Autumn stone's on the upstroke/ Hammond crack for me almanac
Tuesday, 14 September 2021
Monday, 6 September 2021
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
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
Monday, 9 August 2021
overrun with pennies
gigantic international jobs
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
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
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,
Us stride in strife, in strike —
for we's our only ever betters.
First published in Feathers and Pennies
when cookery people's
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
Friday, 30 July 2021
Monday, 5 July 2021
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
Wednesday, 5 May 2021
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.
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
Friday, 16 April 2021
Tuesday, 30 March 2021
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