I looked for Neil Dovestone, for a bit.

I looked for Neil Dovestone, for a bit
(With thanks to The Sonics).

Like all good walks,
Your sleuth begins
With a crawl.
Some folks like water,
Some folks like wine,
But i like the taste
Of straight strychnine.

Past dry stoned-walled
Teenage handbrake-turn corners
In 80s cars bought in the 90s.
I shake hands with this bar called Clarence.
Pub’s not working.
Not middle.
Just class.

A Navvie, a Commie and
Some Pendle Witches
Walk in wellies
Not me,
I'm past rugby league pitches,
Up past archers’ dwellings,
Wi’ John Willie Lees
T' ‘mountains’.
‘Mountains?’
Nay, lad, just ‘ills these.

Our victim,
Of what we know
Had overseas steel from
Knee to toe,
A Euston train without
An aim?
A ton thirty of tenners
For when the fat lady sings?
For who?
The wine is red,
Poison is blue,
Strychnine is good
For what's ailing you.

Strings sour,
Down wings,
Of misty dribble.
Head bowed, upwards.
The rainwater in tracks
Glows distant moon blue.
Glistens like the
Crystal swan, in the
Down there,
Christmas-lit window of the
Middle stone terrace.
Fissures of molten
Intergalactic lava,
Mixed in with sulphurous
Farm smell
The crags in the rock
Mimic the elbow crease
Of a Native American scalper.

Afar, the expanse of deep watery
Drown-thee dread of a
Hypnotic wind
Skips the midnight reservoir
In to an Artex ceiling
From the film Vertigo.
Who'd kill one dove
With 2 stones?
Thee’s a Mystery,
Four ghostly five,
Six helicopters,
Seven strychnine.

It’s down, now, detective, down.
Half cocked in London dress.
Make it to the next
Distant landladied
“You alright love...?” pub.
An archipelago of bitter pints
Aligned wi’ Sheik Rory o’ Yorkshire.

I ponder ‘pon the case in hand.
Beats me, this
Walter anonym-Mitty.
But if you listen to what I say,
You'll try strychnine some day.
Make you jump, it'll make you shout,
It'll even knock you out.

Rest in Peace
John Lytton

I like trees

I like trees,
You can sit under them and write about them.
Our leaders are like trees,
We sit under them and write about them.
I like chainsaws.

Pre-match peaceful pub poem #1

Peaceful Pre-match Pub Poem #1

 

The sun glints off the arse of a

Tennants tin in the scruff of the

car park. The weed of expectation

 

pokes it’s head through crack of the

day, as The Eagle and Tun in the

city of Brum, takes us in before noon.

 

Our six-foot host’s FA cup-coloured

whiskers, point “The Only Way is Up” –

No. 1 in the charts, last time these

 

snooper’s walls were licked by paint,

not darts. Perfect peaceful empty pub,

pints down, pool elbows sharp,

 

before the swall of a John Martin

painting, this more a John Martin

song, spot-on for the mood.

 

The blackboard boasts:

“Traditional Curry”

and strangely, also “Food”.

 

The scent is an ale and Bombay mix,

the carpets nod to Persian, the

jukebox plays any song you want,

 

as long as it's the reggae version.

There’s time and space to contemplate,

there’s bleachy pristine bogs,

 

some may say this part of town, has

gone all to the dogs, but here I find a

proper peace, on a blue-nose

 

blue-collar patch. The sunny, nervous,

half-cut hour, shame we spoiled it

by going to the match.

Last Christmas, I Made Me This Jumper

“Fucking Christmas again”
He says again, as he glances up
From the half-empty December calendar.
It's 4pm, the time that when,
Work Friday drinks chink near,
The chimes of import lager, to alleviate his fear.
Fucking Christmas party plans bounce off beige bureau walls,
On the day before, the annual bore
Of the office party scene.
Where the corporates play at love
An’ Guantanamo his dreams.
Where arrogance is currency,
The flock follow their profits,
Force the fun prescriptively,
‘Tween people that he hates.
“Fuck it” he thinks and walks on out,
Vowing to change his ways.

Trouble is see, to anger-up, close-down,
Fall-out with the world,
Is a waste of time and energy
And he doesn’t have much of that.
So with 5 gold pints and a spring in his step,
He walks on, thinks on, sleeps like a cat.

“Why get so annoyed?” - his morning thought
He doesn't have a telly - no ads to be bothered at,
He never trips down Oxford street – like a sheepish retail twat.
He likes Roy Wood, He likes The Slade,
He fucking loves The Pogues
So why take out the anger, on people he barely knows?
“Fuck it” he says (and he says that a lot), the day is fucking here,
Grabs last year’s Christmas jumper, runs out the door.

Skips past the annual pre-party pub he'd always go to,
To get steaming, get late, get to the do,
Succeed in getting punched
Fail to get fired
And regret it all ‘till next year.
He skips all that, smiles at a dog and feels good for a change.

Gets to the do, all decked out, orders a Bells,
Talks to Holly from accounts.
Shakes some hands, pecks some cheeks,
The usual Christmas jumpers are out:
Flashing reindeers, tinsel Jackson Pollocks.
Eschews the gloom, enjoys the room,
The menu boasting scallops.
He grins with his mithering manager,
With the same voice of Jane Horrocks.
Then horror hits! Gut hits the floor,
Forgets what all the joy is for,
His sweaty face, a picture of
One that has been walloped.
In the massive mirror, sees himself
Feels that he will collopse.
He's wearing last year's jumper! (Fuck)
T’ himself, his brain, it rollocks!
No frills, but hand cut, hand stitched letters
White on black
Which loudly spell out
“Bollocks”

cov451 (Mark Coverdale)

Oddball Faux Rock n' Roll Joe

Oddball faux
Rock n' Roll Joe,
Fiddles and picks
Orange pips
From teeth
Gnashed between
The 7th and the 8th,
On a lowly pew,
Wi' overpriced
IPA sips.

Get the surveyors in
To look at this,
It's drastic, mate.
Not the
Peeling ceiling,
It's the
Somehow free-wheelin'
With less than 5 bob,
In this half-packed
Afternoon rub-a-dub.

Scratchcard table propped
Goths in the corner
Stay away.
He's always
Ligging in the rigging,
But never
Twigging...
Til one day a fat
Rock tattooed fist
WILL put his scrawn
Four-to-the-floor.

He once was Elvis.
His hands' wrinkles were
Filled with plaster dust.
Now they gape as
Openly as his gob an'
His barmaid directed lust.

With a hops n' scotch stumble,
Waves in the phrase:
"To hell with this!"
All knowing that:
This cider black sticky floor,
For tomorrow,
Be his, for a bit,
Once more.

2016

Cov 451

The Lasses Stand Many

The lasses stand many.
Have done for yore.
Amassed, aplenty
They've macked,
They've tacked.
These forestry sentinels.

'Till greedy wind
From Establishman
Without pause (!) causes
A callous decision,
Which grows on
This beating heart.

But! Such pulsating show,
Not beaten yet,
Wind can be farmed
With natures deft.
Ne'er be still
This wicked,
Cutting breeze.
For mighty ant
Rufuses heed.
For it's one of millions
In this bosom,
Can put a stop to
Self-promotion and
Eat the foundations
Of high and mighty
Tree-housed nations,
Shift fragile twigs,
Build the nests for
Brethrens' bones
And repair this
Narcissistic wooden
Heart.

"Las" in Polish means "Forest"
Search this:
#kochampuszcze
It's incredibly important.
Dziękujemy.

Pointlessly Perfectly Pleasantly Pervades Purpose

He holds the object of his lust too close
When 'companied by his closest mate
Who feel the distance at this boring point
In an pointless pub and an England friendly.

The two feint like Gazza leaving patronising tones in their wake
And the defensesless on her backside,
For although
It is unsaid,
But all about that.

Mordern lads' with media hair
And bench-pressed weights to compare
Until their brotherly love is back
To being spread thinly like Philadelphia cheese on the gluten free toast of life,
By the Infadel of superficial beauty unavailable at 0% interest.

Preened cats having a six grand pork scratch
Pondering and trying before buying
The sap
In a badly converted forest
Where wolves stuck together once, honest
And only hunted when nessecary.

One confused woodpecker.
Two plaid-shirted loggers.