FROM BOX VIEWS
DUST MATTERS THE
ANGLE OF SKEWERS
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
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
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