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