Touch the screen to start

Fresh breath down your neck

faultless delivery beyond
the desperate depths
of former colleagues waiting in line
for payday loan sharks
back to handouts

a house of cards.

society knows about this weather
but never dresses appropriately.

Please touch the screen to start.

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)

Barking too

Night time, she coughed...

and woke a sleeping dog.

The other side of the park.

The dog howled and others joined in

Owners showed their mettle by barking too.

This was the most industrial action
she'd seen in her life time.

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.

Hi Vis

Homelessness in a hi vis
locked in the commute
of sharply dressed suits
Trying to double
their lung capacity
with half of his

But for that hi vis
he'd simply be homeless.

Throw a blanket down

Throw a blanket down -
Insulate a daydream.
You are one of many in a dead end,
sick and tired of waiting.
and as you falter to the window
to smoke your soul for better times...
Throw a blanket down.

Throw a blanket down -
Insulate hope
For the many stood for a common good
and as they have you dressed down
like an old greyhound
who couldn't run fast enough,
whose heart was down the drain
before a shot was fired...
Throw a blanket down.

Throw a blanket down -
Insulate the good times.
Where refresh wasn't so important
and approval wasn't currency
and you couldn't get so far fetched
within your own community...
Throw a blanket down.

Know that many had your back
and every system  has to crash.

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 

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.

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.

The left give up

Bent over s-d-r-a-w-k-c-a-b

Short of straight answers

Facts are foiled,
used up scratch cards 

Voting records 

line top shelves -
Adult magazines
for the few [not the many]

So many still buy bright
from the bottom.

Billie Holiday is
drowned out
by a low exhaust
She sounds desperate & drained
My legs are heavy
stuck to the floor
I don't feel like doing
anything noteworthy
Because if I try
I'll be by her side.

These days,
I see many photos of
launderettes
I don't know what each
represents.

Perhaps hope for a rare kind
of co-operation

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.

. 

Dying Butterflies

I've never felt a warm gun on an empty stomach.

1

A rising lantern for desperate folks.

Paling handprints on boarded up windows 

D-Day for state supporters, a ring of racists

A wet dream for editors of gothic script papers

Years back, they started this.

2

Mowing down vital information, warning signs

Sugar-coated truth for the partially blind

Progression is rarely weighed up in traffic jams,

Campaigners binge watch enlightening programmes,

none of which institutionalise a compromise of freedom?

1 + 2

Falling for Westminster

Every night, the news at 10 -

Stomach simmers, dying butterflies

We are delivered a spent rhetoric. A loop.

Sample these dying butterflies.

Suits say they have a monopoly over our intentions...

Why. Do. They. Keep. Lying?

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.

Karaoke Pick a Day

My bus journeys are always pretty interesting. Every Wednesday I travel from Ore to St Leonards. I imagine there'll be a lot of bus references in my work. I've witnessed racism, accusations of racism, drug users, drinking, fights, break ups and a lot of kindness. I'd miss feeling connected to what was actually happening around me if I drove. 
Horizons a perfect cut
A Monster energy rolls down the bus -
Some of us can take stock of this,
Some of us take part in this.
live exist live exist exit
So karaoke pick a day
Where my mind doesn't circle away  - 
live live live live exit.

Tough Luck

Meditation on the bus
I keep on drifting to us (This kid walks past)
says my Mum always smoked
while expectant
If the baby got ill then 'tough luck'
If we became ill
then 'tough luck'

Meditation on the bus
I won't keep drifting to us. (No I won't)
These chemicals will pass
But there's biggest burdens than my heart

Meditation on the bus
I'll spend my evenings half cut ( a sinking heart)
These sleepless nights will pass
But there's bigger burdens than my heart

I won't keep drifting to us
I won't keep drifting to us.

Am I two faced or
or resolute
I don't know.

Homelessness, a zoo

Homelessness, a zoo
4 pints of milk downed in two
The face you wear in the laundrette
Is the way they look at you
Hurry up, be tidy.
Humiliation is okay
for black and white matters.

I Could Be Anywhere

Maroon coffee cups
Bodies sleeping rough
A stream of urine
meanders the banks.

A spark of optimism and thirst
Cannot last - always diverts.

Scratch card hopes
Energy drinks burn out
Quick, Bright, Dim
How could we lose him?
Settle for never finding.

And office block lights
are now the stars
Clocking off the sunsets
This is as good as it gets.

I could be anywhere.  (it seems)