Tag: PoetryPeddler

Three drafts later
however long the stanza
I’m still falling short
whist birds sing in the day.

I’d all my points lined up
for our first beer in months
now fading in significance
and urgency to say.

Real contact dwindled,
scrolls filled in the blanks,
differences surprised,
memes would dismay.

Despite all the silence
clicks on hide and block
didn’t cease the accounts
of many a soiree.

Now stuck in lockdown
in place of clearing air
I picture folds of laugher
on our Chiswick getaway.

May we crease up again
unable to hold our pints
playing Paul and John or
The Revenant with a jay.

The pedantic studio chief
quibbled over pantones
as the huddled rolling eyes
plotted lunchtime escapes.

VeloPark laps were counted
a ride to Brighton reviewed
internal phones pranked
and fits of laughter filmed.

Two rounds of Dead Pony
saw out another long week
curtains falling by the day
revealing all its strange mess.

Years later they’d meet
talking fondly of this time
often stressed and angered
but wiser from it all.

Luggage and product
cluttered the flat’s rooms
as a fierce new toy charged
and local fry-ups seared.

Tea and heartburn pills
saw in patchy accounts
of confusing Ubers home
and a nightcap or three.

Meeting countdowns
wads of travel cards
and an X-rated cackle
concluded another stay.

Clown filters and memes
filled inboxes and screens
sparking the odd chuckle
until we could do it all again.

A curry house and cobbles
Sunday rounds of spritzer
Cockney beat poet rants
Harper Valley’s PTA.

Banks of the Ölfusá river
Ponte Vecchio ice creams
Chester’s Eastgate Clock
Prince from far away.

Brick Lane and Beatles
Haircuts just by FACT
Mr Chips on Bond St
Back To Black dismay.

Space Invaders wall art
Tearoom pots and cake
Windows and wedding
still as vivid as the days.

There stands a Billy bookcase.

You inspect it from a Poäng chair.

Passed a row of Malm beds

Kallax catches your stare.

A plant and Lack table later

your apartment’s full of card.

Stuffed to the brim Frakta

line up for the junkyard.

A swing by Sainsbury’s does it.

Now you’ve Côtes de Provence for days

powering up the Samsung

settling into JLS replays.

Up on the kitchen counter

shines a bag of Kettle crisps or three.

A bowl or two each evening

will get you through quarantine.

I hear your thumbs punching back
approval of the long, stretched synths
the theatrics and atmospherics
aligned with your love of Kubrick
expressed rapidly to our whole group
that afternoon on the Drumsheds floors.

Through the builds I can almost see
vividly our feet shuffling and tapping
beneath a blanket of patterned lights
pulsating across the Press Hall walls
or rather the drinks after the afters
you dancing through the brick tunnel
before a doorman’s teacherly briefing
and our sheepish, childlike compliance.

The tempo more akin to our meetings
always on the same peaceful spot
between the benched and fenced tree
and a woodlands hill of unkept grass
providing perfect views of our city
those moments feel we’re outside of.

Something in the sounds and space
has me cogitating on your weekend trips
climbing the steps of museum lobbies
picking up flyers from their counters
filling your head with artefacts and ideas
to live with, dissect and recount.

The suggestion of new beginnings
milestone discoveries or beyond those
the satisfaction of completed trips
leaves me with a vivid assortment
of adored times filed and yet to come.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.