They fly presidential.
Their lawyer is lethal.
They have a $100m crib.
They wear $300m watches.
It’s disturbing what they gross.
You are not even close.
You aren’t rich if your friends aren’t.
(They have rich friends FYI).
Their (unborn) grandchildren are already rich.
They can do anything.
Their success can’t be quantified.
They’ve never felt a ceiling their whole life.
They can do anything.
They’re nice, nice, nice, nice, nice.
You’re gonna have to watch them eat.
There isn’t any way to stop their love.
They representing all the hustlers in the world.
They got love for the streets.
They might stay in Soho House.
They might grow out their hair.
Their friends are better than your friends (and richer).
They don’t even have to pretend.
Their friends are gold (and rich). Yours are fools.
They’re trying to free the world.
If you don’t understand, you can’t be their friend.
Watch your mouth when you’re around them.
They know you know about them.
They don’t really do famous.
They’re Malcolm X.
They’ll hit you with the rose gold all Summer.
You know Bey. She don’t need a full name.
They don’t need Photoshop.
They don’t need no voucher.
They’re flawed but perfect.
They’re happy in love.
Fuck you.
Tag: slams
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.
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.
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.
Table taps.
My friend who’s detoxing came to visit so I saw in the long bank holiday weekend dry which my wallet loves me for today, unlike the 101 friends I’ve been calling since noon to get out there with me for pints that they don’t want added on top of the headaches they’ve already clocked up, trickling in reminders of biros pushing numbers onto palms that are still dirty, not like the soft hands of Hannah, travelling out by bus to salvage my bored Saturday with her company, half fuelled by pity and half by the fact that she’s less wimpish than most, bringing Welshy along with her like my time’s free for anyone to pimp off to others without my sign off, which I would have granted anyway because let’s face it, he’s great and I didn’t have anything on the cards an hour ago, dragging my vacuum cleaner around the flat to a backdrop of BBC news reports going around and around like the duster on the coffee table brushing away crisp crumbs until the next bored house tidy and back to front dusting and mopping sequence, so eager I get to have things done, like this gibberish snake of thought’s final line as Hannah’s just arrived, folding her umbrella, walking towards me and saying ‘Hello!’
New York bars.
Take this one to 34th street and change for the L.
Living out your holiday dreams in New York’s pretty swell.
It’s hot as hell, but everything’s heavenly,
witnessing Kool Herc’s legacy’s longevity.
Roof tops and sky lines, craft beers, parks and walks.
Thick gorgeous accents when New Yorker’s talk.
Sleepy Metro trips home, missed stations and dark streets.
Quick shuffles of the feet and panicked hunts for Taxi fleets.
Street rappers’ CDs for ten dollars or a bartered two.
A broken water hydrant that’s cliche but true.
The eyes of a visitor as wide as Central Park’s long.
Hostel chatter repeating each guest’s ‘Where are you from?’
Bagels power confusing journeys of wonder from B to C.
More baffling are tourists leaving for DC.
Picked up in London and placed in a cinematic city.
A constant gratitude for everything that’s been seen.
Carriage 5604.
The streets are alive with up-lit red brick walls
on one of those evening when you take a mental note
that daylight’s lasting longer than the short days of late,
bookended by stretched nighttime.
The platform’s calmer for once,
the crowds are cuddling some place else
and you shaved five minutes off your clocking off time
so don’t care that the station’s boards reveal
a five minute wait.
The businessman’s black eye gives you as much to think about
as the school kid doing some kind of subconscious ritual
with every finger on each hand.
He presses one at a time into the center of his palms
like the world will stop if he just lets them hang.
By now you’re but a segment away from letting your feet sip
the air of your soft platform march towards a couple of blocks
you alternate the days on which you walk home.
Variety follows that outstretch with the opening of
fridge and freezer draws.
Chillies get mixed into leafy stumps of broccoli
and there’s no telling what colours the stripes on your straw in
the glass of iced orange juice will be this evening,
or the articles you’ll read
and documentaries you’ll flick through for any matter.
Sleep’s as much a mystery as everything around us
when wearing some sets of glasses.
Never mind tomorrow.
It shrinks with every premature play you feed it
before the starting gun’s even been loaded with history’s paint.
WE’RE ALL FAMOUS NOW
YOUR COFFEE MUGS ARE FAMOUS NOW
WITH A SUPPORTING CAST OF MILK AND SPOONS
AT MULTIPLE SET LOCATIONS
WHERE EVERYTHING IS UNDER ZOOM
OUR DIMPLES ARE ON WIDE SCREENS
AND WE’VE BADGES FOR TOILET TRIPS
EVERYONE KNOWS EVERYONE’S THOUGHTS
FEELINGS AND WHERE HOPES SIT
THE RED LIGHT IS NEVER OFF
MEMORIES ARE A DATA DISC
YOUR DOCTOR CAN STREAM YOUR COUGH
AND MUM CAN WATCH YOU WHISK
AN EVENING’S MIXING BOWL OF STARDOM
WITH A SPRINKLING OF THE MUNDANE
THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO FIND OUT
NOW WE’RE ALL CAPSULES OF FAME
Saturday morning.
The instrumentals subtly come to their ends
but you don’t know it, laying holding a pen
scribbling, plucking prose from the head
comfortably thinking at the end of a bed.
The calendar’s clear and the clicking’s ceased
for two full days unleashed from the beast
of appointments, protocol, automated roles
to put the daily cereal blocks in their bowls.
Messages of recaps buzz through the phone
of last night’s dance and drunken groans.
The catchups of allies, staggering walks.
A friend’s words are the truest form of talk.
Enquiries and arrangements colour the day.
Slippery pocket change tallies away.
Books half read sit open on a side.
Contentment warms the place you lie.
A hole lot of noting.
News tickers churn on
spreading the latest tales across
slices of breakfast toast
sheets of preparation in a corporate’s reception
wide screen train station stare points
the worlds in commuting palms
and feeds magnetising a nation’s eyes.
Break (Typer investigates why Jessie J is trending)
Finding smoke breaks now more refreshing
the not so free world craves for its info gasps
intervening shrinking blocks of contentment
ever uncomfortable without the conjured
interruptions of biscuit crumb detail.
Break (Typer’s friend who’s working abroad appears in a box to say ‘hello’)
Society’s psyche
blasé through repetitive routine
shrugs exhalations of expectance
as a name or face or lamp post of flowers
gets its thirty seconds of red LED lights
ones and zeros.
Break (Typer un-mutes the TV’s sport report)
Rarely does the undercurrent of sedate suffering
over fill the land’s un-thresh-old
bursting overt feeling for once across faces
all in it together but mightily alone
positioning place names in another’s tragedy.
Break (Typer checks a train timetable to see when he needs to get showered)
The dead racist reality TV star
horny babysitter turned royal beauty
mauled school trip stranger
text book pop star implosion
have all exited stage left.
Break (Typer searches for reassurance that ‘psyche’ is an appropriate word)
Alarm clocks tally up looping races
coffee mornings stir competition
hunters stake claim.
Break (Typer uses a translation tool to e-mail a friend happy ramadan before he forgets)
‘I walked her dogs’
‘She lived in my cousin’s friend’s flat’
‘He bagged my neighbour’s shopping’
‘The reporters blocked my road and I was late for work’
‘A helicopter kept circling my neighbourhood. It was probably looking for the killer’
‘I knew all the words to that main song. It’s well sad.’
‘My hot water was off this morning. I knew it was going to be a bad day.’
Break (Typer does a replace all on ‘poet’ with ‘writer’ and then another, settling for less pretence, though walks straight into the ego strut he wanted to sidestep by referencing his edits at all)
An occasional city break
globe trotting backpack adventure
technical error
house move
bed stricken fever
might wean someone off the penetrative
onslaught of persistent mind buckling.
Break (Typer taps in apologies to a friend that he’s running late)
However peaceful an escape
surrounded by pixels of noise
the nakedness of calm re-hooks.
Break (Typer washes and shuts down for a weekend of drink)
Biting at the virtual fishing rod line
Break (Typer reconnects computer to see how he looked at the rave)
Slam to that man who thinks too much
At every social sneeze,
you’re dissecting from your knees.
Stand up and surrender
to the inevitable breeze.
Time’s of essence.
You’re not a chat show host.
Return the microphone.
You’re burning life’s toast.
You’ve got her hair,
but there’s no mystic to your meg.
Your balls aren’t crystal.
Stop invading my head.
Catch your issues in tissues.
Dispose immediatley, it’s free.
Beer pumps are leaning back.
Don’t waste the sun, just be.
History is not you.
My past isn’t today.
Flush your textbook nonsense.
We’ve no room, go away.
Enjoy these crowded streets.
Decorated bars, dancing feet.
You are not on television.
We aren’t a Hollywood fleet.
Surrender your scripts.
Time’s being wasted too fast.
Already dead, over-worked head.
Within dreamless beds you bask.
Hung by the he and she saids.
You’re choking before our eyes.
We’ve been left with no air to provide
thanks to your impertinent pry.
Your blues will pop your skull
on a widescreen of serial woe
Salvage your soul and re-goal
You aren’t the drama you behold.