Barbed Wire

The barbed
Wire salesman,
Approached the
Slogan
Thus:
‘Lighter than air,
Stronger than whisky,
Cheaper than dust.’

For keeping
Cattle from
Other cattle.
In wild western
Spiked steel they trust.

In the Somme they
Thrust upon.
On the prison wall,
On the railway bridge,
Concentrate.
In camps,
Where heads and souls
Are bust;
‘Lighter than air
Stronger than whisky
Cheaper than dust’

Head Office

Close by
Carriage C
Chris calling
Clinton Cards
Head office
Can’t corral
Construction
Company
Contractors
Cancelation
Confused
Corporate
Conversation
Cajoling
Colleagues

If the branch
Has no power
They aren’t trading
Pounds per hour
This quarter
Chris wonders
If these people
Ought to
Have power
His
Robotic semiotics
Punctuated
At the
Counter productive
Calls conclusion
With a “Fucks sake”
And pounds
The empty seat in front

Workplace - A Bosnian Tanka

At the edge they stood
Assumed positions as if
It was workplace but
No place for neighbours with guns
To bury neighbours with none

The Godfather of Dole

His language used to be industrial.
Then it were desperate,
Now it's academic.

His heart,
Closed and blackened,
Like the slag-heaped upon
Bits of pits which
Dig bits of
Physical ticks that twitch
And conflagrate
And agitate
The propped nature of
His strong fragility,
His hard sinewed inability
To comprehend,
What they call
The end.

Twisted,
Wheeled monuments
Astride the landscape,
Like rugby league
Prop-forwards.
Heads down grafting,
Huge shoulders strain,
To scrum the earth,
Extract the ball,
Pass it on
From theirs before,
Who've passed it on
From theirs before,
Who'll pass it on
To theirs no more.

Stick a miner's hat on
The policeman’s baton,
The excessive force
From the perspective
Of a skewed directive.
Game no more.
Faith no more.
Work no more.
‘84.

Red cabbage blood spots
On the grey scale pitch.
Tip buckets filled
For battered pride n’ chips.
Legs set, backs bent,
Arms out for the onslaught.
Give blood,
Play rugby,
Play war.

The crowd that
Engaged and
Doffed caps to
Hand-offs and
Nose-cracks,
Are now enraged,
And off caps for
Hand outs,
For lives back.

This is Northern
Soul-shaking,
Back-breaking music.
This ain't no
Wilson Picket song.
This tune's 33 year-old
Played at 33 revolutions P.M.
By The Godfather of Dole.

Wake up Maggie,
I think I've got something to
Say to you…

Queen Ham Pop

(All fun in The Sun)

As queens take each other on
Draught style
The most boring Geordie we’ve ever met
Regards the revellers
Middle aged

In t’ times of their lives

Solid types in liquid dresses
Glamorous girls and
Dance floor mixers
Wi’ ‘I’m not gay or owt’ lads
On amyl nitrate to the karaoke
Tongues the texture of suede

In t’ Bradford on the tiles

Between bouncers
Flouncers and nails
Long lashes and fake knockers
The adverts on the telly scroll
Queens
Ham Sandwich
Poppers
Queens
Ham Sandwich
Poppers

Prize Plum - A Tanka

The Eton tosspot
Politics lecture does fade
Into lunacy
As the plum is popped from the
Gob of this simpering tit

Abutted Toast

Half cut
Points abut
Like council meeting minutes,
Or unlucky sods
Who bump
The big man
On the the way
To the bogs.
In the back of the head
It seems sincere,
But they’re all
Out front
Round here.