Category: Poetry

Slam to that man who thinks too much

At every social sneeze,
you’re dissecting from your knees.
Stand up and surrender
to the inevitable breeze.
Time’s of essence.
You’re not a chat show host.
Return the microphone.
You’re burning life’s toast.
You’ve got her hair,
but there’s no mystic to your meg.
Your balls aren’t crystal.
Stop invading my head.
Catch your issues in tissues.
Dispose immediatley, it’s free.
Beer pumps are leaning back.
Don’t waste the sun, just be.
History is not you.
My past isn’t today.
Flush your textbook nonsense.
We’ve no room, go away.
Enjoy these crowded streets.
Decorated bars, dancing feet.
You are not on television.
We aren’t a Hollywood fleet.
Surrender your scripts.
Time’s being wasted too fast.
Already dead, over-worked head.
Within dreamless beds you bask.
Hung by the he and she saids.
You’re choking before our eyes.
We’ve been left with no air to provide
thanks to your impertinent pry.
Your blues will pop your skull
on a widescreen of serial woe
Salvage your soul and re-goal
You aren’t the drama you behold.

Duck Envy

it’s not even about the freedom
or else i’d spite the sparrows wings.
i just want to float, away from
payment procedures, data analysis –
tap, tap, tap.

when did it have to be hard work
to put one foot in front of the other,
open doors, fill kettles, destroying
any burning interest of the heart?

let me balance on gentle tides,
watch the boats and tourists
walk the bridge of horizon
and details swallowing lives.

yes, i’m happy to drift
in winds and chills if i must.
at least i’d have summer on the
reverse of office walls.

Visiting Gran

The wallpapered back of a
near empty kitchen closet
counting tinned meals passed
with stenciled patterns and
defunct cutlery.

Tubs of pickle, jam jars, bottles
of cooking fat or vinegar,
dried sauces strangling screw tops
and flour bags scrunched closed
years since home made efforts.

Flaking skirting bordering
grids of celebrated smiles, worn sofas,
the table banned from the paw prints
of many cursed, kicked but loved.

Soft steps leaking through ceiling
from around the snooker table’s lawn,
young intrigue turned age
avoiding the absence of things to say.

noisy door.

woken up at half seven
by a door slam out to her world
raging for lack of control
even though I’m due up too
as the night’s turrets fade
showers rinse and brekkie fills
before those hours ahead again
of procedure and patience
then, the second hand makes it,
gloved and scarved, now reversing
to microwaved, televised freedoms
spiralling into action replays
the eye lids easing up
pillows warming
colour upon clouds splashing
before another slam.

That Friday Feeling

Sitting at my internal window,
curd muffin crumbs crowding my lap,
sleepy slug fairies snooze on each eye brow
as fingers layer typing symphonies,
phones burping out cold calls and
paper humming beneath jet inked thoughts
in the creaky, carpeted corridor
between shifts and the swift outdoor breeze.

A Higher Horse

and so it turned out,
that the giant critic of idiots
had superiors above him,
dabbing black marks to his name
every time a thrown was creased,
leaving, at the day’s end,
through a looking glass –
much bigger than his own,
one more fool upon the tally.

West End Swell

Hot dog vans, dishing it out like crack.
Maccy D’s filling gluttony’s hole.
Pissy alleys offering it on a plate.
Vacant skulls holding out empty bowls.

Discount theatre tickets, cheap cocktails.
Each opportunity, too good to be true.
Strangers cruising the curbs of bars.
Spreading the loner’s most lethal flu.

Buttons on walls, filling crazy hands.
A night of tipsy syrup, one full day’s work.
Public toilets and river side winds,
where the lost and found go lurk.

Parked cars with their lights turned on.
Bus stop crowds of vomit and smoke.
Tacky limo parties slowly passing by.
Misplaced joy, thickening to choke.

Staggering beauty, heading home solo.
The cast of tomorrow’s news stream.
Loose flesh squeezing into cabs.
Regret oozing from bursting seams.

‘She started it’ turmoil echoes.
Rubbish carts stirring up dust.
And all of the above again in a week.
Deluded and lustful cycles, a must.

7.22pm on Curtain Road

Empty bars and reserved stalls
fill the stillness of nothing much
as the flocks of slight interest
prepare to arrive but never do
so the random sits, always alone
ripping beer mats and his heart
whilst remembering that time in Delhi –
an ear wash, 10 rupee cheap,
which for all of the loud, lonely noise
remains his biggest regret.

Passing time…

On a path to the now
I bumped into a cow
You doing are how?
Fine thank you pal
Then a cat went meow
So I leaned into a bow
Act did it foul?
Yes I cleaned up with a towel.
Before an owl then howled
Flying into a prowl
To eat a mouse with his jowl
To which I thought Ow!

Hair Or Not

Dads are like, really grown up aren’t they.
They’re like us, but double the age.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be a Dad.
I’d feed my little ones beans.
Cheap as chips is feeding little ones just beans.
I won’t like going bald like Dads do though.
Why do bald Dads get bald?
Not that I mind Dads with no hair.
They’re proper boss either way.
Dads and beans, hair or not. Sorted.

Beans; A Northern Ballad

I like kidney beans I do.
At first I thought I might not and I’d miss the tomatoe’d bake ones but no,
I like kidney bean, they’re boss like.
I think ill eat them every lunch from now.
Why wouldn’t I, seeing as I think they’re tops an’ all.
Do you like kidney beans?
I think you’ll be mad for it.
They’re just so beany.