Pyro pink

Sea swimmers have soup in their veins 

I push a pram away from the sun, 

 transfixed on its stand off with the moon 

It backs down and bleaches the sky pyro pink... 

Others no longer focused on patchwork pavements either. 

 

Bleach blonde hair

Bleach blonde hair half tied

Her family are the only ones who ride 

without masks. 

Caught somewhere between a pandemic and a farce

Her kid's tablet is a never ending peace treaty 

She's on her last legs but hasn't any to stand on 

But for a few hours it will be lights out 

nestle her head in to other problems 

Relentless texts from an ex. 

A stream of empty politics, 

and shut her eyes to Talk show hosts 

who shout at her through the television set. 

(my best bet)

Blue vein lips

 Her chin rests on her hand

And her eyes rest ahead of her heart

And in the bar. I'm a shadow. 

She has blue vein lips on

Stood at the back of the room 

And no matter how hard I tried 

I couldn't get through. 

I live in a neighbourhood

Up on the hill tops
Oak bed posts have stood forever
But as we descend the hill further
her bed frame can hardly take any more
Her place surrounded by
a war zone of refuse and shards of glass
As she does most things men ask
Until she has enough to cover her rent.

I live in a neighbourhood.

The train station

The train station.

A tanked up football fan
singing over an 8 piece brass band.

A fusion of blue language.

The place is scale electrix hectic.

hanging doves look down
on us as if we're all mad.

Spitfire prams, frostbitten hands
No one knows where they're really going.

But that Shakin Stevens cover makes the rush okay

 Merry Christmas everyone.*

bigots next to me

Let them win the jackpot.
Something to stop them describing
the bite of every breed of dog.

A hot potato
where Middle England's ammo
is fired with shallow joy -
Solutions splashed on the back
of picture postcards
selling the seaside's decline -
Where rain talk is favoured over
blistering sunshine-
where ghosts now roam empty halls
that once stood host to tea room dances,
gentle kisses from doting lovers
And django lead second chances

and somewhere my daydreams
get swept up in all of this.
I'm sentimental, you're instrumental
in the middle of every week

let them win

(or give me a pair of headphones.)

Tin cans

I get used to their bloom. 

The places they're found

The joy they bring

A tunnel escape

for the voiceless opera

I get used to the blues

of their fading spectrum
Flight wreckage
from a budget airline
never cleared 

I get used to the way they held hope for so many answers,
 offered none, but enough for one more

And one more 

Biscuit foil sky / pyro pink

Biscuit foil sky

Sugar screams coming from the high tide.

It's a picture night designed

for heavy shoulders formed 

for carrying so much noise. 

Gulls grace the sea. 

I hope anyone in need

gets the chance to see this.

Biscuit foil sky.

Sea swimmers have soup in their veins 

I push a pram away from the sun, 

 transfixed on its stand off with the moon 

It backs down and bleaches the sky pyro pink... 

Others no longer focused on patchwork pavements either. 

open mic night

Open Mic Night

Outside the cats lay lifeless,

tenth spent. 

Street kids invest

ungodly hours

wondering if home

is asleep enough

to return yet —

Inconclusive, 

their hearts sink

as the chip shop light's dim.

The last one sunken as

even his phone charge

rejects him. 

Oil poured

down the drain,

the smell of vinegar

finds a new salt 

in the sea air. 

Stumbling from the station pub

a stray in a stetson does his best

to reel off a soliloquy

which was born somewhere between 

9/11 and a damaged heart.

One by one — a sequence of

single hung shutters

put him back in his place,

a solitary mouthpiece in the dark. 

Inside it's battle of the beards,

placebo folk.

A platform for undiscovered

talent to show their worth

Some do.

Lying rough

She was lying rough
& I'd finally saved enough
to buy a resonator
(I fetched her medicine too)

She was a Queen Bee
One who left my company for good.
and every time I scaled the stairs
I saw her in my bed.
So I took it to the 2nd hand shop
who told me it was worthless.

I umd and arred, took the money, got drunk.

I was lying rough. no her. no resonator. no medicine.

Up the hill

Every week

up the hill

the bus is touch and go

 Folks on board discuss their health

Every week they look unhealthier

the bus is touch and go

They get off.

Their seats soon taken

(mention smoke)

The birdsong 3.52am

The bird song is a landlord cashing a deposit
from a couple who won't get any sleep
cos the man below is a wayward soprano
He shrieks at the top of his voice
revs the fuck out of his stereo
They've got guitars and plants and idle optimism
But he's that cream that never sours until an
inevitable, avoidable crash.

The bird song are his friends who bail him out,
wire through his account. So he can straggle down the hill
on autopilot to get more fuel..A bag full.

The bird song is the shop who serve him
No concern of the state he's in
Part of a building society cashing in
His walls closing, theirs expanding (still standing)

The bird song is 3.52am. I want some sleep.

Turning Ninety Three

Such fervent excitement.
She couldn't sleep turning Ninety Three.

Now morning, with her good hand, she takes on a television score

A pause for entertaining the common discourse
Her mind's eye flickers in to life

Music brings the sun. Sunflowers open bask
and then silence_____ Weak kneed she asks

I've still got a few years left haven't I?

This quiver was me as a child hopeful
Christmas hadn't run it's course
as the tinsel came down,
leaving grief stricken walls
and the pine needles met up in the pan
for the last sorry time.

'Yes, of course' my answer - automatic, assuring.

As the conductor rests. She's gone.
We go back to entertaining.
We hope to have her back on again. (soon)



This was about my Nan in law. How her dementia seems to come and go. How it's all invisible and unpredictable)  I also took a lot from this _  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tp6c_oG1SBk

Swindon Bus Station

Swindon bus station,

Everyone fixed to their screens

Mine out of battery

The patchy street birds 
have a tiresome industry

Looking for anything to digest,

other than old amber leaf

In front of me, I pitch a family
 from a war torn Country, 

I wonder about their future

The wave of support oily politicians
get in writing them off,  
Sticking the needle in their life raft 

The little one is crying,
but occasionally a beaming sunshine

His brother has learnt to
 rearrange his hat, rock the pram,
while the Mother contemplates her carousel

Her garments are not very well co ordinated
but smart and colourful in their own right. 

The little one kicks off his blanket,
his pyjamas are Disney.

Perhaps he'll get there one day. 
Until then, Swindon Bus station.

. 

The Swan Boats

The swan boat pond a blue dye

In it's reflection, the ferris eye

A couple ride past on a tandem bike

Him in front, her behind

They look thirsty.

I wonder if they'll switch tonight.

Sunday Hanging

Peeling back my eyes from Saturday evening
Necking every drink I could, still steaming
and now the light bounces off every senescent storey
and, well...  I'm in heaven.

So what is an honest way to make a living?

The carefree crows commerce on this Sunday Morning
When the po-lice have been afforded an extra lie-in
Society makes us all feel unclean
Must be the same for deluded men
on this Sunday Morning.

I'm trying to make my money last
but every moment needs regulating
If I don't live for the moment
then what have I to live for?

I wish it were the same for deluded men
on this Sunday Morning.

Maybe they do to.

So green, I watch.

So green, I watch. Such anger.
The Pushing of trolleys.
Get out and f*cking walk.
Such anger. Familiar.

So green, I watch and listen.
I'm then reminded of blitzing gentrification.
The moustachio magnate roams the square like an alpha alpaca guarding a plot.
In front the old dear's doing night fever - she drops her lot. Everything she's got.
He goes through her.
Like one of those sadistic f*ckers who speeds up as you cross

On over to where the half baked bastards bustle.
They enjoy the morning sun. Never worry on.
Never worry of spies so green.
Me? I watch.
I expect I've been caught by the captured to.

Worth Seeing

Runners. Colourful runners. Pixels on the promenade.
(
Each stiff hit for a different cause
)
Sleepers. Dishevelled sleepers. A washout on the promenade.
(
Each stiff hit for a different cause)
Purposeful questions proposed to the sea
...
How it can stomach every one for me
.
The angler employed the bottle green teen
.
I wonder how he will fare? His beginning.
All this worth seeing.

New Years

Early 2011.

Post Christmas.

You occupied my mind .

Working in a warehouse.

Drinking vodka sodas.

I drowned but shined
Listening to 'Evening Kitchen'
with belief to find.

Get yourself together son. 
Get yourself together.

There's a concert on at the Afton Hotel

and I want you boys to headline. 

I believe that
this is the most vivid time
of my 28 years
Can still feel the bathing water
filled with my tears.

Get yourself together son.
 Get yourself  together 

There's a concert on at the Afton hotel

and I want you boys to headline.

Those tried years. 
Those tried years.

I was never faking it, never faking it,

In those tried years.

Hearing you offering one night
but nothing else, was the worst I've ever felt.

Those tried years. 
Those tried years.

I was never faking it, never faking it,

In those tried years.

The Flume

The room was painted
with strong opinions
Those colours brighter
than the room's intentions
Our legs spread for law enforcement
Shattered dreams
Show homes are only for sleepwalkers
And now these cats pounce on our confusion
The flume, you were shooting down, with too long to live.