Tuesday, 21 September 2021

Monday, 6 September 2021

a theatre of bream on a bike



nice scarf she said

100% synthetic I said

like jubilee doors squeezed

from tubes to stop the falling 


queen that bloody pleabargain yeah

the review read four star and

the unleaded pencils tookover

the spencertracy takeaway 


noted the tuesdaynight breakout

grooved the spinningdicks cut south

waxing their extraneous gout

borders as guardas and pandered


nuns pistolwhipped the tripdown

the lane called st louis memory

sweetjazz had lost its charm

the theatreposters were all tory


the largeman in the toilet was

offering a goodkicking for a

quid sunderland snakes played an

eightbot game named fuckthehumans


the bikerace was won by a smartdog

who couldn't even spell the warondrugs

listless fuckers rocked frocks

with those who chose pegs fornoses


as the callingcurtain closed she shot

her glancingblow fucking sue me groovy

and the mice in his glassjaw

bared their arses to the world


oldham's finest flyover


flaming lamborghinis greet us

lizardgreen in the twitch of a


praha 64 dankhouse near the

wreck of debenhams, flowery.


tenstoried sixthformers, all plaidtrad or

pulpfantistic, in vaguely matchingsocks and


godfathergarb, nod the latest bongo

flavored indiehit, to whispers ‘bout blood


sharers. piccadally types, ten

bobeye flit with the offswitch of the


neveraging kickbouncer, us

eyelocked on the bab-eh-fut,


channelling exhibition #7.

as the indoorsmoke separates, that


fellaoffthetelly david icke, greybobs

through the methanic mist –


'scues me, where's the gents?

while high as the parakeet hotel,


eyes and digits are heaven lent,

an acousticidiot lumps a


marshall in the corner, and a

tinsign ads a soap box, in the event. 


Wednesday, 18 August 2021

Tuesday, 17 August 2021




nie dla mnie it’s only bullet holes

and tripping tribute museums nah

for me it’s a dance of naïvejoy deftdrafted of

ediblywarm suncrack’d backslaps from the

oldboys it’s a sketch on the back of a

politicallyshite flyer of a folkflower tattoo in a 

brutalistbar in an alien hiphop frozen

vodkabuzz for the strongarm of the

most beautiful cousin you’ve not met


Running the Country for Them


Monday, 9 August 2021

life's very voodoo



butchered bores

overrun with pennies


gigantic international jobs


own nests



dogs of

canary wharf machinery


days of stats



the mouth of london

'twas a honey taste to him


was due a werewolf turn

in the smoke 

the adamant review


these wild works of theatre


life's very voodoo

Sunday, 8 August 2021

Jam Sandwich

there's a box in the head, there's a head in a box, there’s handcuffs, there's trauma, post-mortem, a tick in a box, there's a case in a wastepaper bin that's bin dropped, there's rag-accusations, there are sheep, there are flocks, there's a trial, there's a trail, there's a chicken, there's pox, there's an institution swearing publicly, to pull up itss ocks, there's a chief and a meeting and a waggon full of cops, there's a tape that's erased and a woman in the dock, there's boat taking folks in a sink on the rocks, there’s a cold calculator for counting the cost, there's an unwritten committee who have all the chops, there's all cats are beautiful, there’s hunting the fox, there's tea on the wall and the sirens won't stop, for the searching of children who they’re calling unwashed,

here’s the question: there's a police car, does it make you feel safe, scared or cross?

there’s a box in the head, there’s a head in a box, there's all of that bollocks ‘bout a communist plot, there's a professor at uni who’s assumed security, there’s a man on the socials on the subject of purity, there's political flops serving policy slops, there's a commiss’ner all draped in a flag with a cross, there’s a woman in the clink, I bet you’ve not seen her, there's an academic on telly who's mistook for a cleaner, there's a facebook opinion that voxes the pops, there's veins thin and blue and they're ready to pop, down your local borough and shop any brown boy who's hoping to get out of the stocks and stop all this street show of being publicly flogged, there’s a box in the head, there's a head in a box, there's a jack-boot, there’s fruit, there’s a tick in a box.

First published in Jarg 'zine #3

Wildcat Whiskey an’ a game a’ darts

he was a game of twohalves a play

in classacts a plaid salamander on a


yacht piano in a backarsed bar

the gap from trousercuff to loafer was


leathal bouncing like jerryleelewis's

bedhead splitminded scribing if


necessary violence picking violets for

his nan a d.a.’ed georgiefame on a


longsixties greyday all very kray

twinned with florence dressed texmex


newyoik rawmeat with smartsauce in a

backstreet boozer near you


guitar peccadilloes ginsweat

teardropping on his lapelbadge screaming


no requests! in any smashedfactory

window in any bigot's bureau singing


alltogethernow fly me gary

to the moon







for the striking Matchgirls

These given takers, Us taken givers.

Us nithering arms with shift alarms, 

from shafters, fruitless flee.

These frame the smog with hat and rod,

and want us criminal be. 

These corn cross dish to comfort mug,

Us mafficking sods in capital fog,

Us Monday mice, smoggy cogs of ditch

and chapel, duff and scratching toil.

These dainty doyles of telegraph fat,

shaved nape and plumb, curtsey

spend their surname spoils.

These division suiters, ledger scratch

with gimlet eye, toast peaks,

ink troughs with foul dispatches of

Us crumb condemned to exhaust and

quell in Standard daily rackets.

Us sallow grudge and sorrow trudge, but,

Us throng know where the meat is from.

Us dandelion nippers, burden sellers

of common blend, will smirk our end

in her pride’s eye, in suffer shirts, ‘till

wooded jackets with save-stitched bright,

united letters,

and forth,

Us stride in strife, in strike —

for we's our only ever betters.

First published in Feathers and Pennies


a 13 building cut-up

when cookery people's

underclothing screamed

their vintage, hollow, management

dreams, unique, they weighed

services, all new delhiblue at the

london tower teaschool. 

when i met patty's spanish mama 

that caféday, a mere 17, we

bubbled and pulsed like matched

mosquitos. It was complex

Wednesday, 4 August 2021

Predictable Art Flick

the painter of texas stray

soul's poor and white

and the summer trains are

bait for the paris riot. 

closely round the lighthouse rock, 

clings the cliché clover

observed, i am but a thief, –

just another brighton walkover. 

Friday, 30 July 2021

Monday, 5 July 2021




                   GET IT

Sunday, 20 June 2021


's always going to be redflashes

rightafter many a misery a

halfmonth's of contemplation of 

the way the gap in the bigtree

can make the pavementpurple all in a

surroundsound of occasional tweet and

crash of hollowaytraffic and i'm export 

left realising what home can be 

Thursday, 10 June 2021



         A BASTARD

         THE FUTURE'S


Wednesday, 5 May 2021

Two Two Glasglue


The Fluer de Lys sing a version of Circles, as her

long lens snapped at his. I didn’t put on my best for

this kiddy shite, the world is round the corner and man,

I want to hear the thud and bounce of ball on wall, an’ all

your doings are getting me soaked.


In this game, pigtailled charm, don’t cut it. You can

cast your heart if you like, but my trainers are spanking, this is

an orbit, in which I won’t admit, I want to glow too.

But, in these lines of best-fit, chewing on the words of others,

just makes me spew.

The Top 10 Things To Do In London's 4th Poorest Borough


How’s life in the smoke he said? I said, follow me –

We’ll greet the ex-drinker blagging a tab outside the boozer.

It’s all the aftercare he’s got. Where the old boys talk of when

Georgian was council, and the Irish pubs spilled out.

We’ll filter up the park, where those with gardens, write letters 

about those without. We'll bbq another dying library. 

We’ll trip the socially-cleansed churchyard, where the 

scaffolders stopped spitting on the homeless when the clips 

ran out. God, as ever, said nowt.

We’ll laugh at the bike-locked slippers outside the mosque, as 

the fella off the telly downs a miniature before the bus. There’s 

nowhere to sit these days for that amber buzz. 

We’ll refresh the commemorative flowers wilting on the site of 

another stabbing, on Supper street, by the café elite. 

We’ll sidle the queue on benefit day, snaking the same 

stretch as a baker's dozen estate agent's. It’ll take five minutes.

We’ll add up fag packet road closures, times by cycle lanes, equalling 

a fine of 65.

We’ll picture the Prime Minister’s old house lying canny

in a row. 

We’ll gentry-push towards the Emirates, past her cries for a quid, past

another ex-record shop, past our masters in high-viz. 

For tender is the bid, they’ll tweet about who’s won.

We’ll ask the support officer about community, they'll say – 

you’re in Islington now, son.

Friday, 23 April 2021


"Tackling the stigma of relying on foodbanks"

Yeah, let's

normalise poverty, 

weave it in our walk, 

stich it to our shmatta, 

and strut it down the street. 

No shame in using foodbanks.

All of it's for those who voted for them. 

Friday, 16 April 2021

Tuesday, 30 March 2021

make it clear / they call it chaos

make it clear / they call it chaos

a wounded deer on the straight road

though the pines. low on fuel and signal.

crows survey the failing light. burger sauce

on a national trust map.

it is not

confusing / complicated / hard to navigate /

or make sense of / it is

straight forward /

we are not in chaos /

we have turned sharp right

you know of those / who drove it that way

your job is to make them