the tide

the wooden floor
the clock
stuck
for a moment
you say, “what is there?”
i say, “not much”
we watch the tide
i’d see the sand
we watch the day
i’d see it end
you watch me
but i see
no end
coming soon
one day
there’s little point in
all the dead crabs
many of them
small, bigger,
but not large
and all dead

(2019)

An end to potatoes

One day there will be an end to
potatoes
probably
or
tax
or
probably not
unless
we
are
not counting
reality
spaceships

(2019)

black fryday

black friday
burn your pancakes
burn the
cocks
scramble the
brains
let’s eat
more than we can see
let’s see
if you’ll get more than you deserve
deserve
more than they should
many have
i’d rather see the
tiger abacus draft through
the door
burning planes
burning plains
mainly
on
the
rains
i’d rather be a
person of
the
forest
orang
utan
put on a suit
ape
make greenbacks
at cost
to
all

(2019)

Pound for the guy

listening to the tutor

talk about Pound and

wet black boughs

I think of

Yoda

levitating

at the South Bank


(2016)

Jungle

Sweat bees cling to our faces

and get in our ears as we cut

large leaves to sit on 

placed over the stinging bugs 

on the ground.

And we sit eating and aching

with thick mud on our boots

And plucking leeches from the 

pulled up socks

Our dried food is hard to eat

and washed down with stale water that

we have carried for hours.

Black fly and mosquitoes bite our flesh

and then monkeys congregate in the

trees above, chatter and scorn

and try to piss on us.


(2014)

Swift

The Swifts lace the early – 

Summer evening air

With cries of despair like

The melancholy of my heart

I feel the warm atmosphere

On my skin like the comfort

Of my broken spirit

Where I dwell in this self pity

And soon the heady

Days of green and sun

Will go, and my spirit will

Leave quickly like the Swifts


(before 2013) 

Phroggs

General lack of enthusiasum

Gerneral lack of go

I’d rather be a 

Ploppy

Ffrogg

Or priatical

On board

The 

Arggghhh

One day there’ll be an end to it

Expect maybe delays

One can only hope for a big

Long

Rest

And maybe 

Ploppy 

Phroggs


(2019)

Borrowed lines


One of my poems contains the words, ‘My boobs, gently fucked.’
it was a borrowed line. From a borrowed line poem.
but clearly a sentiment that, being a filthy man, appeals to my inner pervert,

All men are perverts? i watch YouTube videos of Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon
doing impressions of Michael Caine, i do my own on YouTube, ‘You were only supposed, to
blow the bloody doors off!’

Not a lot of people know that. i cycle along the south Thames bank out to Erith and see birds:
Cormorant, Shelduck, Goose, Seagull, Great Crested Grebe, Heron, Tufted Duck, Mallard,
Swan, Coot, Wagtail, Goldfinch, Sparrow, Blackbird, Crow, Oystercatcher,

Cock. i used to own one, and three hens. One was a bantam, the others Rhode Island Reds
which, until i googled it just now i always thought it was Road, as in, tarmac. One of them died and we let the broody bantam sit on the eggs, the hen we got was white,

A Rogue Island White? Living in England used to be foreign to me until i lived abroad,
my tendrils of doubt stretched too tight to the ones at home,
quantum packets of guilt, thanks Douglas Adams for that analogy,

i guess England wasn’t blown up to make way for a bypass on the China/America route
while i was away, yet. It was a long way to Erith, my bum and arms hurt on the bicycle,
my heart hurt in the rainforest. Come back here,

Start again in this country that’s getting divorced from the EU. The only loser will be
this place. Losers. It becomes a way of life, I know. Until I read about the concentration camps i thought i’d never suffered,

How can a privileged Westerner suffer? Especially a while male one? Middle class concerns?
oh, the water is cold, oh i don’t have the right food, oh, I don’t have the right clothes,
oh, I don’t have the right car, the right phone,

The right fucking arse. i wasn’t starved in a nazi concentration camp. i did suffer, properly.
let’s wild forage for vegetables, lets hurt each other for fun, lets mindlessly persecute
our loved ones. Let’s drink and be merry,

Let’s burn inside. Let’s burn on the cross of another’s fucked up thoughts and actions.

Let’s be a martyr.

For love.

Cars litter where i live. Like so much junk. A scrapyard in the making. Tombstones of our
progress. Cars litter the city, the country, the world. All our junk litters the world.
great lumps of crap wot we made,

i made some stuff once. A wooden chair, a plant stand, a sellotape dispenser. My hands work,
i can make stuff. All the wood went mouldy, and the dispenser broke,
more crap for the human junkyard,

Planet Earth.

In the rainforest i was collecting coffee beans and a hummingbird flew right up to me and hovered there. i was mesmerised. invisible wings and the whirring beat. those eyes watching from the steady head. then a beat and it had gone,

‘that was the most amazing thing’ i said to my companion. in the rainforest much is amazing,
but a lot of it wants to bite you or eat you. even the logging company owners,
and the palm oil plantations want to kill us,

With that shit they put in our food. it’s not them of course, it’s the food companies who supply them and puff up their product in the name of greed,

Time to break. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Google+, Pinterest, etc, etc, fill up a timeline with terrible junk, fill up the servers which spew pollution. The internet was broken with shit no one looks at anymore but the algorithms,

In order to sell you something you really really want. Let’s watch videos of cats. Let’s watch videos of cats. Let’s watch videos of cats. i know, let’s watch videos of cats. sell me a cat amazon. When you shit in the toilet, where does it go?

In Indonesia it goes into a tank, unless you shit in the river. Then it is someone else’s problem, someone bathing further down. Passing our shit to one another. And so it goes. Tonight the Thames looks the same as always. No shit in it anymore, but i wouldn’t care to swim there,

The lights reflect around a few stationary boats. The clipper comes into its quay. The ferry is moored for the night, lights still ablaze. The opposite shore, the south bank is a myriad of lights, some stuck to cars and buses,

The odd jogger passes, an insane look in their eyes. I look out from under my woolly hat, an insane mind with normal eyes. An insane mind but a lazy heart. Too tired to embrace the insanity. Deadly creative, deadly lazy, deadly dead. Deadly Moore & Peter Cook. Alan Bennett & Jonathan Miller,

i do a good Alan Bennett impression, pete & dudley, dudley & peter, but then, so does almost everyone. i once saw lady in a van. not the real one though. Jean-Paul Jorge and Ringo. my son is growing his hair to look like paul mccartney,

i keep going, “Jet! ooo OOO ooo ooo OOO” paul mufartney, i say. why do you want to look like paul mufartney? Alan Ginsberg would be proud. Trust me. Though you probably shouldn’t. how come we all know about him now?

i’d only ever heard of Edward Thomas before. I’d always remembered Adlestrop, the name, because i was made to study it unwontedly, it was late ’84. Someone cleared his throat, no one left and no one came. And on that bare blackboard i saw, only my name.

Actually i studied Ozymandias too. King of Kings. Fucking Elvis or what! Thank you very much. Uh ah huh. I’ve never made a poem that rhymes. Bukowski said, ‘there are rhyming poets, and real poets.’ probably, or something like that,

Rhyming is stupid, unless you are John Hegley. i saw him the other day, John Hegley, at Forrest Gate, he used to live in Luton, which, he points out, rhymes with crouton. He probably points this out every show he does,

Bless. Bless me father because i have sinned. and so did you, you old bugger.

Bugger. It was my dad’s favourite expletive. i guess that was better than fucking cock wank. or Belgium. Swadding Belgium man. and 42 or, ‘i think you ought to know i’m feeling very depressed’ or ‘life the universe and everything’,

Some people don’t swear. Fucking cunts. Most people think i don’t swear. Why are expletives mostly sexual? Sex is dirty then? In India, i was told, they are not sexual, they are all about insulting your mother and saying she was a dog,

You come from a filthy dog, it seems. What is the matter with people? Me in particular. Maybe i should write a poem about a big old fish. That would be popular i guess. or a train station. or about killing myself. i’d be a legend then, though dead,

‘lock away your childhood and throw away the key.’ ‘don’t leave me Harrold.’ ‘you dirty old man.’

Walking in a forest, dead brown leaves underfoot, the smell of undergrowth, the nettles have all gone, birds puff up and gloomily search the cold earth. the trees like black sticks. no faces in a crowd, only wet black boughs,

No Metro. There ahead is a mound, this is a barrow. A tumulus. i walk to the top. i image the dead underneath. i imagine a wooden ship down there. Around the forest drips in its dreadful silence, watching over me, along with the dead, knowing,

knowing it’s not too far away. this could be an old battlefield. the dank trees were planted recently, so they can chop them down again. perhaps many died here, now piled under my feet. perhaps one day someone will steal my words,

They stole my pictures on the internet, so anything is possible. i got paid for one. the Telegraph. i doubt i’ll go down in history for that. who needs history anyway? i guess the historians do. what was it Bukowski said? “Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”

On a train, back a few years, full; outside the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland. we pass over a long viaduct that curves and i can see the arches underneath. i have come from Italy. i’m fucked after hours on the train,

Coming the other way down Italy, an Englishman insulted me. thank you fellow countryman, up yours too. i used to love Earl Grey, how English. cucumber sandwiches, cricket, curry, lager, lager, lager, lager, shouting, lager, lager, lager, lager

Shouting. They shout on Eastenders all the time. i think perhaps that is good acting. is real life about shouting at each other all the time? perhaps real life is about drinking all the time, or going to the toilet, or vomiting, who can say,

Perhaps your cat would like to sing to me? Holy Zarquon singing fish. this is the end, beautiful friend this is the end, my only friend, the end. Saigon, shit. i'm still only in Saigon. Every time i think i'm going to wake up back in  the jungle. Every minute i stay in this room i get weaker,

Git owt a ma pub! Orwell was a bright lad. Too bright for me as I don’t understand his essays. perhaps I didn’t understand his novels then? Perhaps I read them on a superficial level? Perhaps i am superficial then. Perhaps existence is superficial. Yes, that’s probably it,

Maybe it is time to watch more cat videos. Or people being idiots. Maybe it is time to regret buying a new mobile phone that seems to have a fault. Maybe it is time to have my moobs gently fucked. Moobs, who’d ‘ave ‘em?

Yesterday i was somewhere else. Tomorrow, up the creek, no paddle. Today, today, is probably ok. Well, i’m still here, so that’s ok, i guess.

(2017 - This is from my book Caffeinated in Woolwich)

forever mug


This used to be my favorite mug
there are two clowns on it
one at the front and one at the back
it’s made of Pyrex
was always good at making Earl Grey
my dad got it for me
at Easter
it had an egg in it
i don’t remember the egg
he got my mum an egg
with a mug
chocolate buttons mug
that mug was smaller
Pyrex never breaks


(2019)

Press the forward button

Yellow lights of the city 

Cast on the mattress from the glass

No point in rising

Cold bitter outside

Stark reality, better to hide

Past regrets no more

Press the forward button

All the possessions gone

Just one small comfort

That brings great release

Then the downtime

Until rising again

Better to sleep

One step closer to the end

Being empty and away from this

And I watch the light

Slipping across the room

Daylight then lamplight

Over and over

Soon I will see it no more.


(before 2013)

Straight Outta Woolwich

you and I walk out to the Thames bank 

the coffee shop had pumped us with caffeine

for us to observe the water

boats, birds, the ferry

across the bank a park

green oasis

the sugar factory up the river

industry down

our phones are quiet

and we chat about the river

about the boats

about lost loves

we walk easily towards the ferry

soon the over half a century year old boat

rumbles around us

as we sit on the wooden benches

it repeats the journey across

a worn furrow in the water

as it has done thousands of times

as many others will do

this journey, repeated

not you and I

but others and others

many many times, again and again


(2017)

Moving

I came to a new place

That looked like one I have visited before.

There was no fun in the movement

As I felt travel sick on the bus

And when I got to my desination

It was the same as the last

I dredged my soul to find excitement

In the concrete blocks and the crowds


But no excitement came and none could I drum up

So I had to keep on moving or fester in the old place


I knew I was tired of travel

I knew the desination by heart

And even when I got there I found I had been right

There was no point in arriving or

Leaving the old place

And emptying my wallet

To fill the empty place

That was only a space in my head



(before 2013)

daddy got this for me


i’d have thought you’d be better, she said

though, i’d have thought she’d be nicer, I thought

and when i feel like a dead parrot

i’d be happy to be a floating turd

of bogie pie and smelly socks

nothing like a clean toilet

and a damp explosion

of greed and fart

unless you count the people who want power

and get it

but they probably got it from daddy

daddy do dah

dah dah dah

do do do

i’d have thought i’d be better at it too

though i expext i never wanted to boss the world about

and be a greedy fucker

taking from the poor and giving to me

and fuck the people

and the truth

and the goodness of human kind, my fucking arse

unless you count…



(2019)

Tattoo a wheelchair on my forehead

Though I don't sit in a wheelchair

Do the short circuits in my mind

Justify the way you treat me

As some flawed human being


If I were to tattoo a wheelchair on my forehead

Would that give you the hint

Or would it open the floodgates

For more of your pompous condemnation



(before 2013)

The train rattled

The train rattled through the golden green countryside
The sun was washing the colours bright
Of the green leaves and huge golden fields
Nothing felt better than bathing in the joy

Of leaving the city of noise and pollution
Back into the air and sun.
Leaving behind the dead, and living again
The heat of the carriage and the windows wide

Feeling the air rush in
For a moment I was free, escaping
And I would convince myself of freedom
In the beauty of this moment

Heading to walk by the flowers alongside the path
As I would leave the train and the sun drenched station
Feeling joy at the wonder of creation
For a great moment which would soon be over

And I would arrive at my destination
And slowly forget this time in which
I felt I was living more than ever before.

(before 2013)

No shit Sherlock

No shit Sherlock, find an easy way,
Sherlock, mist in the valley,
legal way, break your bank,
Sherlock, molock, lockness, lock
up your daughters, your daughter
word vomit, black tumble, black canvass,
long view deviants, special air police,
bank robbers, on the train,
passport, passport vomit,
no known solution, no solution in absolute,
flicker, flicker, flicker, flicker, flicker,
one more on the breach, unto,
don’t die in absolute terror,
don’t die in violet pants,
furthermore, Sherlock,
don’t give me that Watson,
rough water in violet terror, end your days, end your days,
when you come back be a jellyfish, puke the mercury,
puke the plastic microbeads, algy beard,
spare brain cells and spreading ivy,
walking on grass, barefoot, song and wine,
eyes, burning depth, red embers
melting, melting, I’m melting,
blank, blank, so blank, so ray me,
infinite stars, infinite time,

finite

we look into each other’s eyes
depth, as far as the eyes,
earth, deep earth,
the camera sees us, walls, walls all around,
so tall, above the empty courtyard,
the camera, eyes, eyes all around,
cold grey walls, cold eyes, cameras on us,
dark sky above, feeble light in the courtyard,
trapped in the camera, the camera is desperate,
moment, moment, snap, snap, taken, taken,
I don’t see you
we find a place to escape,
we find a place to ESCAPE.


(2018)

unicat

today we put a unicorn outfit on our cat
she was most offended
and made us feel bad
previously i’d been looking out the window at the smoke
over the water
we’d murdered mr bill earlier that day
when you buy a unicorn outfit and a mr bill you must have middle class concerns


(2018)

iHowl

Indonesia, my former home, is burning. Orangutan like Christmas baubles, living candles, burning fairies. Eco-apocalypse now, nobody is looking

After the jungle is gone there will be palm oil, to fill the pockets of the London bankers. Canary Wharf the tower, burning eye above us

Looking, watching, cameras and cards. Swiping in, touching your Oyster. Being watched by your loyalty card. The police are scrutinising you looking at Facebook

Looking at another Tinder date, protecting us, protecting the children, protected Jimmy Saville

Looking for an ipod, need another phone, need another tablet, computer is out of date, need to buy another, need Windows 10

Jet, jet, sufferer jet

Special needs man studying agony, dyslexicus, dyslexicus, dyslexicus, dyspraxicus

Ipod, ipad, itunes, iPhone, ihowl, iscream, ideath, selfie stick, Samsung Galaxy

Stinking planes belch from City Airport, loaded with money suits, suits flying home for the night to save us from our greed

They have all the answers and own our Mercedes Benz, the suits are our friends, thinking only of the greater good

We trust the suits, who sit and argue, who say many words, who eat Dolphin Friendly Tuna

We trust the suits, not to burn our rainforests and fill our food with palm oil and sugar

We trust the suits, to keep our rent low and to stop the ice caps melting

We trust the suits, not to fuck us over for their own stinking greed

The rainforests are burning, animals are dying, more and more and more of us, less and less and less of them, extinction, extinction

But we need, a new ipod, we need three tablets, we need a new computer, we need a Mercedes Benz

But we need, a better video game, betting on our candy crush sim, blowing your simoleons on a digital better life

But we need, more and more of everything

But we need, to suck the world dry before we leave to the fires of hell

Give us more bacon, let us eat cow, chop the pigs heads off and murder little lambs, scour the oceans clean of little fishes and fill it with plastic

We need a new war to keep the battle machines in production

We need to make profit upon profit upon profit

Trusting in Twitter, trusting in suits, keeping your Linkedin profile current, making a smart update, doing a killer infographic, change the world in 140 characters

Google your life up and surf the Amazon, ebay a bargain toaster and dropbox your ideas synced to your ibrain

There has to be a new V.W. with A/C and electric windows and satellite navigation

When the money stops we will all starve, the rent will be too much, we need the suits to save us from our own machine, we need a new iphone and a new V.W.

We are going to save Johnny polar bear and the burning Orangutan

We are going to save the planet from the atom bomb and environmental collapse and melting ice caps

Cancer, cancer, cancer, aids, cancer, the last barrel of oil

Set yourself on fire like an Orangutan fairy in your own burning forest, go out in style.

One down, 7 billion to go


(2015)

three or four

three months of the year have gone
nearly 4
nothing much
might happen
April

4 poems
hit the w.p.
& not much else
but letters & bills


2019)

Dry Golden

Far away I remember the fields,

Dry golden,

Days when the corn was taller than us,

And we trampled the crop to make rooms,

Sometimes naked,

Ah such is life.


And later the fields were gone,

Houses and rooms,

Cars and roads,

And we were not innocent,

The golden dry rooms,

And the sunshine.


And later the desire has gone,

Once we wanted so much.



(sometime before 2013)

Bad penguin

being a penguin
    probably wouldn’t be so
bad
    but for the cold, and the egg on the feet

(2019)

Death on a tricycle

They didn’t realise as they

gave me the bumps that I

desperately needed a shit


The resulting fall changed my life


We opened the café on New Years Eve

But no one came at all


The little girl with the new bicycle

had just told me to fuck off

I could think of no reply


And I watched carefully each

scene unfold in front of

my imagination


There, in only one scene was

the angel of death sitting

on a tricycle


He never forgot the words

of the little girl and

when they met again


He was ready this time



(2014)

i met him at his writer cabin

i met him at his writer’s shack

said to me “need the space, man

“there’s like, deer, come from the forest

we sat outside on the ground and I looked at all the books in there

through the door

we opened some beers

“i need a crap, man

he went inside and came out with a toilet roll

i heard him walk into the trees

i sipped my beer

he came back and washed his hands with a plastic bottle

we ate some sandwiches from plastic boxes

“yeah, i’m gonna write so much here

he said

i wondered where the deer had got to


(2017)

Can you burn


Can’t even write
Can’t even think
Insidious cold
Brown wallpaper
and purple smoke
Fresh air and rainwater
Electric and water
Water and wood
Broken spade,
woodworm handle
Woodlice under buckets
dripping from the roof
Gas heater
monoxide detector
three bars
Crushed apples,
squashed oranges.
Music, music,
keyboard
Fire burning,
burning fire

(2018)

Though the kingfishers looked

Though the kingfishers looked
So beautiful; specks of shocking blue
Against the dead green and dark water.
They chased each other like in love --
And you said, "they are us."
But what I saw was food
Clenched in a beak and
The chase was not love
But hunger

Their blue so fleeting,
ordinary but bright
perhaps just birds hungry
finding food and surviving.
love not here but within us
mistaken for passion
and base
instinct.

What they left in me was experience.
never forgotten
unlike the awkward moment of disclosure
when we saw different things
and perhaps it was not food
but material to build on love
the falsehood of feeling to
perpetuate the breed

for without the passion there
would be nothing.

(written before 2013 sometime)

fog mirrors


Probably
Didnt
See
The carrot
And
The
Blind
Walking stick
Under my
Vest
In the
Cat
Smell
Of it
All
There’d be a doughnut
And
Tough nut
Fog
Glass
Do your wobbly
Mirrors

(2019)