Tag: Poetry

Essential Travel

Text me when you’re leaving.
I’ll find a bar and let you know.
We’ll take it in turns updating.
How easy the wine will flow.

Once recent news is logged,
let the memory mining spark;
chatting on MSN at work,
offy cans in Shoreditch park.

From friends to neighbours,
we’ve grown an awful lot;
bank holidays at The Castle,
peddling NMA and jackpots.

Running imaginary labels,
causing scenes at Bar & Grill,
searching E1 all night long
for endless scene and thrill.

Now plotting a refurb,
weddings and even kids,
we mourn our carefree ways,
final rounds lifting our lids.

Flashbacks make us smile
but let’s save some space
for new tales and bookmarks
albeit at a slower pace.

Sometime Soon

We’ll barbecue before long
Jack climbing the drains
Mark and James talking shop
and I clowning Hayley.

Burgers will be flipped
spatchulas shuffling chips
Dad thumping tomato sauce
and memories taking stage.

We’ll talk of years past
log flumes and sand hills
an English pub in Spain
Ernie’s Christmas cries.

We conquered Super Frog
endured keyboard clubs
lasted Danish Camp cycles
and have this in the bag.

Contact Report

A cheeky half at The Dove
wait for Nas to enter stage left
broken down train from Leeds
emergency lap of the park
and rounds at The Earl
are now so many years from
your feet up as the kids sleep
tired from a day of playgrounds
face-painting each other as bears
and crayoning the perfect portraits
but give the random jesting texts
hotlines of perspective and support
memories of business trips East
and sporadic seaside visits depth
assuring when the time is right
there’ll be more riverbank rosé
overpriced spring onion starters
walks home rapping The Score
and new jokes to repeat on blast.

Fridays At Yours

So typical of you
our quiet nights in
became banquets
of the finest wine
little saucers of dip
bowls of fancy crisps
and oven delights
all in the short notice
of work’s final hour
tired and longing
to rest the pretence
on sofas, balconies
roofs and doorsteps
being our true selves
as we traded updates
shared agreements
laughed at memories
others and ourselves
running into weekends
begun on the best note
I’ll orchestrate again
once lockdown ends.

Sunrays

We couldn’t have walked faster
through that boardroom’s doors
into the back of our hire car
to feast on Spar garage sweets.

As ‘Mum and Dad’ sat upfront
dissecting the latest frustrations
we lost ourselves in the laughter
of a sugar rush and freedom.

The forest of uniform trees
we couldn’t see the tops of
guided us across the border
wowing you with twines of light.

Settling into the comedown
of a new friendship’s first high
we boarded and headed home
for all the hysterics to come.

Old Coffee Shop

You don’t get more old Soho
than bumpy mahogany walls
plastered with wartime illustrations
a hanged line of pots and pans
press clippings of David Beckham
and a signed Robbie Williams plaque.

By mid evening latecomers
shuffle and stand beside the bar,
seating beneath the TV long gone,
feeling slightly in the way hugging
one of the rare Brodie’s beers on tap
built on the experiments of a bath.

Upon the smug midday gaming
of an extended springtime lunch
high percentage, cask IPA foam
sunk towards damp beer mats
as fleetingly as the world’s rights
triggered up from empty guts.

Tipsy steps retraced cobbled paths
the last remaining record stores
and a meat-free sandwich shop
that armed the hungry proletariat
with batons of cheddar and pickle
to keep afternoon duties at bay.

Shared Interests

Venus de Milo almost got Homer killed.

The pizza boxes sat before our crossed legs.

We’d planned the evening in Spa Fields.

Hank Scorpio wasn’t your average Ned.

Sherri and Terri couldn’t be told apart.

We knew our Jimbo Jones from Nelson Muntz.

Kelsey Grammar was well cast to kill Bart.

Otto was as far out as Bart The Daredevil’s stunts.

Did Skinner belong in the Barbershop Quartet?

Another bottle of Punk? Yes please.

Mr. Burns paid the town his $3 million debt.

Marge took on the monorail of Lyle Lanley.

It got late and Papa John’s ran low.

‘I didn’t do it’ our Wardour Street couch gag.

Boxsets packed, it was time to go.

‘Not Just Another State’ read Springfield’s flag.

Connection Speeds

How’s social distancing going for you?

The templated enquiries loop on

like a subtle nod down office corridors

or the staff room’s chart music songs.

My answer’s the same each time.

It’s fine and I mustn’t complain.

Sometimes that’s said in all honesty.

Other times it’s masking the pain

of wanting to be off my balcony

up on the heath in unkept grass

scribbling in my little notepad

writing odes to days long past.

Nostalgia’s funny, the smarts say.

It embellishes what really was.

To some extent I agree.

In other cases I don’t because

those years were really everything.

We marched with such a charge

from local haunts to house parties.

Those square miles felt so large.

Now I’m switching channels.

News cycles will drive you mad.

You’ll learn more hungover

glued to the latest QVC fad.

The readers find audacity

comparing all of this with war.

Boxset binges trap and kill you

but are hardly Dunkirk shores.

What a chance at long last

this is to finish a book or two.

How telling of man to order more

when there’s piles to get through.

Whether writing or reading

you’ve got to broker the time.

Together under one roof all day

is to walk a difficult line.

There’s love at evening meals

of tales from different working days.

Relentless Nintendo Switch battles

conquer grand plans with a haze.

The days feel little different now.

You can’t tell the weeks apart.

Time’s filled with online shopping.

Sense checks empty pointless carts.

What use is a new bomber jacket?

An orange sweatshirt and white tick.

Over-priced sea salt hair sprays.

A pair of limited edition kicks.

The breakfast news death counts

grow more harrowing and bleak.

As premature as the perspective

might this wishful optimist peek

to a future when this is all over

where we spend much less on junk

value our time outdoors

sleepwalk through life less drunk

spend more time with loved ones

phones pocketed to free our minds

governments supporting all classes

despite their historic budget crimes.

My god there’ll be virtue signals

but let’s not forget the British trait.

The minute they relax the rules

we’ll rave to the lift of all this weight.

Squeezed back into carriages

buying ironing water of a weekend

we need to act, not vainly hope

we don’t foolishly descend.

Clean Your Toaster

There’s a crumb for every hangover,
especially ones that last for days.

And the times you’ve little food in
so push potato waffles on their way.

Trapped crusts linger deep below,
months after a sickie graze.

Little memories of burnt fingertips
during a late night pitta haze.

A twice yearly, upside down jig
will help the gates to heaven pop.

Serving moments of salvation
mornings after you haven’t stopped.

But always check the settings dial
to avoid level five charcoal flops.

And hiding behind fake note taking,
your still-steaming corporate prop.

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