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

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.

However,
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,
Overrated.
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
Expensive
But kicks-flips are free...
Proto-old-school-neo-
Rich-over-simplists,
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,
Complete
And utter…

A Manifesto of Sorts

It starts
Eat sleep
Jam tarts
It's about hearts
Not football
It's the arts
Of dodging
Through
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
Is
Action

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
Half-rabbits
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
Earthquake
House surgery,
With an unrelated
Spectacular,
Sense of self.

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

Pancake Days

Pancake Days

Forget our folk
And headline choke,
Sink into
Molasses.
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…

Now.
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,
Conscriptively,
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
Contract-ess.

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

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

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.