The Butcher’s Son

As the butcher’s son
Is held high
I look to the skies
Where Bacon rolls
Gravely under
Parameters squashed
Of science applied
This life’s eclipsed
Humanity’s lost

Some welcome
Generations of generated
Neutral networks
With arms
Open
Another tool up the sleeve
Of the creative sorcerer
But paint me soul
Paint me passion
Over matters grey
And the truth of beauty
We will take to our grave
Closed

British Wrestling

Eee y’ bugger!
Tek that!
Cries Sybil, 52
Darlington Dolphin Centre 1982
This is British wrestling
As not his real name
Takes another oversized handbag
To the brain
Claret pours from
His ugly head
Me gran weren’t one
For that type of language
But things that were needed
Were bloody said

Up and down the country
Civic halls
Placed the lycra’d
Local big lads in the
Blue rinse coliseum
It’s baby face v
Out of towner
Let’s guess who plays the villain

The industrial language rains
The blood flows
The masks fall
The nudges wink
The sherry loving sports reporters
Give their critiques with a clink
It’s a fix!
It’s bloody not!
See you at’ next one
On the dot!

Before the starry night
Bleeds into day
Backstage
The 3rd division
Fat lads undo their boots
Shake hands
Spit their fees on
Bitter pints
Tabs and buses
To take the
Pain away
Before the inevitable
Clothesline
From the missus

Ticks in Burning Boxes

They walk without shoes
Through the Mississippi mud
Of national pride

The bullet headed
Put ticks
In burning boxes
On ballot forms
They’re burning crosses
Tell me it’s brave
When this sweatshop pyre
Smokes
With the ghosts
Of the enslaved

In the red zone
These ineligible
Information receivers
Cut off
Their own jock-straps
To spite their faces
And when they
Talk about
Fought and died
They should
Look to the other side

To the other side
Where those
With heads held high
Where those
Not under stars or stripes
Where those just trying to qualify
Equally
Have fought
Have died

Look to the other side
You’ll see me
You'll see many
Taking a stand
Taking a knee
Creating a more powerful
Display of loyalty
To our fellow
Than their
Ad man's wet dream
Of patriotism
Will ever be

Nudge Nudge

Thumpin’ buttons down t’
Supposed piss hole
Is never over
But the
Pokey Pints are
That cheap
And the not so
Cheap pints are
Not so cheap
But
Could you
Hold
And nudge
In the thumping bright lights?
Could you
Hold
And nudge in the bright lights?
Could you
Hold and thumping
Never judge?

Harsh Book Fair

Even the willowy exceptional face
With the unavoidable glazed gaze
Has an expression
That stays behind in the stalls
Stalls that make mouths into
Wobbly lines
Bored
While out front egos
Press the flesh
The extroverted
Stroke their folk
Like their pricks
With wishes dealt
As back slapped back stabbed jokes
As three card tricks

As we go through the day
The sun has no rays
In this casino
The females especially
On tables field
Questions inappropriate and weird
As the literati do the
Business card shuffle
Most of which
That worst of words
‘Nice’
Is the monosyllabic soundtrack
To the most of a day
Living in
A wanker’s paradise

It All Smells of Scotch

‘And you know why it rains all the time?
2nd worst in the country’
Says the late night
Youth hostel fella
Over his botched job
Of court holding
With his beer and
His beard in his socks

As you don’t get why the long legs
Love the light so much
There’s nothing in it for them
There is not
And it all smells of scotch
The grass the damp tab ends
The blisters
Smell of scotch
The foot ointment
The beard you never wanted
The socks
The bag
The flap
All smell
Of scotch
The rain
Is single malt

The morning turnout we realise
The queuing rudeness in his eye
Looks like scotch
And the breakfast
YHA know it alls with their
High-tech routes
And cock-sure non-stops
Couldn’t even spell the word
And while you ask a simple
Over eggs
They pour a double knowledge
Down your neck
Without even fucking
Asking
Lycra cyclists
At least they smile
So you repair to them
Their loneliness
With a raised glass
And the shower pubicles
In toenails
Spell out scotch
And the boot squelch
Steps to the ooze of it
And the corners of your outdoor mouth
Feel like scotch
And then you climb
Over
And up
And over
And you see that
Eversmooth body
Of Viking water
And you add
A drop or two of
To your scotch
And it smells of sense

Scotch Tanka

Scotch is a blend of
The stuff you can’t always get
With the stuff you want
With the stuff you think you are
But cheaper a bit rougher

Helvellyn Back

She punches fear
Above her weight
And she’s pretty fucking heavy
She’s going nowhere mate

You can dance with her little sisters
If you like
But there’s gils of tears
For the reservoir of who we are
From those who think they like it rough

It’s here aghast
The vast mist topped declares
Come and have a go
If you think you’re hard enough

Hipsters on Hills - A Tanka

Apply some android
Application to contoured
Graduations with
Avocado bravado
But on green tops bottle it

Quickanoia Tanka

It comes goes quickly
Paranoia as quick as
Fingers two you flick
And we do too cigarette
But I saw you my prick

Bathroom Tanka

Depressive bathroom
Where porcelain thoughts prevail
Imagine white tiles
Where blood on scratchplates are what
Guitar heroes might have been

American Hands Free

American suit
Hands free
Minus Jacket’s
At it -
“I think I’m losing my mind”
I say -
Stop having a word with us
And have a word with yourself
Instead

We are our handwriting

Handwriting is life
Enjoy it
Some important things are written badly
In books that are never read
Too much time doodling
Often it looks like a mess
Though doodling is important
Not enough time practicing critical bits
Sometimes it gets better
Sometimes it gets shit
Put all together
It doesn’t flow as it should
Sometimes the ink runs out
There are blots
Mistakes
Bits to be discarded
Re-read
Sometimes it’s perfect
And brilliant
But when it’s handed in
And all done and said
It’ll look up at
From the
Basketball bin
With a
Try harder
In bold
In red

Gerda Taro Rolls

Gerda Taro

She stole a march
With the arch of an eyebrow
As starched collars
Some air craft carrier pigeons flirted
Round the dependablity of her desk
For crumbs of imagery
With notes written
Between front lines
And human humour applied
To bears with sore heads
The rolls pause time
And capture full glasses
And dregs

While the beret of history
Prevails
And claws on last legs
Once the patronisation is stripped
With it’s schisms
And attritions
And finally
She holds
Recognition
So we
Capture this

And hold on

The Tax Collectors

I sometimes avoid
The tax collectors
It’s not that I don’t want to
Pay the tax
I just don’t always
Have the cash
I know where they sit
I know where they stand
Where they wonder
I feel relief when they aren’t there
Then I ponder
I worry
What if they haven’t
Collected enough tax
And for weeks they haven’t
Collected enough tax
And now they can’t
Collect tax anymore

I assume
To make myself feel better
That they’ve collected
Enough tax and
Everything’s ok
They can sleep maybe
They’ve found work lines maybe
That doesn’t
Involve being on the street
Collecting tax
Everyday
Let’s say

Don’t get me wrong
I’m happy to pay my tax
I wish I could pay it all
I wish the best
For those who collect -
Some of the most positive people
I’ve met
They just have to collect tax
So have a bad rep
But like most taxpayers
I do what I can
With the only resentment
That those who
Can the most
Don’t the most

Some are violent
Towards tax collectors
Get a job
They say
But if real tax was organised
In the right way
There’d be no need
For more
Tax collectors
Down every street
Down everyday

Damaged Goods and Braised Cabbage

Damaged Goods
And braised cabbage
It’s queasy cane taps
And ale flasks
It’s easily Jesus the
Nauseating impact
Of years on these
Cobbled streets
His tired eyes
Drew spectacle rings
Round what’s
Been going on round here
And with that going on daily
He began to hate his ears