We are our handwriting

Handwriting is life
Enjoy it
Some important things are written badly
In books that are never read
Too much time doodling
Often it looks like a mess
Though doodling is important
Not enough time practicing critical bits
Sometimes it gets better
Sometimes it gets shit
Put all together
It doesn’t flow as it should
Sometimes the ink runs out
There are blots
Mistakes
Bits to be discarded
Re-read
Sometimes it’s perfect
And brilliant
But when it’s handed in
And all done and said
It’ll look up at
From the
Basketball bin
With a
Try harder
In bold
In red

Gerda Taro Rolls

Gerda Taro

She stole a march
With the arch of an eyebrow
As starched collars
Some air craft carrier pigeons flirted
Round the dependablity of her desk
For crumbs of imagery
With notes written
Between front lines
And human humour applied
To bears with sore heads
The rolls pause time
And capture full glasses
And dregs

While the beret of history
Prevails
And claws on last legs
Once the patronisation is stripped
With it’s schisms
And attritions
And finally
She holds
Recognition
So we
Capture this

And hold on

The Tax Collectors

I sometimes avoid
The tax collectors
It’s not that I don’t want to
Pay the tax
I just don’t always
Have the cash
I know where they sit
I know where they stand
Where they wonder
I feel relief when they aren’t there
Then I ponder
I worry
What if they haven’t
Collected enough tax
And for weeks they haven’t
Collected enough tax
And now they can’t
Collect tax anymore

I assume
To make myself feel better
That they’ve collected
Enough tax and
Everything’s ok
They can sleep maybe
They’ve found work lines maybe
That doesn’t
Involve being on the street
Collecting tax
Everyday
Let’s say

Don’t get me wrong
I’m happy to pay my tax
I wish I could pay it all
I wish the best
For those who collect -
Some of the most positive people
I’ve met
They just have to collect tax
So have a bad rep
But like most taxpayers
I do what I can
With the only resentment
That those who
Can the most
Don’t the most

Some are violent
Towards tax collectors
Get a job
They say
But if real tax was organised
In the right way
There’d be no need
For more
Tax collectors
Down every street
Down everyday

Damaged Goods and Braised Cabbage

Damaged Goods
And braised cabbage
It’s queasy cane taps
And ale flasks
It’s easily Jesus the
Nauseating impact
Of years on these
Cobbled streets
His tired eyes
Drew spectacle rings
Round what’s
Been going on round here
And with that going on daily
He began to hate his ears

Reach Out

There’s enough reaching out
To make the Four Tops proud
In these hipster Coffee shops
Trouble is there’s
Too much reaching out
Not enough Four Tops

The Beauty of Portraits

The beauty of portraits
Is you can make enemies of them
For looks y’ can mark then out 10
Fall in love in the 18th century
Get divorced in ‘37
Raise a toast eyeball to eyeball
With men who killed men
Then fall in love
All over again
With bar room girls
Flower sellers
Refugees
President’s wives
Survivors
Cellar dwellers
From places
With faces quixotic
And of anytime exotic
And like time
Only we will judge
And oh!
We will judge
While the galleries remain free
We will judge

Self Importrait

His neck a snapped drill bit
This interwar bore
This preposterous slick
On his opiate arse
For you he sits

His poison poise
Inoculates
The good space
Between your ears
A chalice of finery
He raises to you
And your common beers

But he’s been framed
By his own glasses
Caught by his own regard
Backed into a corner
By his own visage
And spread thin
As thin as his lips
On the canvas
By several accurate licks
This Count is out
You’re free to go now
So on you goes