Category: THE PICKLE JAR

The Pickle Jar

One of the challenges I put on my ‘Before I’m Thirty’ list was to get a poetry pamphlet together. In the run up to my birthday I compiled lots of scribbles from my notebook and put a double sided sheet of words together. The aim was to hand it out to friends during my birthday celebrations. I was too embarrassed when it came to it so planned to wait until the end of the night, but by then I was too drunk and forgot. The sheets are now making their way out via post, are all tagged here.

The First Weekend In May

The cockney Rastafarian down on the street
fought the Russians in Afghanistan(?) and if he
doesn’t stick to his word and run the bad guy
on Watney Market taking money from oldies
all the way back to Poplar, he’ll throw himself
under a double-decker bus himself, swear down.

The proud ground floor flat owner’s busy
weeding a few side road patches of flowers
in the bright morning air as bus engines hum
and the skinny jeans brigade march satchels
sunnies, rolling paper and sandals passed
abandoned crusty sofas and damp wardrobes.

A relentless blizzard of tuneless beeps
creates a supermarket symphony as tinnies
barbecues, sun screen, gum and crisps
slide into a plastic carrier bag that will wrap
around Monday lunch’s Tupperware box
as a fog of recollection and discourse lingers.

For now, minefields of eye contact
shuttle back and forth a pick n mix of
fiery youngins forming their routes
content middlemen so sure of their stance
and the elder people wrapped in scarves.
If not a myth, multiculturalism’s certainly mute.

The Hungover stare at looping news stories
gradually expanding as if a cloud of candy floss
but there’s nothing sweeter than a liberating
finger pressing down on the remote’s off button
to make way for finally showering and acting on
the eager, rallying texts of a tireless thinker.

(And Then I Was Like, Literally, Just, Like) Carry On The Love

Like the Summer we spent on a curb
doing everything for the first time.

Like persistent text and voice messages
you kid yourself you’re too busy to give a reply.

Like the accepted invitations late on a Sunday
when you need one more drink before it ends.

Like friends that pass a blind eye or join in
when it’s not even their taste in sound.

Like colleagues and flat mates that listen
to every little, tedious detail and smile.

Like discreet phone calls made to loved ones
on pretend trips to the toilet at a bar.

Like other runners looping the park
who can barely breathe but smile back.

Like that feeling a person’s right there
however rarely you get round to speaking.

Like the quick Post-it note left on a fridge door
by someone before they’ve gone away.

Like an absence of self-consciousness
because there are no filters these years on.

Like the grip and fixed stare of a commuter
worlds away inside of his book.

Like the times you’re convinced of a truth
but are shown alternatives by a reliable source.

Forced Conversations

In March they’re leaving Whitechapel
but not before a Jack The Ripper tour.
She thinks it’d be too scary for now
and he doesn’t really give a shit.

He seems to be a writer of sorts,
preoccupied with a first draft deadline.
As he daydreams and says nothing,
her questions and comments stack up.

The White Hart’s been given a revamp
of new woodwork and hoppy ales.
It’s just a shame they’re moving on
as they prefer it to over the road.

They trade spuds and carrots,
sticking to an orange juice and wine.
A darts game fills a wide screen
and another sleepy Sunday concludes.

WHP

Four months on from crowding around
choosing train times, punching in keys
and deciding what to eat beforehand
that we’d need cash ready for the taxi
and what sets we most wanted to see
the faint waves of nerves in weeks past
at the mere mention of what was planned
were now sharper and more frequent
fuelling a conundrum of apprehension
excitement and controlled panic
as pockets got checked and then again
for tickets, chewing gum and ID
in regimented paranoid obsession.
Rain seemed hard in those dark minutes
striding across stretching car headlights
as people skipped out onto the street
instructed by loud, procedural stewards
to form single lines along steel barriers
for a march through guarded check points
before a night long communal skirmish.
The territory was systematically scoped
for the character of the crowd and bars
set lists, lighting rigs, speakers
rooms, toilets and meeting points.
Strangers faces quickly became friendly
targets through choppy seas of bodies
when armed with cans and bottles
bought with more generosity than sense.
All together in a squeezing circle of trust
a gentle bolt of anticipation breezed over
a foundation of excited readiness
and then everything surged at once.
Strobes of electric crazed animation
burst above our lab rat wide eyes
whilst a force of warm baselines
attacked the fully surrendered crowd
of open arms waiting to be conquered
by acts of masterful percussion.
At times it felt too relentlessly good.
Eyes closed above hips swaying
lips smiling and feet tapping until
allies from all sides appeared to hug
point, talk, listen and take photos with
as drills of textbook moods played out.
Silent was the overwhelmed spectator
amongst edgy moments of crossed wires
randoms exchanging names and towns
brand new faces looking so familiar
urges to forgive, forget or find out
thoughts of friends more distant now
text messages so open and bold
cheerfulness tall and wide
glances of watches announcing the end
concerns about failed journeys home
promises of just five minutes more
and the cool, navy blue, open sky.
We’d used our last glimmers of energy
chatting triumphantly in celebration
that every bullet point of the plan worked
and not one feared scenario was realised.
The train blitzed through calm green fields
coming alive with growing light
revealing small and remote farm houses
vacant platforms, empty roads
the sheep and horses of gridded land
and a weekend of reflection ahead.
Headphones delivered familiar sounds
that sound-tracked the quiet journey back
of contented head nodding and yawns.
A taxi through familiar, sleeping streets
the final reflective sit around
a beaker of water on a bedside shelf
and text messages of success and thanks
gently dropped a full stop on the script
regularly talked through since.

Biting The Apple

I am a genius, come to my bar.
You’ll wait hours no matter how far
you’ve come to see my hairstyle
flop down on your phone or pad.
I am a genius. A good looking retail lad.
I’ll look at your blank screen
and say you’re out of warranty.
We’ll have to put it in quarantine
and that wont come for free.
I am a genius. My smile costs a grand.
I’ve got what you need, you sacrificial lamb.
Leave your memories with us,
we’ll need about two weeks.
Come back then and kiss our feet.
Take this adapter. Give us that note.
Be on your commute and tap out a gloat.
Pay no mind to alternatives,
this does what you need.
They won’t fulfill your vanity’s greed.
I am a genius here to sell
you preferences locked down.
I’ll leach out your confidence
whilst you stand feeling clowned.

My Perfect Boring Life

Quiet time is my weekly ponder
as to why Dimbleby didn’t get denchers
instead of that hidden away tattoo
whilst a know it all who’s rehearsed all week
to stutter out a sentence live on air
nervously shakes his forgotten cue card.

The washing up’s done by then
and perhaps weekly laundry’s been hung
before a final trip to the kettle for tea
and a cheeky slice of late evening toast,
after all I’ll have been for a run
or exhausted myself thinking about going.

By the time good old Dave is rattling through
phone numbers, locations and Twitter handles
the bed’s usually covered with crumbs,
I’ll have had my goodnight phone call
and definitely will have brushed my teeth
with full intent of getting some quiet.

You can often almost hear Friday
ticking its way to you as Andrew Neil
prattles on about this and that
whilst everyone tunes out at the distraction
of his one week beige, next week red mane
of surely sewn in, license fee bought hair.

Patience On A Long Weekend

‘Hi, can I help you?’
‘My friend said to order a chocolate McFlurry.’
‘Which one would you like?’
‘I have never had a McFlurry before.’
‘Well, there are many varieties, as pictured.’
‘Okay, I’ll have that one.’
‘Do you like chocolate?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘That’s £2 please.’
‘Oh. I don’t think I have that much.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh. I do. Here.’
‘Thank you. Enjoy your meal.’

Hold Tight

Hold tight the strangers cuddling and gassing
at five in the morning over littered coffee tables
before the first buses of the day home.

Hold tight everyone having morning meltdowns
at self-service checkouts in local supermarkets
making you seek assistance you tried avoiding.

To everyone in the bliss of a powered off TV
after fixating on a remote’s channel hopper
for a whole day of trashy shows, hold tight.

If you’re crammed into a tube journey to work
getting passive aggressive tuts from the suit
who’s paper you’ve bumped into, stand tighter.

Tightly hold on to whatever marbles you have
or can kid yourself that you have when enduring
those ‘How is it Monday already?’ loops at work.

Hold tight all the smiley people opening doors
or helping old ladies with shopping up the stairs
despite all the holding tight you’ve got going on.

And people, hold tight to mates wanting a pint
when they’ve been holding things so tightly
they could do with your hand to let things go.

Phaseolus Lunatus

I most look forward to the butter beans
lodged between complicated broccoli trees
straight to the point discs of standout carrots
and the secret mazes of intricate cauliflower.

Beneath a rising haze carrying spicy scents
they fit softly amongst the crowd of it all
holding form beside showy potato slabs
that dwarf armies of identical, spectating peas.

On a stage built with uncountable grains
the rest present a scramble of taste
where parts are dented or branch off
forming the scene of a wild, flooded woods.

Unfailingly humble, the butter beans shine
not with the stuck up presence of a pepper
or inconsistency of a leaking tomato
but with a gentleness, consistent and kind.

Rant-a-thon

Will we ever hear of Jamie T again?
Imagine Madonna disappearing like this.
Boris spending more millions on bike schemes
instead of housing kind of takes the piss.
Peddle through Spitalfields. You can now.
It’s tarmaced. An open air Harvey Nicks.
Kids stake claim in times they didn’t live
protesting change for mock-stalgic kicks.
It’ll never be cool to dance along to Lionel.
Pull the walls of yet more Tesco Locals down.
Beauty comes before morning commutes
caking make up on and looking a clown.
Affordable isn’t eight out of 2,000 new flats
that cost fifteen lifetimes of wage before tax.
Fair play to workers who cosy up to boss.
We’d play along too but aren’t built of toss.
Remember the sights of your naked eyes
not the screens of cameras and an aching arm.
Experience is life’s noises, smells and air
not the one dimension uploads of pixel farms.
Is it worth the effort plotting how to seem
for imaginary viewers to perceive certain ways?
Less consideration of one’s self as a brand
sparks more honesty at the end of the day.
Osborne’s face is painfully bright and bland.
A lot more would vote if they could elect Brand.
Is there more harm done by sleazy Robin Thicke
or married bankers crawling curbs, being tricks?
Hypocrisy and hype sells. It’ll stay the same.
Friends grow older and nights out become tame.
The quality of familiar rendezvous never wane.
Mates is Alex Turner hiring Miles Kane.
Nothing beats seeing someone reading a book
and wondering where their imagination might be.
The open world’s been in our minds all along.
Don’t wait for Grand Theft Auto V to feel free.
Grown men shouting it out on Sidney Street
arguing who’s right of way it might have been,
if hugged by their mothers when children
would be calm and not creating this scene.
Breathing’s as underrated as UK rapper Jehst.
It relieves stress and lets in peace.
We’re before banquets of food for thought.
Grip your best cutlery and guzzle down a feast.

The Hungover

Everyone is pretty in Shoreditch.
Who doesn’t looks the same?
Show me anyone who is ugly
to stop me from going insane.
Boardwalk Empire hair, thick frames,
and rolled up cigarettes all day.
It used to feel so different.
Now where do the freaks lay?
Must I move out to Lewisham,
Edgware, Willeseden or Brent?
Dad can’t afford me a deposit.
Perhaps I’ll need to buy a tent.
Take me somewhere, anywhere new
for just a little refreshing change
where local chat holds a new slang
pitched in a different range.

Fitzrovia Square

In different spots of the office
they beaver through the morning
tapping and working their way
to 12.15 discussions of lunch.

Runs to shops for sandwiches
or dashes to the fridge for salad
precede the usual meeting spot
up against railings, on the ground.

In turn they each air grievances
for the other two to suggest a fix
or more often than not just ease
with a sharp, comforting curse.

Then wider life gets dissected
by well formed, agreeable views;
sweet reminders it’s not all so dry
and far from the edge of the world.

Not A Man Of Want

A few novelty sized chocolate bars
did him on Christmas morning
with a promise of something extra
once the shops opened their sales.

He routinely served up cups of tea,
then toasted egg sandwiches,
as wrapping paper covered carpet
to raise smiles, praise and thanks.

Presents got stacked up in piles
and the television was switched on
whilst he collected empty plates
to wash the first load of the day.

After a day of playing chauffeur,
tidying the sideboard down
and willingly being of service to all,
he sat with a beer to watch the game.

Nothing fitting stood out on shop shelves,
such was his straightforwardness,
so one size fits all tracksuit bottoms
were bought and well received.

Quietly and agreeably he drove
over to one visitor’s house,
for glasses they mistakenly packed
so she could read a little before bed.