Category: Poetry

Cat’s Tacos

Tony bought a lottery ticket today
on a hangover that by lunch time had still stayed.
A £2 dream about all the wonderful things
he’d virtue signal atop the hills and sing.

Little did he ponder how rich he already was,
clocking off then going to Cat’s on the bus
where five veggie tacos and a glass of Rosé awaited.
One thing you can say about that gem, she always caters.

And here I am sitting tapping about myself in third person.
Channel hopping from the BBC to C5, watching the muck worsen.
Tory this, Labour that; Everyone’s falling into a hole.
I’ve never got the scorn towards a microwaved Weetabix bowl.

The fuel of my 9 to 5 active listening and little faith.
There goes a week of conformity, of ethics going to waste.
I do the Sully tap atop another tin of San Miguel.
I’d prefer a craft beer of high percentage, but oh well.

Everyone waits at the crossing but nobody presses the button.
Gormlessly looking into nothing is not the kinda something
I’d have anyone teach another. I’d rather cover
my brother from another mother during a drive by
of a maniac custard cream lover.

Shouting ‘Brew me a tea! Let me dunk my biscuits within’.
The news agency’s customers stand shaking and grin.
Saying ‘literally’ or ‘awesome’ out of context isn’t a thing.
He or she who master the mundane shall be king.

Tears In The Voting Booth

There’s tears in the voting booth
after yet another long campaign
where one man suggested peace
only to be called Kim Jong-Insane.
To one side we had shallow rhetoric,
personal attacks and lots of fear.
In another corner stood consistent
costed policies and new ideas.
It was a choice for something different,
not another five years of the same
food banks, overdrawn schools,
homelessness and Saudi arms deals shame.
Or a more inclusive society,
free education and healthcare for all.
Kids dinners and music lessons in schools.
An economy for the many not the few.
We’ve bounced around our echo chambers
posting pledges, posting straight up lies.
On occasion friends have patronised,
dismissing differences with outright bile.
Respect to the short gentle man
who stayed upbeat against the wall,
never going low and personal
despite all the mud the red tops threw.
As he spoke of an inclusive nation
of community and fairness for all.
the May-bots, strong and stable
Regurgitated slander. He stood tall.
And much love to my Tory buddies
being open and fair in healthy debate,
realising we’re the more than managing
playing with other peoples’ fates.
What’s said is said, done is done.
Tomorrow’s another identical day
unless whatever our alliances,
we move forward in a different way.
Let’s convert our scroll and click power
into a tangible, offline inclusive pact.
Bring back some of the care and compassion
this country so bleakly lacks.
Stuck in our liberal elite bubbles
we yearn for our vote to mean more.
We’d do better visiting Do-It.Org.UK
and gifting a few useful chores.

Changing Gear

I’ve been doing just fine drifting;
home to work to bars to home,
wages to pints to a few new clothes.

I’ve rolled from beds to pubs,
feasting on the morning’s remorse,
dancing pounds down to a final pence.

In the corner of clubs I’ve gassed
the world to my rights with kids
little more than half my years;

Bass lines and strobe lights
pushing back the barriers of age
as we all stomped in unity.

For the most part, nobody feels old
surrounded by cherished peers
coasting along out of our minds.

But lately I’m hearing slang,
seeing looks and watching styles
I can’t fathom and realising;

That amongst the drinks and meals,
overdrafts, bills, thrills and getaways
time passes as much as you pass out.

My God, there’s little better
than triumphant 6am group hugs
but it’s getting tough on the bones.

Monthly statements show little
beyond the lines after lines
of the same honks and haunts.

And after a year pondering change
it’s arrived, confusing me shy;
the familiar pinning down a big leap.

Resisting routine lifestyles
I’ve scrolled address books for allies
to chase down the past with wine;

The roll call slimming every time,
weathered by parenthood, marriages
and friends dissolved into couples.

Convenient bonds become appointments;
bi-monthly fixtures of faint retention
diluted by vulgar life status brags.

Suddenly come your own stacks of forms,
inking out textbook progressions;
a parade of crosses in squares.

Thumbing through endless paper
I feel conned that all the hard work
was just for the right to more debt.

They never teach you at school
to search for the cheapest rates
and I can’t get my head around tax.

Starring down a Biro at eternity,
you ponder if this is it now,
inhale then scribble away any doubt.

Idyllic visions of homely bliss
become clouded by the passing hazes
of a hope to stay free and untied;

To drink another fridge of beer,
weep over ruined new trainers
and burn yet more late night pizza.

The last weeks before the big move
see nights making the most of drink
and mornings longing to give it up.

A kitchen counter of dirty plates
or reflections of stubbly, double chins
suggest it’s finally time.

Telephone holding music and paper cuts
organise pipelines of utility
to new lots of freer routine.

Underwear parades, guilt free,
bookend the big plunge,
suddenly not such a bad idea.

To hammer nails in walls,
choose skirting board sizes
and cushions is to feel grown.

Yesterday’s limited edition,
suede, high-top clydes
become today’s table and chairs.

The ice dispensing fridge freezer
might not be a club’s subwoofer
but I’ll hug it all the same.

Kettle and toaster combos
welcome me home from work,
outlining a return on the chore.

Tech Crunch

My God speed typing
will be the death of me.
I send a thoughtful note
then stress when I see
no reply but all their likes
dripping down my feed.
Message ’Seen at 07:30’
setting off my greed.
RIP long form communication.
Congratulations brevity.
You’ve turned a sentence
into five individual beeps.
We’re hooked on return keys
and never ending threads.
I one to one with my mass
before I enter and leave bed.
Tapping out opinion and
pushing around noise,
blasting my notifications
I then post and enjoy.
It’s a two way street
I only want one way.
Hypocritical patterns
catalogue my every day.
Amongst the constant chat
a surprise album drops.
Everyone’s messaging
‘Have you got? Have you got?’
But it’s an exclusive
to one particular site.
I sit and reminisce on
artists’ music taking flight.
Income the 9 star reviews
quicker than a full listen takes.
My company’s attention
is usually half faked.
I talk and share my soul
as they stare into their palm.
No defence can convince me
that’s not doing us harm.
Let your mind itch its way
through five minutes logged off
to explore our head space
from below to above.
I’d not have the love of my life,
job, or outlook without tech
but for the love of nature
let’s keep it in check.

Meta Boredom

I wonder if the boring people
with that empty, airy chuckle
talking about how bad the rain is
and how ill prepared we always are,
know how boring they are.
Maybe they’ve made up a game
called Boredom to fight their own.
‘Isn’t it cold? How wet for June.’
They revel in how bored you are,
how bored you realise you are
and how bored you know you look
but how you’re too bored to hide it.
‘In time for the weekend. Typical.’
The rescue line covers up their joy
looking into your deep bored eyes
as you sit half nodding, half asleep
apologising you have to send a text
but really you’re boringly writing
a boring poem about their boredom
or perhaps your own.

Objects Of The Useless And Bored

Neck cushions on a one hour and twenty minutes flight from London to Edinburgh.

Strange, plastic banana shaped cases to transport bananas from a home kitchen to the office desk with.

Plastic bin bag ties as opposed to the superior, classic knot.

Squares of cloth and expensive little jars of premium washing up liquid bought on the internet to keep limited edition trainers sparkling white.

The faded, fraying festival wristband of anyone over the age of 18, particularly if they are 30 and in a professional business environment.

Headphone cases and contraptions that wrap up headphone wires so they don’t get a little tangled, steal five seconds of a day and trigger cardiac arrest.

Cupboards and shelves worth of obsolete DVDs and CDs, kept sentimentally despite most of the cover art and movies being absolutely shit.

Little metal pound shaped coins on a keyring for trolleys which says you visit Tesco way too often and take it a lot more seriously than you should.

The umbrella that you’ll forget, that you’ll break and that you’ll ruin multiple people’s day with because you don’t know how to use.

Sock draws and the mysterious, unexplained worm holes of sock draws through which sock monsters prevent even numbers of socks ever remaining.

Madonna and the forehead of Rupert Everett.

The dehydrated white bap that comes with all aeroplane meals and the blunt knife you can’t cut into it with to spread non-spreadable butter throughout it.

Workstation Wrangle

Wow, hasn’t the weather just turned!
I was reading a book in the park on my lunch break!
I thought I was going to burn. It was so sunny!
Did you just see that flash of lightening?
I bet it’s going to thunder in a moment.
Oh wow, did you hear that thunder?
English weather, eh?
You’re only wearing a t-shirt Johnny?
He’s going to be a wet fish on the way home.
Then again, it might dry up.
You never can tell!

An Early Read

A swift shower made space.
The book’s pages turned to the past.
Springtime clouds stole sunrise.
On went the living room lights.

Through the walls, routines revolved.
Alarm clocks, flushes and showers
pulling the marchers to attention,
lining up their drills.

Niceties soundtracked kettle boils,
bag packing, coat shuffling
and the lightening bolt chords of zips,
encasing their passengers like armour.

Out to their worlds they departed
towards another broadcast starring
the same ever suspended in time
story arcs of familiar acts.

The lines of scripts were agreeable;
everyone plodding through their day
besides the bookworm who bounced,
charged with ideas from another time.

Checking Out

Everything was boringly bright.
There wasn’t a wall to paint.
Dreamer closed his eyes blank
stirring up make belief tastes.

Scenes lined his head’s roads.
Dreamer sped through wild towns.
Inventions you’d never believe
strangely made him feel at home.

He lunched on a feast of ideas,
danced with Wonder and Belief,
winked across at Second Thoughts
and saw mysteries to sit beneath.

Dreamer stood perfectly still.
Bright Land’s pedestrians frowned.
With a nod of his hat to creation
he opened his eyes to look around.

Walls, ceilings, paths and parks
felt so thought through and plain.
Adventure seemed beyond asleep.
Everything looked the same.

But Dreamer never crumbled
amongst such potent commonplace
for he knew a universe so rich
of indescribable tastes.

Friday night departure.

Ed scribbled down a
door’s Bowie quote
and a tramp rattled
by with a thought.
Mark browsed bottles
in a corner store
whilst I waited outside.
One by one at Ryan’s
the party arrived.
We welcomed Az back
slicing quiche
filling up flutes
and scooping up
handfuls of crisps.
Loose acquaintances
asked of professions
like that’s all we are.
Law and banking talk
filled, no, sucked
out the room’s air.
With no interest
in being measured
I plotted an exit
wishing goodnight
to the close ones
but side stepping most.
That tube journey
my headphones
dropping someone coins
and a late night chocolate
sounded and tasted
like the night’s peak.
Wes disappeared clubbing
Mark’s on Ryan’s floor
and this empty bed
of so much space
announces the weekend.
As these early hours pass
messages appear
doors clink and
footsteps shuffle.
For all the bad form
some find, envy, in it
I can’t stay somewhere
that doesn’t turn me on.
Like the cage of an office
groups and gatherings tire.
A little of a lot
never leaves me full.
So I’ll jog with Joe
eat pizza with Chris
cycle with Rob
and if I do join the masses
disappear outside
for closer connections
amidst clouds of smoke.
Less is more
and makes for cheaper rounds
however lonely it looks.

Summer 2007

Was it Donegal or Sovereign House
where the boys fought up the stairs?
Morgan charmed a squat next door
and fidgeting formed a toilet queue.
Only two girls arrived wearing hats
just like the party memo said.
Connolly retrieved misused cutlery
whilst a gate relentlessly buzzed.
Deliveries came, politics pursued
and reunions isolated those new.
The hosts stayed in tight control
of music so quiet nobody danced.
By midnight things had thinned
across a car park, now private flats.
The keep on crew lost Hannah,
shouting her name to come back.
The Castle’s door had bolted
marking the end of another night.
That Summer’s events just blurred
from one council notice to the next;
Impromptu ciders in Hoxton,
jumping fences into ticketed gigs,
and drive-by paranoia as Sully hid.
Those days awakened, defined,
destroyed, split and united most.
Migration, home making,
career baking and kids raising
now scatter the stories to which I toast.

Reoccurring Themes.

Hey Mister Oh So Charming
your boots don’t seem too big from here.
Chips on your shoulder are blocking our light
and we’re switching into reverse gear.
Mrs Apathy, please crack a smile.
You don’t know how lucky we are.
Digging yourself a pit of criticism
will only push solutions afar.
And to the friend that thinks he’s a best
that makes us mates, not Romeo & Juliet
so pick up the phone and dial some effort
or our chasing will fade and we’ll forget.
People, let’s not follow made up scripts
ranting in our minds at imaginary scenes.
If we pull our heads out of our behinds
we’ll start being healthier beings.
Loosen up and like what you like
not what you heard’s the trend in New York.
You’ll have less contrived, more honest fun
if you lay down that rusty Pitchfork.
Crack a smile, stretch, breathe, relax.
If we don’t look up, we’ll just fall down.
Stand up, take one step back
and hold a greater view of the town.
We’re all a-part and all alone.
Look around; life is suffering is rife.
But connect, share, support, love
and hope will start putting it right.
Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholder
but you’ll never see it with them closed.
The only truth’s in the power of now
not the regrets and fears we’ve chose.
Allow yourself to be saccharine sweet.
It can’t be any worse than their bitter tea;
round after round, sipping more of the same
leaving us anything but free.

Fogged out morning.

sometimes you just have to laugh
at the guy’s loud music on the tube
people not walking in straight lines
everyone’s phones in their palms
and palms in their face.

just swipe the card and walk through
now there’s a pile up of tuts
How efficient is self service
if you need approval to transact?

crumbs cover the kitchen floor
we rarely get to finish a sentence
there’s no weekend rest for builders
and the neighbours love to slam.

rolling around in new trainers
shivers hold off thermostat cranks
superstitious quiz show hosts myth
as oven trays rattle and hiss.

Be Here Now

for the riff within riff within riffing in-jokes
to layer up sore heads of regret we’ll warm to in time
so we can exchange knowing looks about passers by
and walk into inns, debating hazy recollections.

Stand by me in the fallout of my big mouth
charged on malt, water, hops and yeast
spouting off that little bit too loudly
turning the necks of big crowds ahead.

Pass me a piece of that magic pie
whilst the lyrics we pen fade in, fade out
about the girl in the dirty shirt.
D’you know what I mean?

I know, I think, I hope
you’ll fly all around the world this week
chasing yesterday down Sidney Street
drinking until the last train doesn’t come.

Damp Shoreditch in July

Daddy bought Polly her flower pot store
The drill chipped any empty pixels off the map
Ad boys blasted change holding batons of Pret
Crowds snapped up bricks of fading paint
A lady ruined her picture puffing a stick
Dog walkers mystified workers heading back
The piercing parlour gunman rolled up his relief
Vintage record players turned tuneless necks
Window seat diners nodded out to friendly faces
Self service taps tugged on a lunch timer’s cheek
Packed cars of rowdy youngens sped by
Motionless bodies sat beneath the barber’s heat
Cowardly students stood clumsy in doorways
Faint rain rode the indecisive warn breeze
A truck’s reverse beep leaked into a phone call
Oil stained brown paper bags filled a bin

The United Error

We all got to our desktops
at around a quarter to nine.
The videos began circulating
of people waiting in line.
As the doors opened wide
men and women violently rushed.
With air conditioned importance
we shook our heads and fussed.
‘Look at them crawling around
like possessed animals unleashed.’
Oh how we tutted that day
at consumerism’s feast
before returning to our work
creating marketing campaigns
surely hoping to trigger
greater Black Friday level fame.
A month of juggling balances
and organic juice detoxes passed.
Hypocritical tuts of disdain
never tend to really last.
Within a vacuous liquid lunch
hysteria grasped our souls.
Monopolising on a website bug
became our number one goal.
A flock of holiday dreams flapped
and tapped trying to refresh
an error in the airline’s system.
Our cries resembled a creche.
Return flights to anywhere
priced at that of Friday drinks
had us scrolling and sweating.
Dignity passed in a blink.
Some were on the side of luck.
Others are heading to Kazakhstan.
Me? I kept getting error pages
but boy, I wanted Japan.
You’d be silly not giving it a go
and grabbing a bargain when you can
but let us not forget
the words of disgust we sang.
One man’s wide screen TV
is another’s trip to Belize.
Some long for mobile phones.
Others dream of the West Indies.
Whether it’s a trolly of DVDs
or a beach side coffee and croissant
we’re all deeply caught up
in an infectious spell of want.