Daylight Rubbery

Swear down
The morning
Tastes of rubber
Not eraser
The cursor’s where
Your mouth is moored
These boots
Are liquid salt
And things
I can yet afford

The Olive Branch Commander’s Bent

The Olive Branch Commander’s bent
We’re over pick an apple barrel bent
Frequent
No matter of the force we meant
Our leaking taps of scraps for rent
Dissent
Dressing the salad house in Kent
The snakes in grass skirts won’t relent
The Olive Branch Commander’s bent

Out

The fire
Left the fence
As a Frank Kline painting
Then
Like a kid
Before makeup
Was out in twenty

Unmanned Landing

The subtext
Of his subterfuge
Was to park
His fuselage
Without life
Being screwed

The Game is Fowl

Time is up
To which we sup
The death of mystery
Births faken history
Racked brains on racks
Are strained
And imagination snaps
The goose is cooked as
Facts from
Chickens plucked
Ping back
The hunts
Line up their ducks
As turkeys cast
Their votes
The tailors cut
Their tin foil suits
And prepare
To stitch us up

Font Anna

Font
Anna

Tant
Flow

Slash
House

Dill
Pits

Roundel
Scoundrel

Face
Lift

Elken
Issue

Brass
Angle

An
Ad

Con
Quo

Brew
Drop

Taint
Spout

Ameri
Stops

A Phrase I Hate

A phrase I hate

When talking ‘bout his chosen job,

He said “I literally fell into it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tom Daley”

So I let him off, a bit.

Canvas Houses

In canvas houses
All clever thin
We write and blow
From out to in
Till mercy ships in
Docks the lash
For now the still
    Or so we think
As wind will soon as
Screw us up and
Pick us for the bin
Then we realise
We don’t decide
The how or when
Of anything

Black and Shite Friday

Black & Shite Friday

Clock on to this:
Where
The wind behind
Black Friday sails,
Stinks no end,
Where
Human rights fail.

Where
If your gender
Makes you sick,
This time of month?
Tough shit!
Where
You’ve worked
12 straight
Docked toilet breaks?
‘S not good enough, is it?!

Where
No fucks are given
For mouths you feed,
As rows of yous
Top table wait,
There’s none
For your plate,
My mate.
Fuck off home,

Hands off our crumbs,
You’ve zero hours and
Six strikes son,
Where
Pros are nothing,
It’s all just cons.
The tannoy barks
This battery life,
Your card is marked
They’re watching you
‘Scum’.

Clock out to this:
Where
The road to Wigan pier
Is set,
Graft three more
Without your pay, or
There’ll be no work
Tha’ ‘morrow, pet.
Where
It’s workhouse rule,
It’s a life threatener,
Down Ashley’s
Shirebrook
Detention centre.

Mark Coverdale
#AshleyOut

Lap-Topping

‪There’s a dog the size‬‬

Of a large child

Sniffing ancient carpet

& builder’s boots

I’m breaking teeth

On scratchings

Where time & pride

Are in cahoots

They’re lap-topping

Down the local

& missing all the action

Their only words

Are Wi-fi passed 

Say it again

As before I have said

They’re keeping this pub

Alive 

They’re keeping this pub

Dead

ERG

Penfold manifested
Mickey Mouse iron vested
With a smattering of Latin
To give their intelligence a flattering
Political malignants
Facilitating ignorance
Since 1993
The ERG

Unity Parks It’s Dog

Parks
Are cricket games
In headscarves
Grandma cheering from
Her foldaway seat
To an ice cream van version
Of Beethoven’s Fur Elise

Parks
Are dad/son kick-abouts
When knee high to a grasshopper
Are Chardonnay laid down
Without the screw top stopper

Parks
Are where shiny new football tops
Kick empty tins
With names on backs that
Weren’t parlance
The last time ‘they’ won anything

Parks
Are a peaceful hours work
For the self employed outdoors
Uncaged
Are a peaceful hours kip
For the unhoused and unwaged

Parks
Are sniffing grounds
For the four legged waggers
For community support officers
For insta snappers snapping flowers
For skunk aficionado swaggers

Parks
Are where fertile roots grow
Where every colour is
Knowingly complicit
Where thoughts
Are rife
Where life’s
The soundtrack so
Leave the headphones at home
Take a book
And pay your local
A regular visit

The Visit

Carnations fail,
Where winds from
Pterodactyl wings
Prevail.

Cast open
Wasteland shadows,
In which through
Perished grass,
Thrusts this’ll
Beak of iron.

The cut up,
Is from seventy two below
To eighty four inch,
Which sticks out a foot,
Over which
We still trip.

Beady vultures
Keen-eyed,
From crooked trees,
In petrified woods,
In Lowry skies
Watch strangle weeds
Round necks
Of equipment collapsed.
We try to revive and oil
This futility
Done for graft,
But it runs deep
This decay
It runs deep
This past.

It juts the death
Of industry gears
Buried heavy clay.
Looms large size.
Sleepers rot,
Ropes untwist,
Steeples plummet,
Stories mist,
Chains still bind though,
Just so you know,
Just a reminder.

Paint this scene
With tar brush;
There’s the
Works’ washed out,
Devastated
Black and blue
In valleys grey,
Where carbon red
Streams ‘tween
Haunted rock and
Riven bed.

There’s death wash,
In the gobs
Of the forgotten,
Because
The witch,
You thought was dead,
Isn’t.

So force a whistle
Through blood drained lips.
Sit this desolate bench with
Plaque engraved
In memory.
Rest your broken backs.
Pull out your bait,
Pull out your corks,
For the end
For the final shift.

Look below,
Look beneath
How we’re judged,
Through the carved up
Way back home
We trudge,
While atop that
Parliament hill
They can’t see,
But they still sit,
Still judge.

Now,
Hide your children,
Hide your old,
Unfortunate,
Unable,
Your pregnant,
Your ill from
Grave to cradle,
Under the
Yet to be climbed
Stair.
And beware.

The time looms.
Like death,
The knock’ll come eventually,
For the inherently branded,
Tarred the same,
Ignored,
Carpet brushed
And long grass kicked,
Quietly fighting
Biting winds
And loaded fists
Just to exist.
No muscle move.
As colour drains
From frail faces,
Feeble mouths ask
If time is up.
Is it?
Once again,
Hush now,
It’s lights out,
For here
Comes
The visit.

The Sort of Shit People say on Twitter - A Tanka

Mash’s bit lumpy
But hey, so’s life right? Maybe.
A bit of Twitter
Philosophy’s on me plate
Mate, join in, it’s all gravy.