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