Tuesday, 27 February 2018

Always in Doorways

In the pub
He says
Nah I get a black eye for that
She says
D’ya see ma chin last week
And outside the pub
They are always in doorways

Monday, 26 February 2018

Hamster’s Dandruff - A Tanka

There’s hamster’s dandruff
In the smoke so chances are
That halts will be ground
To bank on this I ask what
Ever happened to Shank’s?

Saturday, 24 February 2018

An’ A Winter Olympian

Nice day for a chair push
Say these
Norwegian winter
Out Olympians
Vape vapour
From whiskered lips
He’s still
Not the one
Not the one
Pushing pram


There’s an
On The Holloway Road
Next to the small
Cask brewer’s
Post work task
Massive over-price
No pubs
No more
Just stuff
The angling for the
Old street roundabout
Use phrases
Such as
Digital experience
Creativity hub
Fishy that
I used to play pool down there
Miss that
I used to play drums downs
Miss that
I used to get a kebab there
Miss that
In the bait box

Saturday, 17 February 2018

Cakes in the Window

She says
Cakes in the window
Ain’t on me
Ain’t ‘pon free
Ain’t for me
She sees
That there are cakes
In the window
There are quakes
In this thing though
Not youthful
That breaks
Spilts like Godzilla
Beneath rips though
Sitting legs
Begs ripping ‘part
Upheaval building
But coffee dwellers
Caffeine sellers
Need them cakes
Though apparently
There are cakes
In the window

The Man in the Big House Say

The man in the big house say:
“Wanna make a mug museum
Treat workers there like mugs,
And charge good folk to see ‘em.

So I can buy another big house,
My moral mausoleum.
‘Cos everyone in velvet seats
Loves the bloodlust coliseum.

I’ll sell the salty popcorn,
Apply it t’ wounds I make,
Charge the earth for squashed coffee bean
For my bigger slice o’cake.

Consumers will lap it up,
Shareholders’ll party hard,
Heavy rollers roll on
When punters tap their cards”

He replicated the blueprint,
Waved it round the gaff,
Injecting habit with ignorance
With a loop-hole for a strap.

So, I say
Cut off the soda stream
Hit ‘em where it aches
They reckoned on us
Taking it
Lying down
Which was not
The first
But the biggest
They reckoned on us
Taking it
Lying down
Not the first
But biggest

Monday, 12 February 2018

How Flair is Punished

(For Mark E. Smith)

There’s a plastic bag,
At Manchester Victoria
Neo-baroque station,
Which a child who’s spoilt kicks
The carrier of the carrier is
A black imp, on the tongue,
There, to Faust the cerebral
Cost of thinking,
Upon the blinking cock-suckers
Of the sinking music scene,
Envy of the choosy scene,
But before all of that,
There is drinking
To be done, see.
Beer and speed is okay,
But the full use of your body isn't, oh
How flair is punished.

Side-step the side-part in the
Play of the one-man show.
Cast aside over-inflation
Theory of the panic insists,
As pain drips,
The vowed spits
And bastes with a deft brush,
The chicken thought that;
Sometimes life is like a new bar,
Plastic seats, beer below par,
Food with no taste, music grates.
Sidled up to a fruit machine,
Turn that bloody
Space invader off!
In there, it’s rubbish, oh,
How flair is punished.

On Levi’s Fridays,
He was walking down the street,
Saw a poster at the top,
He was only on one leg,
The streets were fucked,
Entrances uncovered
Street signs you never saw
And the poster at the top of street said:
"Do you work hard?"

Manacled to the city,
Those big wide streets,
When girls pass, puts his head down
Those useless MPs.
Chimneyed-nastic narcissist town.
Does the Home Secretary
Have the barest, faintest inkling
Of what's going down?
He rocks back on his heels, hard
And knocks back, in each hand
A beer unfinished oh,
How flair is punished.

Meanwhile, in brick house,
Irish sisters compete in the
Under table tournament.
It's appreciation half won
And they hate their allegiance,
To the hip preacher one.
But they love too
And he could dance.
And he didn’t
Read books; of the list book club.
The musical chairs
Have been swallowed up,
By a cuddly group,
A muscular, thick-skinned,
Slit-eyed neighbour is at the table.
It didn’t serve him, right?
The former tenant was
Meant well, right?
Collecting under
The stair unvarnished, oh
How flair is punished.

Better flock down,
Better flock down,
To the Bierkeller, where
There’s a fella on fire and
Sheet lighting in a black
Back-lit brown ale basement,
With a delivery that chins, you
Don’t know the records,
But I’m fucked if I’m arsed, ‘cos
There’s repetition in the drums
And we’re never gonna lose it.
Check the guy's track record,
He reckons of his own accord,
He is not

So he,
Drinks the long draught,
Riding third class
On a one-class train,
Past the yeah yeah
Industrial estate,
Chipping miles away,
Chipping sodding miles way,
On the run, oh, it’s fun, oh, it’s
G-O-H-O-H-O-9, oh,
How flair is punished.

To the unfair hotel morning.
Mirrors can't hide the toxic
Of disfigured poxes.
Get the manager!
He got my last clean dirty shirt
Outta the wardrobe,
Pretends he’s blind, you see,
To wear Chanel, you have to shave first, see,
Puts on some Armani clothes
And acts like E.T.
(He was the manager)

He, on the other hand,
The one we’re on about,
Ray Stubbs his number 6 cigarette out,
Steps over the Georgian glazed porch,
Into the bright Brighton daylight.
Plastic bagged, to the bikers bar,
Chuck darts at the basist,
Who made the Nazis?
Hey there fuckface!
There are twelve people in the world,
The rest are paste, so
Rid us of Space bores
Rid us the unflummoxed, oh
How flair is punished.

I’m kinda two-tone,
But then came real age
And for that, we all must pay.
Everything is broken,
Because of grist that curtails.
He was given the third lathe,
Had your chances,
You’ve had
Your chance.
He says:
Nowhere to go.
Got no place to go.
Won't let us in the shows.
I'm tired of walking
Up and down the street all by myself.
He says:
Damp records the past
If that's so, I’ve got the biggest library yet.
In a week, earned money for month,
Got all my jobs done.
My eyelids were sick of it,
Gist was, I could sleep for a day,
But bad bills have no respect,
For a decent man's rest.
He says:
I’m living too late.
I’m dying too early.
My face is slack,
And the kidneys burn,
In the small of my back
And parallax the classical stomach gas,
The lager seemed poisoned.
It was no matter of small consequence,
No little pub incidence,
My heart and I agree, oh
How flair is punished.

To the end.
He says:
You may be shocked,
But I'll make you late.
For your greedy past,
Cold on a plate.
Houdini believed his tricks.
Is why he died.
There's a grave somewhere
Only partly filled,
I had a dream, bruise coloured
With wine and pills.
It’s going to hurt me,
Manchester city centre.
Take me back,
Where's the sixty quid
You borrowed off me for the gas?
I can't get the bus.
Do you know what they would say?
About the loved?
The admonished?
The headline says
How flair is punished.

With thanks to:
Big New Priest, Bingo Master’s Breakout, Blindness, C.R.E.E.P., Cruiser’s Creek, Dktr Faustus, Eat Y’Self Fitter, Firey Jack, Green Eyed Loco Man, Feeling Numb, Hey! Luciani, High Tension Line, Hilary, Hip Priest, Hit the North, How I Wrote Elastic Man, I’m Not Satisfied, It’s a New Thing!, Kicker Conspiracy, L.A., Lie Dream of a Casino Soul, Living Too Late, Music Scene, New Face in Hell, No Bulbs, Paranoia Man in a Cheap Shit Room, Prole Art Threat, Psycho Mafia, Rebellious Jukebox, Repetition, Rouche Rumble, Spoilt Victorian Child, Telephone Thing, The Classical, Totally Wired, Vixen, Winter, US 80s-90s

Friday, 9 February 2018

Turn Left at t’ Mist

Even the pitch fire
In the street is biased
The chemist is dispensing mist
What they spray is
The gist o
I look for the flyest
Who’s gone today
But back tha ‘morrow
The Ida complex befits
The regrets for jobs 
Done by nuns
But for today
Much graft not be won
Much be lost
What they spray
So we get the gist
What they spray
So we exist 
What they spray 
From the wrist 
What they spray
When they spray
Turn left at t’ mist
On what they spray 
We cannot live
On what they spray
We just exist

T shirt

Ironic watch
Top knot
They persist
It still exists
It still exists
Not on this watch
It’s fucking winter
I’m in the wrong pub
I’ve fucked up
Don't even know
The words to the football song
Sort it out
It’s 2018
Off you fuck

Wednesday, 7 February 2018

By the Bins

By the bins
By the bins
Chat to Martin
By the bins
Makes you feel better
Makes them feel better
The time of day
Makes us all feel better
I’ve heard
By the bins

He’s gaunt of face
Thin of sweater
All the way up
All the way down
The roundabout
Goes one way
Goes the other
The swing does never
By the bins

He says in here
He’s never felt better
In here
By the bins
Bastard cold
All told
And it’s
Bastard wetter
By the bins
By the bins

Better leave
For the tube
I regret
I’m grateful
I’m off
He’s not
He’s left
By the bins
By the bins

Monday, 5 February 2018

Dead or Alive

The fright eyed and bushy collared
Are at the bar
There are jumpers matching carpets
But don’t start, ‘cos
They are keeping this pub alive
They are keeping this pub dead
My best mate told us that
At Public School
The shirt tucked in at the front
But hanging out the back
But blazer covered
Was an act of rebellion
This look prevails where
They are keeping this pub alive
They are keeping this pub dead
The glasses are expensive
The beer in the glasses is expensive
They Instagram the daft old
Shite on the ceiling
I’ve got a feeling that
They are keeping this pub alive
They are keeping this pub dead
No room for mongrel dogs
They move in circles concentric
Trip advisor says the bog smell
Is‘charmingly authentic’
They are keeping this pub alive
They are keeping this pub dead
50,000 pints over 15 years
Can’t be wrong
It’s what the quiz machine said
They are keeping this pub alive
They are keeping this pub dead

Cynthia Street

Incidentally miserable
As he half cuts down
Cynthia Street
In the way to
back from
To the way to
back from
The smell is gasoline
And the look is neat
But the matches are on strike
Down Cynthia Street
Delirium down the
Comedy pub night
But fate reinstates
That he’s not laughing, like
It’s tarmac skied
He’s pie-eyed foot of fleet
But no-one will steal his thunder
Down on Cynthia Street
And sympathetic bones
Are lacking meat
And distant barks
Snarl determined feet
He’s thinking, here’s to
Another neet
Street drinking
Down on
Cynthia Street