Amber Warnings - A Haiku

The Weather: Amber
Warnings May Leads To White-Out
But No Flight Delays

Revival-on-Sea

He
Took a train down
To a 30s town
His mind in strides
As sharp as
Creases in flesh
On track to apply
The suffering in his
Teenage jeans
To his suffering girl
Of dreams

May Day
Sardine train
With tins for props
Tin hats in case
Kid gloves in case
With a London tube of oil
He paints
Six shades of sun
Seven shades of shitting
Himself
All sewn up like ‘66
1066

Kids piss him off
Owd gits play like owd gits
Plastic spades poke pike like
Holdalls kick shins and
Bollockings hold families that shouldn’t be
Together
All on the bank holiday bound
Half past to Hastings

She
Shakes
The eyeliner that once drew
Perfect almonds
Round iris fruits
Now mascara drips
In pear shaped drops
May this still life be hung
On someone else’s wall today
Her hair band’s polka dots
Could be winners
In his Spot-the-ball competition
They could also stop
Her lid blowing off
The coast road stretches
Left to right
A sixth floor drop
From her vantage
Is tempting daily
But today
There’s a little candy floss
In her rollercoaster heart
A little thrill on this sickening
ride

He
Took a train down
To a 60s town
Where records promise what souls want
But can’t deliver
Where blousy pubs full of
Brown ale bastards
Where Friday fills his glass
With answer’s on a postcard please

She
Shifts her shift dress
Over white tights
Over red marked thighs
Into dolly shoes
She allows the thought that
This distractive lad all flash
Could be the tonic
For her sta-prest heart
As peace breaks
Her step skips
Will it be bingo
Will it be risk
It’s all the same to me
She ‘opes it’s chips it’s chips
She ‘opes it’s
A sandy walk
A leg dangled cigarette
Getting more lipstick pink
With every share
A vodka and lime
A melt in the eye
A flyer for the dance
But no touching
Not yet like
A teddy bear prize
A waltzer ride
A seltzer for the sickness
A caring hand
A whiff of monkey grease
She bets
He smells a bit French
She bets
He wants to kiss a bit French
She’s read
The back paper pages
Oh sorry
You lost to Coventry
(She knows
All about Coventry)

He
Took a train down
To a 90s town
Fair pints in guts
But he’s football used to it
He’s garage work used to it
As time lets
A 10 deck strut to the corner shop
The scare of scar faced work bully football fuckers
Do not compare
He’s met girls before
Without much to brag
His swagger was always
Reserved for the lads

She
Lives the haunted hotel nightmare
Where room service knocks
Cardiac arrest
Where lift music cripples
With sharp notes
That penetrate her flesh
Where anguish hangs
And circles the bay
Of her bruised lips
And clotted clouds
Spell dead
The word ‘abuse’

The sea breeze
Net curtain twitches
Revealing peeling paint
Old couples pointing
Sharing glint wrapped
sandwiches
Makes her sick
Her jet black fringe is
Finished with a flick
Mirror perfect
On the surface
Sea bobbing gulls whispering
Uglyfuckingdirtywhore
Beneath

He
Nips next door for relief
As the zip zips up
His mirrored eyes bloodshot
As a shock scream
Spikes the air
Like a frozen jumbo jet ejection
A shock scream
Like an ice pick to his ear
A screech of tires
As he gets outside
The already crowd
Pulls a coat
Over the lump
In the street
As the sirens wail
The sirens’ wail
For the last time
Blows in from the sea

Half a Morning Round Our Way

(If litter be the stuff of life,
Then this bin overfloweth...)

Just round the corner from
The French nursery,
The kids ask questions political,
As they board their
Oversized German chariot,
They can't have ponies,
But I'm on Shanks’s
Via the corner shop.
A 57-year-old natty dread
Freestyles to a young mum;
All perfume, Snapchat and trinkets,
The handsome Sri Lankan beams
My change back,
And I'm late for work again.
Phone reappropriators,
On chicken chasers,
In baggy grey,
Fly past their dead mate's shrine.
A battery-powered
Pharmacy trip, convoy past
Eric’s shock of white hair,
His four-score-eye for the ladies,
Like the two
Who never stop their
School-yard patter
Through king-sized wheezes.
A Push-biking Scotsman
Tells the breeze:
“They’re all up
Their Bohemian bars,
Worship and bow,
Worship and bow"
As we pass the
Hooligan’s pub,
Today, not hosting
Their bi-monthly
Irish funeral.

The scaffolding Poles
Out-swear the cockneys,
To the rhythm of used
Knuckles and discarded clips.
Between swigs
A girl gives a
“Fack you staring at”
To one in a hundred local cats.
The gathering outside
The prison, wait in hope
For a job-bound pick-up,
While the Police
Only seem to pick up
The over-sized German chariots
Down leafy lane,
And The Kiwi tree butchers
Get stuck into the
Not-so-leafy one.
The dog,
Doing it's bit on the grass,
Mimics the fear and guilt,
In the eyes
Of the two lads,
Spotting their first
Pub drag queen, last night,
As the cyclists fight
For the right
To take an arty approach
To the Highway Code,
The displaced seagulls
Squark on and
I follow the paint drips down the road.
I drop a quid, outside the tube, to the geezer.
Another geezer out of luck, he
Unsuccessfully tries
The door of the bookies.
I kick a silvery one in the gutter
And think,
After the bombs have dropped,
Shiny little gas canisters
And shite-y plastic doggie bags
Will be all that's left.
(That'll confuse the Martians).

The road ends.
I glance up
At the
Distanced capitalist column,
The
"Be nice when it's finished"
Shardy monument,
Stand stock still
And think:
"London,
You great,
Big
Bastard"

The Maverick Always Gets a Kick

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King’s Cross Rail

Track work lads
Not caring about their
Oil faced polystyrene tray
Takeaway environmental impact
As couples surprise cuddles
And ah that’s sweet soundtrack
The movement of 10,000 feet
And it’s shop bought butties outside
As they both come to realise
That she can’t abide with him
The carousel pestering  becomes
‘Ave a quid mate
As the overgrown kid finally nails
A 180
At his 29th appempt

Just

There are just bits
There are badged bits
The are those
With badges having
Truncated conversations
With the bits unjust
There are those with
Truncheons having
Badge covered up
Conversations
With the just bits
There are blue lines
To be read between
It just moves on

Relagation - A Tanka

If you ain’t dancin’
On someone else’s grave you’re
Worried come what May
About the hungry worms that
Live in embarrassing soil

A Spring Haiku & A Spring Tanka

Spring springs more poems ‘bout
Body yearning landscapes comes
Quick fucks off quicker

—-

Sprung up jacked up you
Can’t go without podcasts and
Playlists no joke it
Goes without that you can’t and
Won’t hear the folk on the street