What happened to the local rock stars?

What happened to the local rock stars?

Do they stage dive into ball pits
with a clan of seven kids
What happened?
Are they still ordering £2.50 snakebites
propping up the bar in drag
2am face full of kebab
chuck it all up in a cab
What happened to the local rock stars?
Can they finally dance now they've a newborn in their arms 
Find a  nostalgic trip through the jangle of indie music
Is it property ladder this, double driveway that 
succumbed to pre retirement debt and senior fashion from M&S

What happened to the local rock stars?

Have the edges softened, angst a false alarm, do they now meditate twice a day to keep calm 

Has the hack into the mesh of a microphone

become a quietly distressed thought alone

What happened? 

Stop the boats

They're coming over here on their boats. At 16 knots with staterooms.
Some have luxury spas with fully equipped gymnasiums. 

They'll moor up down the coastline, buy up the public square,

charge a premium for a box room, let the ruling class compare. 

They're coming over here on their boats, yachts of 300 feet .

Beneath a luxury dining room, you can choose a double ensuite

They'll moor up down the coastline. In a cinema,
drown out city sirens, in front of film noir

They're coming over here on their boats. met by beggars in town.
They clench those hands up tight,  get them punching down

They'll moor  up down the coast line, make an ally of an MP
make sure it's understood that, they'll fix the economy. 

They're coming over here on their boats _

They're coming here...

 without life jackets.

Amber leaf

It's that photo again —

where we are lopsided,

and look like we haven't slept for days.

Those nights we trod every hit into the carpet,

flipped coasters, thumbed brown bottles,

passed I love you round

like a pack of Amber Leaf,

Your fingers clutched 

my wrists in this vortex

as we moshed on the high line

over bills and work 

Then we’d puncture the truth home

into polystyrene boxes of chips.

I’d hold your hair back

while you were being sick

over a future where

 we'd no longer need each other —

You,

the same,

for me.

Umbrella

My umbrella was at half mast.

The town was in a mood, you

couldn't separate damp socks and streams.

 Drains and autumn leaves. 

Hand on the crank,  fighting in the wind, 

the assembly of metal ribs were going to take off, rocket high. 

They always do.

He picks up speed

As the yews form a tunnel of

scatter shade to broom through.

Chaws on a biltong.

Swigs a Sierra Mist.

Unnoticed,  there's half a pigeon corpse 

on his bonnet, as he taps

the wheel to Heart FM 

 
On his driveway, 

he breathes in spring.

Looks around

School kids skipping.

(He can't wait for recycling day

His bin is almost full)

 

The Driver Beside Me

Drum and bass. He just cant cope.
He's had a years supply of Mentos in a bottle of coke.

He’s Hoovering on a hangover. Sharing fakon with Clarkson
He wants a hot tub filled with Castrol and a licence for a handgun

Crashing cymbals. Trump in a Mankini. 

He’s tortured by a knife and fork scraping up the last pea

Waifs and strays. YOU SHALL NOT PASS
roadkill should have learnt to run fast.

Monster energy has got the better of cars

'Look at Thatcher’s losers getting on the bus'

The blue pills don't work they just don't f**in work'

He's had a vindaloo and he’s late for work

It's a video game in real life, he love the gas more than his wife. 

He’s got selfies with tigers - he’s a bad boy for life

The speed limit is woke and the queue of traffic is full of snowflakes
global warming is a scam because some bald bloke on Joe
said he couldn’t get warm on a Summers day in benidorm

The blue pills don't work they just don't f**in work . 

He's had a vindaloo and he needs to burp

And this is it the crescendo -  a cyclist taking up the middle of his road, 

close to going Grand Theft Auto he’s ready

He’s ready to mow.

The old man or the fox

It's ten to six 

as I look down on

the court 

where the kids 

got shouted at 

for using chalk

An old mangy fox is

braving the sunrise

still skirting around

in  the whiplash of spring

My coffee sunk 

Eyes still a graveyard of crows

Legs like railway sleepers

I wonder if it was him who trampled on the crocuses 

First and foremost

 it's yours to keep

 the fate of the foil sky, 

the sunset surfaced on the sea, 

the unforgettable nights with local legends, 

the kisses that never dried. 

The corner of the country from a mile high. 

When you got away for that mountain climb.

You could store it all up, make your inner breath deep, a plaster for your mind, 

t's yours to keep.

My friend it's yours to keep, 

the bold blue you splashed on your feature wall, 

you stood tall next to a wax work of johnny depp 

potted plants in front of sash windows. 

The ivy growing on the pebble dash.

The hacks upon hacks for saving cash.

Your arse crack , your Irish whiskey measurements, 

your poetry, your small milestones in the Mcdonalds music industry 

breakfast at Tiffany's, the millionth picture of Banksy,

 the zillionth picture of Big Ben, your muffled video of a gig you only wanted to attend to hear the hit. It's all yours to keep but would it still be worth it?

I should let some water out

She is right. 

I should let some water out the bath.  

Because.

when I rest my back up against the rim

Some will shoot over the side.

Down the tongue and groove panel 

It will find the floor at a low point. 

Flow into the gap of the vinyl lino prizing

 away from the silicone seal, 

Trickle through the floorboards,

past the fibre glass that divides us and them 

through the slats to their ceiling rose centre piece 

and 

we aren't insured. 

We will have to pay for the repair. 

We can't afford to do that and we won't be able to get away. 

We'd have to take a loan out. 

Affordable getaways would be term time only and we can't do that. 

We'd have to pay a hefty fine. 

We'd have to have the radiators on sparingly and hope our lungs don't need bleeding. 

Our lives would be more confined to four walls than before. 

Theatres and gigs would just be posters to pass by. 

Meals out would be the mercy of our rumbling stomachs. 

Christmas would just be empty promises from us and a bank of shame for them

 and we'd eventually lose them.

Like a marble on a run, heading, to pull the trigger of a gun, I should let some water out. 

But the tops of my knees are cold and I can't get enough of what the boiler can give. 

Outside the clouds are white busts of warning that longer nights are setting in.

I should let some water out. But I won't

Rainy night in London

This is your metropolis
A magic carpet in smoke 
As you fetch your credit card
to hoover up the coke

And under the giant's footstep
there are folks who walk all places
Their headlights burn bright
but never get to the races

And I’ve heard you can dream big here

loosen the noose of the drag

But all I got was a concrete maze 

that wouldn't withstand my flag

And think of all the lives cost from the Capital

Big decisions made in home furnishings 

None of which are taxable 

And I keep bumping into these agents

Who will kill for such belonging

And you blow your nose and get black blood

The proof that had you longing 

And she left me for the city

a drooling dance to commute

Ronnie Wood tickled her in a lift

and she never looked so cute

She could finally rid herself of the old town

In to the city shroud 

And I write this walking through Hyde Park

Trying to stay away from the crowd

It's an Epiphone casino

I want the whisky Miles Davis poured

And the dope Bill Evans used

I want 48 hour days at Julliard

Where my bony fingers break

for land speed electric scales and arpeggios 

and I wow audiences from around the world 

I want to become hendrix lean in my playing, 

with melody as an olympic sport 

I want my beard to read artist complacent 

I want the bass hall boom of joy division

And the virtues of nina Simone 

I want the spiritual zen of George Harrison 

and to be lead by a Yoko Ono 

I want to be sponsored by Gibson 

I want my ribs removed in the name of art

I want the casino suites

And an Elvis Presley pulpit 

But this is now and this morning I just wanted a low tide