Dummy

The shiny minded

in this mangled moment

empty smashed packets from

shorts too short for their own pockets.

Even empty bottles have weight

and break and blow where

everything shows and

flows as it's already

quarter past far

too late. 

Hypocrisy Tweet

Gait of bacon stoops the tannoy for the next world guff. In awe he thinks we are. Pat rules screech the nation. We stitch scraps.
He cleans up down stepstools to an unlimited. Jags off, fuckem shouts. 'Lectric window, lobs it out.
A1 kids catch the bag.
This our cat?
Never, lads.

Jones' Poem

They're keeping up
Like the clappers
While still breathing

Blakey

I love the look of fire alarms. 

Wink waiting for the fire

that plastic look of buttoned cheek, 

shall realise that the rich

even this petty peak, 

have stolen

everything. 

The Long Walk Home

There was no football today. 

Time is now a prize to be eaten.

Alive, are the curtain twitchers, 

ounting cold coffee cups, bars on

heaters in rhythm with the vidi printer.

I'm lucking past indoors, where I know,

inside feels like winter. A porch. 

She keeps her head down there.

I’m past fixed set frowns. A torch. 

He hides his record in there, where

mat painted post is scared of itself 

and she is simply laying down.

The 'ee!! Iife eh? commonality adverts,

as if life was Coronation St. 

Crumb confinement for solitary some.

There's somehow sick, on this beat. 

A crouching builder Slavic saddened,

a man fills an already full bin.

Magpies on chips and dogs over

three-legged loved cats, fight. 

I chew through garage lands where

Tesco keeps the tree bag flying,

Jason keeps Lambrettas, 

a geezer kept his sleeper, 

until yesterday. His bird will sing.

I'm past bawdy bars, behind boarded bars, 

where they knock, but they don't ring.

No more time, gentlemen please.

We're still 1 up, before 5 minutes of extra

and 5 down, after 1 minute of closing.

Time is tight, round here.

Wasteman

I AM A FREE
I AM NOT MAN
34,467

A Book Title and Other Stuff, Cut-Up #5

Caffeine, was like a strut down

Fear Street. The hunger joy of the

dog volunteer whistling Who songs, 

was no act, on the way to the

Bosnian verses Blake match. 

Past that old brown statue,

but he wouldn't snoop for

all the pubs in Newcastle. 

Kick him in the Peanuts Me Old Son! 

Grow your own Ball! Good Play! 

- flying down the wing, until felled like a

Corona Stone. On 8 minutes, a booking. 

At half-time: There's Class Lasagne, 

Bird Pies, The Benefits of Charlie,

Hey, You Ate All the Glue! 

The future saw your turn 

with the fixer end the fun. 

It ended one-all and no one won.

… and he reached into his tin of stablish mints

The

Leather

Desk jock

Key string puller

Of phantom limbs

Spelled out his score

Well up on the language of war

Well up on the language of war

Well up on the language of war

A Letter from Anthony Hill

The arrogants climb the hill,

soily mob footed. 

"We allus have it" 

They chant in unison. 

As a result, some fuck off

to join another can. 

Can sycophants are atop a' ready, 

drinking the liquor's arse and dance. 

In a shallow 'neath a cross, 

The dilettantes offer a toast

"To the cod psychos". Connected,

they eat aspirations and finger

for an excuse to bin the lecture off

and forget the where of

the paper on recyclability stance. 

Happening to be ants. 

And I'm much more not

than you. Respair and

wig out chaps,

with thanks. 

Some Crumby Tanka

Say some built my box

From what's frittered ego crumbs 

And it's not dead good

I can get back in easy

If someone 'live' nods I should

Tick Tock Tanka

The clap bag's emptied
To crumbs sewn scattered for old
Machines tear new ones
Clocking packet masks from the
Fifth biggest to the second

As He'd have it, Marijne the Lady of the Flies

When software went regional

and lost its own map, he asked,

"Can I kiss you horrendously?", all hyped-up

and disorganised. Nothing worse than a part-time 

perfectionist with only half an idea, shame-faced and satin-eyed, "You can be as wild and free as

you want to be, but it doesn't mean you're any good!"
It left his lips in bits.

(I dunno, I just plough it out).

She, breaking down the clown barrier,

"I need a compass" said, "and all I get is bricks". (it was then asked that minutes passed).

Over a briefcase, staring, he tripped,

"It only works if you keep an eye on it" 

Her reply, proper dry, "Cry, it's good for you". 

(I really don't like men to smell of anything). 

He store out his window, with a half-eye on the blue inanimate that scares to rust

the clearing in the woods. Fingers in ears, 

he drew cartoon dynamite and blew,

"If only we didn't have flies", so camply angry, he'd let the dog do all the talking.

(You were always in the favour of the lion tamer). The truth under a roof, and final.

In this streuth and strewn, he had the thought of selling coal in the north, but settled shallow,

to compose a ballad for the lead singer of Salad. It played heavy and unnecessary, and was

obviously shite.