part 3

"Severance Pay"

Severance pay
Twenty severance pay
The old school ties
Cut the old school ties
They sever
We pay

Tanka #1

Le Pen, Le Pen; Shit!
Le Pen, Le Pen, Le Pen; Fuck!
Le Pen, Le Pen; Merde!
Thank Fuck! Le Pen, Le Pen Ain't
Mightier than what, I swored.

Tanka #2

Rolling redundant
Career ladder accident
Daily despondent
Is there a more pointless job
Than Royal correspondent?

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

It's Black and White and I'm Red All Over

It's Black and white and
I’m Red All Over

Not cool as chips
Not safe as camels
The straw stuck in my
And I'm s’posed to
Stick that
Under me hat
You twat?

We're in the land of
Ain't so funny, honey
So haul yer
Eggs up sonny.
The top brass-
Tacked monkey
With eyes right
Says nothing bright
And drops his
Dead donkey Kong
All over this one.
Share of the pie with
Cucumber butties anyone?
We’ll make sure
The  sycophant
Never forgets, pet.

As big
Girls blouses,
Keep your deals
In yer trousers
And keep it quiet,
As church mouses
But I'll gather
Sticks and moss
To chuck
At your
Glass-ceilinged houses

Caught in nowt
But stockings and a
You moral separatist.
I get the gist,
You popularist,
I'll put you on the
Kick-the-bucket list,
As many a truth
In a bespoke vest,
But I suggest,
That schtum
And mum
Are the words,
For the news
Paper’s new,
Polished turd.

Not happy, as
Larry lambs to the
Slaughter, as we
Go to the dogs
Sick as a Norwegian Blues,
You prick.

As you may pretend to have
Three jobs.
It those who actually need
Three jobs;

That you want
To read,

Thursday, 27 April 2017

Terry & June (a Tanka)

Terry’s got blue boots
Terry’s got too big for them
Paper mates say boots are great
June asks public about boots
June's gonna boot Terry out

Wednesday, 19 April 2017

Hipster Bingo

Here's a Hackneyed old poem…

Hipster bingo

I go to Stratford, never miss it,
Watch basketball, season ticket,
But the one thing that does make me sick
Is the punters down at Hackney Wick.
We know them,
We know their stunts,
They may be mates,
But look like...

Bowler-hatted Thompson twins,
His girlfriend made of
Bits of Sega Megadrive,
His pet brick on roller-skates, tied,
To an upturned milk crate
With day-glo twine,
Supping baked bean cans
Of cat-piss wine,
Cinzano and Marmite
In crotched schooners,
Yetis in dungarees
Fax-machine shoes on.
They're on the edge,
They've got the wedge, but
They long to be
Back in East Berlin
Buying vinyl
With 80s pfunts,
We know them,
We know their stunts,
They may be mates,
But look like...

Purple, kitsch, straw-donkey dolls,
With sour dough lives.
The organic barley sweet
Sandwich brigade;
(No bread, thanks,
My diet's lego-flav'ed).
There's the 2nd grade
Fishermen with listed beards,
Standard issue macs.
Standard issue ideas.

The proper locales
With aerosol aftershave,
Are actually alright,
A bit fucking loud,
But then, I lack the
Drug budget or desire or
Noel Edmunds sensibility,
To talk toss
Between 10 grand rounds,
'Bout music that does not exist,
As time ticks round,
To the 2pm guest list.
Down, on the waterfront.
We know them,
We know their stunts,
They may be mates,
But look like...

Those who
Curate things
That can't be curated
Drink the
Over-priced, Under-proofed,
Childish art
In childish bars
By capitalist
Fanzine influence czars.
Who ain't at al,l appetising,
Pretend to work in advertising
For Japanese
Skateboard companies
Where trucks are
But kicks-flips are free...
Piranha man-bagged
Fixed-wheel opportunists.
The unpopular people's
Eastern front.
We know them,
We know their stunts,
They may be mates,
But they look like
Act like,
And utter…

Saturday, 8 April 2017

A Manifesto of Sorts

It starts
Eat sleep
Jam tarts
It's about hearts
Not football
It's the arts
Of dodging
The shit
And calling out
What it
Is it
Means to us
As we get the bus
An’ give up seats
For the needier
Sail our trawlers
Catch the media
And throw it back
From whence
It came
‘Cos on the
Gallery wall
We’re all in
The frame
So take aim
With words
Of benefaction
Give dancing
Lessons to
Rival factions
Off yer arses
Stick hard hats on
For the writing’s
On the wall
It’s a call for
Finger extraction
It's time for
What they
Really hate
And what they
Really hate

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Japanese Cut-Up

“Pony garden”
Is a rural house
For a pony
And its owner;
A single woman,
Who wanted
To explore
A new kind of living.

It was invaded by
With their scarves,
Smoking oblique joints,
Detached from
Their mega-structure,
Taking capsules
For a living.

It's carpentry at war!
Comes the announce,
As she flounces to
The top of the
Poetic stair tree,
In her post
House surgery,
With an unrelated
Sense of self.

So, as art is not
To be explained,
It is to be done,
She tears up
Her graph showing
Related to social class
And realises the best bit:
The edge,
The best point
To sit.

How do you turn round a Gibraltan tanka?

Stick o’ Spanish rock
Brit Potatoes getting hot
Sewn by land and clock
Wheel at nine tenths steering lock
Where on earth do we get off?

Monday, 3 April 2017

Pancake Days

Pancake Days

Forget our folk
And headline choke,
Sink into
Forget our kin
And those within,
Take apethy
Evening classes.

The Euro news
Becomes a snooze,
The plug’s been pulled,
Air’s been viewed,
Quite frankly
It’s been overdue…

Sip sovereign-tea.
Crunch biscuitly,
With right and
Proper passes.
As we sink,
Without a think,
Into their molasses.

Pancake day,
‘comes crepe-ary,
For all the lads and lasses.
It’s real, this heat,
From t’ cookery
Of the the ruling classes.
Not sugary or buttery,
We’s battered.

Loads o’ lemon,
Not equality,
More sep’rating
Of the eggs-es.
Less brevity,
More assaltery,
Not thinking in,
We're sinking in,
Our little tin
Bath of vim,
Wi’ t’ empire

“Can I get one?”
The people ask:
To ponder on
And burnt become…
Just stand around
And witness.

Tin hats
Made of
Little lions;
Out of the strong,
Came forth,

Saturday, 1 April 2017

Nowhere Fast

I once saw a Ferrari
On Roman way.
All torque and thrusting mechanics,
Showing off,
From speed bump to bump,
Like a thoroughbred in a box.
Full speed.
Then stop.
Nowhere fast.

I saw the proletariati,
Alight on runways,
All talk and flustering panics,
Not showing off,
Just panic buying,
Perceived opportunity.
As bags on heads bump,
Like dogs on the lino,
Full speed,
Then stop.
Nowhere fast.

Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Original Bungee

Land dives:
Prepare vines
Round your feet.
A 20 foot
Harvest harbinger drop.
Antiquated, dangerous, tribal mind-set?

Before she ‘legs it’,
Your Sarah Vine should
Give it a pop.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Lubię Drzewa

Lubię drzewa.
Możesz siedzieć pod nimi i pisać o nich.
Nasi przywódcy są jak drzewa.
Siedzimy pod nimi i piszemy o nich.
Lubię piły łańcuchowe.

Sunday, 19 March 2017

Ich mag Bäume

Ich mag Bäume.
Man kann unter ihnen sitzen und darüber schreiben.
Unsere Politiker sind wie Bäume.
Mann sitzt unter ihnen und schreibt über sie.
Ich mag Kettensägen.

Friday, 17 March 2017

Parky Poem

Mid-class girls with
Beautiful bobs and
Boring babies over here.
In the background,
The youth and youthful plot
And thicken over there
And we all watch
This pointless parky kick about.

Culture clash cohesive.
Look on look on,
With hope in your tyres
And admire the
Sports directed
Jigsaw mumsnet
I must look
Under a tree,
As a bloke strangely
accuses me
Of being CID...
Must be my note pad
I think cheerily,
As upon my
Polish can,
A bumble bee
Decided to get
A bit largery.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

Wednesday, 8 March 2017



They say,
Do that?
Why stand?
Why care?
Why speak?
Why bother?
Why do that?
Stand here with these people?
It's not your fight...
Shoulder to shoulder
What's the point?
We're up here
You're all down there
You can't make a difference
It's the way it is
You’re not meant to be here
They’re not meant to be here
Why are you standing here?
Why are you shouting?
I can't believe it.
Would you do that?
Because I'm human.
It's in me contract.

Wednesday, 1 March 2017

16 Artists, 13 Masterpieces and 1 Art School Mod, Against The Cuts

They rip and tear,
Like the top of
Clifford still’s “Ph-950”
The swines, with Lichtenstein's
Fire their “ Torpedo… Los!”
Their darts through the hearts of the arts
And put up strong bars like
Franz Kline's “Mahoning”,
But we ain't just moaning,
We're effectively angry.
So, replace the red mist with
Pollock’s "Lavender Mist",
For without art,
The is no life,
We just exist.

With Francis bacon’s "Figure in Movement”,
We are all figures in this movement.
So take action to the nation's
Ruscha's "Standard Station"s
And cause sensation.
Make the transition from
Boxing position
And raise that fist in the air
Lowry’s got “A Fight” for what's fair
As Marcus Harvey’s “Myra”'s
Hand-printed on new fivers
Mary Jane Ansell's  "Georgie”
Innocently looks on
We're making art, not war
With these protest songs,
We're dropping Ron English,
Muck Rock grafitti bombs.

Use Renoir's “The Umbrellas”,
To shield from directors’ cuts,
Kathe Kolwitz’s wood cuts.
But unlike "Die Freiwilligen",
We're volunteering for a proper cause,
We're marching for a proper cause,
Before Constable’s "Haywain"
Stays broken down,
Beware Turner's coming clouds,
Stand tall, stand proud
With Peter blake and take a
"Self Portrait with Badges”
We stand with practitioners, painters,
Assistants, curators,
Sweeper-uppers after artists,
Gallery bed-makers
And those of common ilk
And create a
“Series of Small Fires and Milk”

Saturday, 25 February 2017

A Confessional

A confessional

Each week her column
I would find,
My housemates’ weekends
That way inclined.

I used to read her
Ghost-writ fiction,
Of Polo pricks
In horsey diction.

I'd have given all,
To to take the place,
Of Sir fucking
Toss-pot what's-his-face
And take the arm
Of such a beauty,
At the glittering ball
A-hole-list duty.

Against the grain,
All this lust.
I'm quite ashame,
To have felt as such.
For she was them
And me was us.
It makes us sick,
I feel disgust,
To think back then,
That for a while,
This willowy woman,
She did beguile.

Call me Judas.
A traitor, if fit,
I was young and daft,
She was definitely ‘It’

We could have had
Such great potential
(Minus clobber and
left-wing credentials).

So shoot me down
It's for the best,
But before I die
I must confess
Past feelings,
Of lust
Rather sinking ones.

Sunday, 19 February 2017



Singing songs is just
Singing from the same sheet's just
Don't sing fucking hymns


Kept his pen. Sod 'im.
Pens cost 20p, more than
That pint should have been.


No pot to piss in?
Dig deep. Make yourself a pot.
Don't piss on your shoes.