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.