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.