Social Distancing

The box of Ferrero vanished
quicker than I hid the empty bottles.

Fridge-chilled pizza leftovers
put a foot on shame’s throttle.

Nothing some stretching can’t fix,
I think and put Naga on mute.

Yoga With Adriene helps the virtue
and her dog Benji’s really cute.

Now i’m standing on the balcony
judging minglers on the street.

Johnson (no friendly first names here)
said to keep apart, inside for weeks.

Judgy shade and sofa tutting
fills one minute and in the next

I’m in Londis stockpiling
on custard creams and Tippex.

Back before my 4k widescreen
I’m calling Cobra updates bull

ranting concern for the poorest
whilst sulking that I’m full.

It’s a time of selfish thinking,
perspective, angst and solitude.

Tangled news feeds grip us
to thoughts so shrewd or crude.

The Whittington

Vapes and milkshakes
Refreshments machines
Folded up bicycles
Sleeping bag scenes
Wheelchairs and crutches
Waiting room beeps
Coffee cup plastic
Cubicle screams
Car park altercations
Bobbies on the beat
Nurses and papers
Cola bottle sweets
Screens and swiping
Mop bucket dunks
Sniffles and pacing
A young lover’s hug
Tapping and tantrums
Yellow wet floor signs
Keypads and coins
Monster munch sighs
Runs to McDonads
Biros and forms
Night shift handovers
Yawns of the bored.

Swings & Roundabouts

 

Out go the parties, blackouts and decorations
after one too many mornings of confusion
waking up in a bed full of glitter and regret.

As the first day back appears drastically
like you’re a Sim, picked up and dropped in
you wonder where that year went and begin.

You begin the first weekend deep clean of a flat
more accustomed to Twiglet drum crumbs and dust
than the sound of a neglected vacuum cleaner.

Begin the notepad list of all the amazing tasks
from new recipes, language, clothes and looks
to personal bests, body shapes and routine.

Begin weekend trips to furniture stores
bickering over fabric choices and cushions
and rearranging the TV for the thirteenth time.

This is all whilst telling anyone who’ll listen
how many things you’re not watching, reading,
drinking – and how pure you’re feeling for it.

You’re even back writing out your thoughts
because it’s so amazing just being you
and going clear of the drink’s thick fog.

Waking up not wondering what was said,
tracing the events by pending bank charges
or messages and videos best deleted.

Why stop here? You think, as the end nears.
You’ve made a ninth of the usual trips recycling
bottle after box of beers and wine.

Yes, boxes of wine. There had been no limits
to the need to get back on it and be rid
of anxiety’s fierce, far out morning rush.

But that is all in the past and you’re done
with the coasting from bar to bar, mindlessly
washing down more pizza all year.

This year’s going to be different,
aside from the three trips to Europe
plotted into the diary on a rainy, sober day.

From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19

Progress Bar

 

The disc of vitamin fizzes to a halt
as a wipe of fog across the window
reveals a layer of crunchy snow
the news will obsess on all week long.

For all the hyperbolic national hysteria
and recurring tales of colleague commutes
the deepening season reminds you
you’re a tiny flake in a ginormous world.

As the penguin shuffles march on
the divorce bill twists and turns
form like a cold, white puff of breath
and this rock called Earth spins on.

In June life will feel so contained
in regenerated fields of excess
but for now it’s a stark and vast
plain of the chilled and sparse.

The togetherness of a morning shop
filling a bag of apples and juice
begins each daily tale of routines
that are over like a daydream.

Already Christmas seems far away,
the detox seems so far, far away
and that we’re almost three twelfths
through, daunts like an exam dream.

You’ve had all year to read the text.
This date’s been in the diary forever.
Everything amounts to this moment.
You’ve fucked it. Now wake up.

There can surely be no greater sign
that life’s telling you to push on
than an imagined assembly hall clock
ticking its way to your failed grades.

Crawling through the marching orders,
grocery shopping and research lists
read like two taught, middle fingers
wagging dismay into your chest.

It was no good giving it all that
detox, new beginnings, big goals,
different attitude, new day spill
now we’re sat back here smashed.

A count of the days left till March,
manic mail order of new books
and drop off at the charity shop
helps you feel it will all be alright.

The days aren’t passing slowly
but there are still a hundred to be had,
to hold tightly by the throat
and drain of every last breath.

From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19

Clocking In & Checking Out

 

Though rarer by the boxset stream,
the realised plan of five close friends
guzzling through rounds so brief
puts a bounce in your step for weeks.

I cherish these men and our recycling
of memories, fears, hopes, dreams,
opinions, debates, wrongs and rights,
hate and horrors, hugs and love.

Nothing rivals the meetings of minds
reared on the same rich feed
of early 2000s UK hip-hop classics,
liberal media and outsider angst.

These warm embraces and cheers,
are the subtle bed-rock of life,
helping us hold tight and hang on
in tears behind our office screens.

Some form of dark magic lives
at the heart of a presentation brief
which surfs through the core of
31 twisting, troubled sleeps.

All that self-loathing, sweating,
worry, re-writes and insecurity
amounts to a simple nod of thanks,
and ‘you seemed so relaxed and calm.’

They’ve barely a clue how loud
my heart beats, stomach turns
and mind rehearses escape routes
whilst I actively listen in fierce terror.

We’re so far from cave paintings
but closer than we’ll ever be.
The walls are see-through glass now
and the wolves have ties, not fangs.

Thank God for Tom and Ed,
appearing once again every few years
with an astonishing new instalment
to an unrivalled catalogue of bliss.

You can read all the books you like
about the rise of the robots,
algorithm-generated paintings
and the impossibility of new cultures.

But the mother-bores have nothing
on the coming together of friends
celebrating and creating
in the under-rated, real world terrain.

As certain as the printer jams,
floor one lift drains, thermostat wars,
and auto-niceties scroll on,
perspective can’t be lost.

The mountains of minutiae
scale us to near insignificance
but bring us closer each step
to the face of a rising sun.

Steps that would stumble
were they not made possible
by the health cover and creps
of many a 07:00 AM start.

From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19

Chapters

 

Friends, records and good times
reign supreme over nearly everyone
but pale ale towards insignificance
when you’re not here to hear the tale.

I pack a box of leftover dinner,
load and unload the dish washer
and check my phone three times
to see if you’ve landed or called.

An hour with myself does the job.
Much more and I share TV rants
with a despondent fridge freezer
who’s less fulfilling than you.

I need my echo-chamber of rights
quizzed by you up on a fence
with all the patience and reason
of a first-class degree in maths.

On Wednesday you’ll be back;
the trip not a scratch on those months
sat on other sides of the planet
sharing little news that meant more.

In through the hallway door
will walk a decade young cannon
of microscopic mannerisms
only we’re close enough to read.

So packed full of occasion,
this ten-year long opener has us
looking ahead to what we’ll do
and who we’ll welcome and raise.

An occasional niece or nephew
all the confirmation required
to show, whether I’m capable or not,
you’ve easily got it in the bag.

However great this status quo,
we’ll shake it up with plans.
If you’re not entirely content,
there’s no point as nor am I.

From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19

Foundations

 

Mum, Dad and Hayley are parking up,
I’ve done a Tesco run for tea and snacks,
the background vinyl’s in a warm spin
and your host mode’s in full effect.

I sit quietly through the jolly greetings
with a rare comfort and familiarity,
deep-rooted in years of protection,
making mud pies on Trinder Road.

For all the distances moved,
haircuts and waist sizes changed,
we’re all very much in essence
that same BMX boy or Girl Guide.

Way down individual paths
of our own choosing or fate,
it’s as crucial as it’s rare
to dial into these vast vaults.

Archives no number of years
will ever come close to rivalling.
They start at the utter beginning
and impact beyond their ends.

Sighs, tuts, stretches and smiles
bookend this occasion’s last tea
before departure hugs and waves
make way for another local round.

‘It was great seeing them, thanks.’
‘I agree. We should see both of ours more.’
‘Let’s definitely make a plan to.’
‘Yes, after our month of weekend trips.’

Bad practice leaves much distance
though history’s never that far away
in the form of an energetic Mum-style joke
or the quiet opinion of Dad’s bitten tongue.

From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19

Fields Of Excess

 

Cliches tend to hold a truth.
Truth being the circle you choose to let loose
with on sparse occasions, once or twice a year
where the brake gear’s released
to strobe lights, cheers and tears
of euphoria
and life affirming waves
across warehouse spaces
with bonds you’ll take to the grave.
Cuddles, claps and shuffles
soundtrack rants and confessions of love.
Overwhelming crowds of people are overcome
with trusted shoulders, hands and hugs.
We double-locked our doors late morning.
Jitters fluttered around from gut to chest.
At moments it felt we were heading for battle
with the city’s very best.
But passed the front line, it’s a war of peace.
Randoms united to the sonics, the beats.
Deep conversation, away from the nine to five;
a moment of surrender and salvation,
a moment to feel alive.
Puzzle pieces of memory spark spikes of joy
back in the routine, back walking the line.
Life’s formalities, life’s templates
are easier to follow, easier to own
when you have a second family
in the rave, out of home.

From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19

Perfect This, Perfect That

Naga Munchetty’s smile on a cold, drizzly morning.

Jürgen Klopp’s new set of shiny teeth.

Tall, thin Japanese men in edgy clothes.

Dirty Bone’s menu of beetroot substitute beef.

A tray of Mark’s golden roast potatoes.

The early morning peace of Tufnell Park.

Basement grime videos from 2004.

A moody red in Highbury after dark.

Kathy Burke’s laugh and foul mouth.

The undercurrent of James Corden hate.

Paul and Peter’s lifelong surrender to art.

Evenings in with Rob watching First Dates.

Australian Open

The flat’s clean for the weekend.
The washer’s finished a load.
Arsenal’s playing at home today.
Reds are everywhere, so I’m told.
Shovelling through web pages,
For something obscure and bright,
Sterile white plains of boredom
Reek of the numbing trite.
I’ll look up yesterday’s heroes.
Pete’s had a breakfast of chips.
Chali 2na’s just painting art.
Liam’s having another Twitter fit.
The lost seagulls of Highbury
Circle the crumbs of Skips.
We wait for the match to start
after the warm-up hits.

Auto-Bore

There hops and floats a Robin,
plump and brown and red.
Divine, round bodied and twitchy.
But wait. What have we read?

It told us they’re oh so common.
A cliche of the trees and grass.
To praise their notes, so blissful
is to sink intellectual class.

So we turn our backs and wander
pristine fields of barbed fence
in search of the mystic nightjar,
its silent flight and pretence.

A non-subscriber jogs circuits.
Rubecula spiral trees.
Our echolons (sic) weather and age.
Face value sets her free.

Portrait Of An Evening

How am I starting?
I didn’t say you’re starting!
He wants to know our starters.
Well, I am fine with naan.

I told you it was hot.
Yes, but I forgot.
Leave some rice for me!
Darling, please stay calm.

Ask him about the car.
Don’t tell me what to say.
This Biriyani is dry.
Have a chutney papadum.

I’ll buy the Uber shall I?
We must do this again.
That’s an Aygo, not Prius.
Must you always qualm!