COUNTY.

CEDE NULLIS.

SPIRIT.

I wonder if you’ve called at York Minster
And stood in the centre of its cross
And revelled in the glory of its windows:
The Great East, the Five Sisters, the Rose.
Or scaled its heights with your child and
Been graced by the wonder in their eyes as
They stand in the middle of the world and
Turn in three hundred and sixty slow degrees,
Then marvelled under arches and columns,
At Gothic tectonic and Chapter House art,
And listened as whispers arise from the Quire
When there’s nobody there to provide them,
And on leaving looked back at the statue of
Constantine, and remembered the moment
Forever, and known that you’ve stepped
Through the most blessed house under heaven.

MY COUNTRY.

I live next door to God
And have no need to call;
He knows where I reside
And always will.
He’s out most days
Anyway, upon the hills of
Yorkshire’s sacred skin,
Watching and waiting
For us to approach
And ask for directions.
Traveling the length
Of this tremendous land
With the rose of
Mary’s love in his
Lapel and a glint
Of pride in his eyes
At his boy’s exploits.
God lives next door to me
And as a good neighbour
Should never expects
Any more of me than I would.
I’m in most days, and am
Grateful for his ability
To find me when
Required.

TORIES.

You lead us
Where you need us,
And we follow
As always,

Though some of us
Have sussed you,
And wallow
By the doorways.

But us few
Who distrust you
Are hollowed out
In more ways,

By loved ones who
Approve you,
And swallow
All your stories.

WHAT’S HAPPENED TO THE NEIGHBOURHOOD?

The Swiss are surviving,
The Norwegians too,
Whilst Iceland’s reviving
Without the EU.

But Poland is empty,
The Baltic States cleared,
As the East has been sending
Its best over here.

So who are the winners?
New Europe or old?
The countries come in from
Or those in the cold.

FEALTY.

I’m not going to have the battle
For England’s soul
Fought on my soil;
The fanatics and fascists
Facing each other across the fence
Can do it somewhere else:
Tower Hamlets or
Dagenham or some sagging
Part of Lancashire, or
Preferably on the door step of
Those southern comfort zones
That don’t have a history
Of integration;
Anywhere but my land, where
Allegiance is deeper
Than dirt.

BRITAIN’S NATIONAL PARITY.

You shouldn’t change the law
Because twelve people in a court
Found them not guilty;
They were ranting of their glory
In the depths of territory
Already tilted.

But if they stood at Speaker’s corner
On a bitter Sunday morning
Spouting hate
Then you’d be justified in finding
Them less innocent of crimes against
Debate.

PROVENDER.

I've mentioned before,
But I’ll say it again,
These morons
Would be better rounded up
And drafted,
And, after a period of intense boot camp,
Sent to replace proper troopers.
And nobody will care or call if they,
But little built,
Advance and fall;
Cannon fodder from the start.
For they have no faith,
Spirit
Or soul,
Are indifferent to others
And fear not for themselves;
The perfect disposable soldiers.

MANIFESTO.

My rose is white
Not red,
My flag is brightly
Bled,
My road is right
Not left,
My end in sight
Attests,
My absolutes
Conclude,
My own dilutes
Infused,
My aims are true
To me,
My truth
My alchemy,
My God is old
In love,
My science young
Enough,
My resting place
The Earth,
My gesture’s faith
Its worth.

THE FIRST WORLD.

So walk the Earth
And speak of peace,
And if they don’t agree
They’ll strike you dead
And what you’ve left
To say will stay unsaid;

Until the baton passes
To the people massing
Round the message cast,
Who’ll carry it, once read,
Much further than a
Former seer’s bloodshed.

MORNING SUIT.

My right hand was covered in the
Blood of others, or so I assumed,
As the sun cutting through the mist
Insisted on my well being;
Although I bleed the same as them in
Confusion, so maybe it was mine.

My left palm was stained green from
The grass beneath where it had tried
To hide me from the horror of
Above but had been refused entry
By earth; whose only shelter
Held another soldier’s corpse.

My frame and legs were left horizontal
For longer than they had been for
A while, but were unable to be
Raised or rolled away;
I thanked the Lord no tear in my
Apparel exposed my skin’s condition.

MAN MADE MINISTRY.

What is this church; so complicit
In the slaughter of ages
When we have placed
So much trust in its serenity?
God knows whose representatives
These creatures are or who’s
Divinity they seek.
Man made in the image of his
Parents should not be used
So easily by zealots at the mercy
Of armed forces seeking
Vindication; The pulpit soldier
Sweeping up the vulnerable
Should be the first over
The top or propped up against
A bullet ridden altar wall
For their service.

THE HIGHLIGHT OF OUR LIVES.

Truth nescient lies,
Awaiting for a hand to underline,
As childlike trials
Amuse it to the point of idleness,
And adult dance
Embarrasses the artist’s chance,
And slender science
Collapses for the wont of a reply,
And God’s allotted
Cannot convert a bullied thought,
And love inured
Has laboured less than it assures,
And hate yielded
Will not convince with its appeals,
And friends addressed
Have done so with no subtleness
As enemies proceed
To seek their trade with subtlety,
And Lords imbibed
With only their importance, sigh,
Whilst our lowly venture
Tempts a draughtsman’s mention.

OVERFLOW.

Why do they build hills so high at their crest
And lay water low,
Or invest their descent with a clear consciousness,
And their rising no reason to know,
Or cement edges with cold insincerity
Beyond the scope of far sight
Then tempt you to tease from them verities
That lead you astray in the night.

THE MILINER.

There were plenty of empty
Heads outside today,
And I noticed how my own hat
Stand had lost its leaves recently.
The street light reminded me it
Was time to put my work away,
As I recalled the days I used to toil
All through the night to crown them.
Time to go, to return home
And bear the weather directly;
I wish I was good enough to
Make a decent realm for myself
But the years have been and
Done their best to reveal me.

The smell of a cobbler’s
Stopped me in my tracks
As I was about to ask the
Lady with a fag in one
Hand, can in the other
And phone tucked in
The crook of her shoulder
The time. Fortunately I
Found myself before it
Was too late.

FOREBEARS.

I’ve said all there is
To be said about us,
And I’ve said it
On several occasions,
But if you cannot
Accept what’s been
Said about us,
Then you might need
A bit more persuasion:

We’re better than you,
And have been for some time,
And are better
Because we’re born here,
And if you still won’t
Concede that we’re
Better than you,
Ask your parents,
Who’ve known it for years.

LOVE ALONG THE AIRE.

I felt as though the twine that held
My organs up had snapped and
Dropped them round my guts;
All jumbled ruptures.
Those strings would play a different
Tune after that day.

There above the stone of Malham Cove,
Astride the Pennine Way,
Where nothing but the look you
Gave denied the weather’s
Touch, I found direction,
Though indirectly mine.

And that’s why men don’t fall in love these days:
They can’t endure it,
They’re ill equipped;
Unprepared to be addressed by
Words that seek confession...
She’s the only woman I ever
Wrote poetry for.

TYKE.

You who are not from this
Land listen:
When you ask if I think
I am better than you,
I’ll reply no, I don’t,
I know it,
For I’m a Yorkshireman,
And you’re not.

LIFELIKE.

Vivid brushed against my eyes
And left its imprint screened;
Saturation settled in-between my temples.

Graphic pictures without words
Explained their presence keener;
High definition really needs revising.

Images of long forgotten colour
Remembered what they were;
Mediocrity was covered there that day.

Intensity persuaded me to stay
And view my little story boards;
More lucid in my eyes than diamonds.

MADE IN ACOMB.

She was out of her wits,
And her depth,
Though she tried to survive
The regrets
That surrounded her shift
Of environs,
And the lack of a man to
Rely on.

So she took any lover
She fancied,
Regardless of whom they
Encamped with,
And had enough front to
Be candid
With anyone too
Undemanding.

And eventually she
Alighted
On a broken down soldier
Too frightened
To refuse her approval
Forthrightly,
Indirectly inviting
The frightening.

PANORAMA.

We take you from
Preoccupation
And bring to you
A broader view;
Where once your
Vision stayed
Now it’s made
To travel.
What you once
Watched, we
Did too, but
Over your
Shoulder
Not through
You, and we
Knew your
Solitude.
So see
How our love
Opens the options
Behind you,
And finds you
No longer
With yourself
To lessen.

DAWN.

Let me see
With clear eyes
The fruit of certainty
Once more grown
Solely for its
Use;
Have doubt condemned
To auction house
Events,
And wisdom freed
From the rescue home
It’s come to rest in.

Let me see
With proper eyes
The point of man recited,
And understanding
Threaded through
Our leader’s needles;
The call to arms
Announced with
Open hands,
And any tears
Inspired by a new
Recruitment drive.

ROSE-EN-SOLEIL.

Sunlight drizzled through a sheet of cloud
And stenciled summer words on winter’s ground;
Tender things in need of spring’s arrival
Sifted from their holes to read the cipher.
Unknown and nocturnal creatures stretched
And flattened out into the niches left,
Whilst hibernating animals in turn
Uncurled a limb to see what could be learned.
Dizzying and busy things flew swiftly
Towards the early flora and its gifts,
And wind and water in accordance moved
To complement the vernal interview.
The stems of solar filaments that flickered
Replaced radiator heat and candle wick,
And everywhere the weather men agreed
That by tomorrow open skies would be perceived;
For even when in mind it still suffices,
The sight of it is greater than the likeness,
And even this old cynic gets excited
When sun and earth are once more reunited.

THE NORTH.

Bold,
Warm,
Straight,
Informed;
No whippets
Down trousers
Or wallet moths;
No thick farming
Yokels or ignorant
Sloths loping about.

This is
Not the
South son,
Or its version
Of us; this is the
Real thing with dear
People whose lives will
Not be harried again for
Daring to embrace terrain
That gratefully estranges.

MY ELYSIUM.

Great swathes of the place were unmade
When I first fell from the belly,
And after crawling to my feet,
And completing speech,
And filling my mind’s breech with knowledge,
I agreed to stay and remake it.

And for the sake of balance, above all else,
I set a new foundation,
And built and sculpted halls,
And gilded golden doors,
And hung tapestries of battles fought in order
To achieve this grand estate.

And now in all its glory it arises for your view,
For its story to convey,
And spread amongst the richest,
And those besides the ditches,
And all who have born witness to the world
Without a vision of their own.

ARMISTICE DAY.

I go to the top of the hill
On the eleventh of November,
And bow my head in remembrance of every
Single person who gave their life for me;
From Jesus Christ to the last sacrificed
Upon the plains of war.

LAUGHING MATTER.

There’s Drax and Eggborough and Ferrybridge
Growing power in a row of stations arrow
Straight along the 62, following the rail links,
Well, what few remain. And they’re sitting
There because of easy access to those fields
They told us would hold coal for centuries,
And still do; only they’re unfashionable today
And full of fumes. We’re currently importing it
You know, and it’s funny how it was VAT
Free to do so before 1990, but isn’t now,
And will soon be brought from China no doubt,
Who already burn enough to block out their
Great Wall from space. It looks like our Arthur
May have been right all along when striking on.
And where has our metal gone? That stainless
British steel forged out of Sheffield and its
Boundaries; run down by commitments to a
Common foundry, where else, and sold off piece
By piece to Indians and Fins and Netherlanders,
Leaving us reliant upon Germany and Sweden
And other peoples inclined to cherish their
Resources more than us. Still we’ve got our beer
And our sheep and fertile land that’s left asleep
Each other year, and southerners who say it’s grim
Up here, though friendlier, as they buy another
Slice and complain about the prices they’ve inflated.

FELL.

I lived
Half way
Up the Pennines
To
Avoid
The rising tide,
But the
Snow upon
The tops thawed,
So
That plan
Quickly died.

LEAP.

If bravery
Has wavered
Over the years
Then be grateful
You ate from
Its table,

As slavery
Favours the
Labour of fear
And won’t wait
For debate
To enable.

SUMMER DALES, AND NIGHTS.

We arise because we are woken,
And wake only once we’ve broken
The enchantment of beloved dreams,
And time found afterwards to bear the
Implications cannot hope to compensate
For that lost earlier interpreting the themes.

Bussed into the almighty open
Spaces of the north in order for
Their warmth to have significance,
And left with the realization that here
Are the images that make our nighttime
More tolerable beyond the colder moments.

MOORED.

The track in misty
Cover was consumed,
Though barely two feet
Higher focus bloomed;

A rolling wheat field
Searching for a scythe
To garner it beneath
The shed of night,

Where whispered crystals
Powdered on the board
And dusty colours
On the ground were chalked,

And I walked firm from
Foot to sweeping foot,
Slow reaping me a
Path through evening soot,

Until I cleared the
Way along your road,
And stayed until the
Crop again was sowed.

GOD’S OWN COUNTRY.

As river is important,
And wilderness beguiles,
Then my blood allies these borders
And my body its square miles;
The history of resistance
That is layered in the land,
The keeping of the distance
And the staking of command;
The honour of being brought up
Amongst truly useful stock,
The need to keep a sword up
To protect them from attack.

The church may change its maker,
And its sponsor breakaway,
But it’s earned my undertaking
To defend it from bad faith,
And though the area is greater
Than more populated states,
I will spread my self like water
In defence should they dilate.
For if not for soil and solitude,
And keeping sure the truth,
Then what of our interlude
If failed the dreams of youth.

LIKE CRICKET.

It’s no good making an eye catching shot,
And getting caught;
You’ve got to be in it for the long run,
And not default.

One hit wonders don’t work in the middle,
And belittle
The rest of the performance,
And make you liable.

A hastily made assignation will not suffice
At the crease;
You’ve got to plan carefully
To succeed.

An impulsive pull without noticing the field,
And how it feels
From your opposite’s position,
Will leave you reeling.

And finally finishing as fast as you tend to
Will end it;
You’ve got to pace your innings in
Order to defend it.

NEW YORKSHIRE.

To the left a dejected old rival,
Up above only wilderness trills,
To the right enemies are all tidal,
And below is an ignorant quilt.

Deeper still are the bowels of London,
But we’ve nothing to fear from there,
And across the old channel their under
The weight of old socialist prayers.

And over the compass’s spectrum
We’re battered as we pass around,
Until, with relief, we detect home,
And settle our wings on the ground,

For it seems that we’ve beaten our daemons,
Whilst the rest of the world battles on,
But up closer you’ll see that we’re breeding
Fanatical morons with bombs.

TOWN.

DORMITO CAVUM.

BODY.

I never relished there and back,
I always liked it here,
But though my town was never large
Its roads still disappeared,
And when you’re young it’s very hard
To reconcile an end
Especially when you’ve never been
Round some particular bend.

That Pasture Road went on for days,
And Western Road for weeks,
Whilst Bridge Street led to bedlam
Just beyond its many peaks.
And cycling was rarely done,
And running much too hard,
And walking wasn’t that much fun,
And only gold bought cars.

Though when I grew I crossed the line
That bordered our town,
But quickly came to realize
That only home is bound,
Now I’ve declared my loyalty
To here and its affairs,
And today no longer bother
Even going up the stairs.

OUSE.

Flushed at the back of a witch’s throat,
Coughing up ripples and sailing boats,
Slipping its banks in Ocean lock
Or sliding beyond on the way to York.
Though gone are the days when all sailed passed,
And history made for itself a cast:
Romans and Vikings and civil wars
On the rising tide of a river’s course.

Now trade and its trawlers no longer barter
Much further than Goole and its parlous charter,
But it’s still the most inland a sea route alights,
Though by autumn the water can cut overnight,
And those just in time deadlines require a ruse
To conceal the impact of the mighty Ouse,
That flows from the north towards every degree,
And carries the gene pool of you and of me.

LIBERALS.

Everybody is up here
Where we were,
And we are down there
Where they stirred,
And we must put up with
Them tuttutting at us
As they plaster their waste
On the glass bottomed boat.
And the popular voice on
The shore won’t defend us,
As it’s not really interested in
Anything other than trends,
And it’s these we were guilty of
Ignoring when we exposed our bones
And told those who didn’t know
Better what we thought they ought to know.

GOO_LE MAPS.

Forty years ago, when I was born, my town was in the
Largest Municipal County this country has ever
Known, and it was only the western third of heaven.

Thirty years ago somebody committed Humberside
Upon my place, and shifted our emphasis east in
Order to affect a crossing for its eponymous river.

Twenty years ago, during an outbreak of identity
Crisis, we decided we liked ourselves more than
The grave robbers masquerading as our councillors.

Ten years ago they dropped our estuary name
And placed my town in a new eastern bloc Riding;
Running us down whilst still shuffling our boundaries.

Now they’ve imposed immigrants and corpse
Dwellers and every kind of support group associated
With need upon us, but strangely we’re still standing,

And always will be regardless of our location, for
We’ve Ignored their musical chairs as we alone know
Where we are and that’s all that matters to us.

OUR WONDERFUL STRAIN.

We orchestrated our performance
Without a coordinator
Although, as we increased
The heat, a semi conductor
Raised the speed to that
Our emanations had encouraged.

The importance of the
Romance in its travels from
The start to the encore
Was clear in the faces
Of the people whose
Applause exhorted us.

And together the unorthodox
Arrangement suited all,
And even those unsupported
By the vortex were brought
Out of their doorways by
The promises that called.

ALEX.

It was called Alexander Street School,
Although it was at the end of Edinburgh,
And the road whose name it bore also
Wore a second sign declaring Alexandra,
So confusion reigned from the get go.

Especially where the brick structures were
Concerned upon the playing fields of the Infants;
Some said fallout shelters from the last war,
Others, tombs from which no kid who ever
Entered was seen again or recalled before.

And those climbing frames that were attached
To the walls of both schools, and didn’t seem
To have a purpose, or apparently attachments,
And were banged for their clanging before being
Subsequently banned by the headmaster.

And the gate to the Juniors where family ties
And their internecine conflicts, started over the
Breakfast table, could be continued at break time,
And older kids would sell sweets or less healthy
Contraband to the eager litter on the other side.

And after a preset dinner of yesterday’s leftovers
We’d lift the lid off a pig swill bin in the playground
And retch at the contents that were tomorrow’s,
And try not to fall or be tipped in by the big
Lads who’d make you take a swallow.

And when you mentioned you fancied that lass at
The back everyone asked her to go with you and
Were told by a sweet tuneful voice to fuck off;
So you bragged about false conquests in the bright
Sun of summer to other ten year old jerk offs.

And in the last year I sat next to Aky, the most
Popular kid in the school, and basking in his light
Was given status, but still couldn’t get any action;
We copied each other in tests and wiped our noses
Under desks and generally got done for distraction.

But the strangest thing was the tiny plot of land that
Remained when they razed it; I sat there one day with
A nod of fondness for two schools worth of history,
As my family picked up a brick for me, which I have
To this day, to remind me of that place’s mystery.

MAD DOG LANE.

Those fields we ran
Like a fiefdom
As children
Were ploughed and housed
When the need for them waned,
And although they are
Thought of less often
Now older
When happened upon we
Realize how we spurned them too soon.

The original plains
Imagination
Ranged,
And creation was made
To last more than a week;
Cattle arches and dikes,
And hedgerow hide outs
Where innocence flourished
As high as the weeds
And nettles were all that we feared.

But time waits for
No boy to grow
Into a man,
And before we were teenagers
The builders began their own changes,
As dwellings were founded
With windows of
Matchbox proportions
That allowed folks a glimpse of
Their recently waterlogged gardens.

And though time should wait
For a field to grow
Into a street
It doesn’t and the damage is
Done by the peal of development bells,
And now when there’s no open land
Round the squares
We supposedly own
How can we moan when our
Kids spend their lives in their room.

IS BREAST BEST?

Milk bottles crashed
Upon cobbles as glass
And its glitter was dashed
In the frost;
....Against Monkey Bridge steps,
....Or their dark silhouette,
....Or the railway lines crept
....Where we crossed,
And as John and I nicked them
We competed to pick them
In the riskiest thick of
Day’s gloss.

But as fervour decreased
We took to releasing
Two vessels apiece to
Extend it,
....Until stooped low like a fool,
....One morning towards school,
....I was seen with a bag full
....Of empties,
And to this very day,
With imprisonment baying,
I’ve been staying away
From big tits.

KNOCKED IN THE DOCK.

There’s nothing wrong with floating,
But it’s better to have a boat in
Which to do it.

And if there’s an enclosure
Be sure you have the strength to row
Right through it.

But if it’s edge won’t open
Then you’ll probably be required to go
Up to it,

And hold your breath a moment
Until fear of the undertow
Is fluid.

SHIPS FOR ME.

I want to be on a sailing ship, a sailing on the sea,
With my old fish bowl, small dog and slow north
Breeze;
Going to sail on down the ocean lock, out to
Oceanography,
And I won’t rock the boat or I’ll miss the reality.
Navigate her round Muroa Atoll, by the Melanesia
Cape,
Barracuda and French men fleeing from oncoming
Waves.
I’m going to find the best place for me to get
Anchored,
Going to drop the anchor over,
And sit beside the rainbow’s end catching gold fish
With my dog Toby.

Then in the morning with nothing caught I’ll sail
My ship on home,
Where Labour works all day to justify its
Chromosomes.
Into the dock and down the wharf by all the agent
Men,
Where I’ll spit on them and stick my line and berth
Me once again,
And then go around the lock control room, and tell
Them what I think,
Throw an old brick thru their new sluice
Controls, and watch the whole goddamn town sink.

And by the time they have realized what is
Happening to them
The bottom will have fallen out of their default
Regiment.
The stevedores will stop their drinking and take a
Hurried look,
And when they see their shores no more will utter
“What the Fuck”
You see they’re alright Jack, know what I mean, the
Union’s got it sowed,
Work three hours of overtime and say it’s eight is
What we’re owed.
So I’ll kiss them and their practice so long,
And like a lone flotilla,
Sail beyond their shanty songs and become my
Own top billing.

And in my boat I‘ll pass their quays with water
Everywhere,
And they won’t see me and ain’t that grand and do
They even care.
Say I used to live here where work was inclined and
Auctioned in a mart,
‘Spect it’s the same all over this great land, with
Greater counterparts.
So I guess I’ll keep my soul and sail, and drop my
Anger over,
Sit up ‘till the fish return watching the world with
My dog Toby.

GET HERE.

I love you
More than the frame
That holds the glass
And scans the world passed;
More than the cover
That keeps it from view
When it needs to be refused,

I love you
More than the womb
That generates the future
Which germinates within you;
More than its birth
That stretches the ends of others
Unable to melt a pot themselves,

I love you
More than the game
That arranges its orthodox
Angles for covering;
More than the patterns
This skeleton’s had
Scattered improperly over it,

I love you
More than the air
That carries the sounds
Of the morning to me;
More than the vacuum
That constrains all sense
Of others,

I love you
More than the atoms
That chatter and bear
The weight of my breath;
More than the flash
Of collision as whispers
Reach their destination.

I love you
More than the depth
And extent and quality
Of my pocket,
But less than the emptiness of it
That keeps me here in this room
With you.

SCHIFFAHRTGESELLSCHAFT.

Back in early Nineteen Ninety a German shipping
Company set up shop on Boothferry Terminal in a
Blue portakabin that was barely bigger than a coffin.
I started with them a few months later and was made
The Operations Manager aged twenty three with no
Operations to manage: we had two ships a week
With forty boxes each and six trucks set to deliver
Them; suffice it to say our margins weren’t stunning.

So I said to the gaffer why don’t we go after the rest
Of the show; our line charters these ships so we should
Attend to their needs. He persuaded our paymasters,
And by early June we had started. I did the agency,
Manifest, Customs and stevedoring arrangements
With ABP, and on the eve of our first cargo we realized
We needed walkie-talkies for the quay, so we got
Them last minute; we were just about winging it.

Our first load was a barge with six hundred tonne
Of wire rod, with Watto on a forklift, six stevedores
And me and the guys from the office conducting.
We tipped it on a tide into 6/7 shed and delivered
It all in one week, and from then on were away,
And if not in the office that summer we were in the
Wheatsheaf or Ivy’s Den, where Big T saw boys turn
Into men, and the craic was as good as it gets.

And I was down on the dock or in the shed earning
Respect from working men or back in the office for a
Kip on the floor. There were truck fairs in Pickering
And sex in Fiestas and ponytails grown for the hell of
It; bonuses trousered and Vauxhall cars wrecked and
One evening Chris got a ticket on the way to the Vikings,
Where we sank a gallon an hour, and Merv and Mattie
And Ronnie and all of them boys were immortals.

And like any retelling you may think I’m embellishing,
But in truth I don’t have the room to enumerate all,
Though by August I’d met a fine lass down in London
And the writing was on the dock wall. I devoted less
Time and come five on a Friday was down the M1 and
In Dalston by eight for a pint, and my mind drifted
Sideways and work was reduced to a bit part in my
Schedule and therein lay the start of the end;

As by the fifth of November the Dock Labour scheme
Ended and we had to poach dockers of our own, and
I lost control of arrangements two weeks later on,
Whilst being misinformed, and told the boss I could
Do it no more. It was a hell of a feat and we learnt
More than business and the company’s still going
Strong, and as Germany won the World Cup that year
They gained more than most as all their ships came in.

BED CITY.

Knowing where your clothes are
And eating what you want
Are plus points of living on your own,
But against this is the laundry
And rotting fruit and veg
Getting in the way of living on your own.
You can drink more booze than usual
And smoke your eyeballs dry
And nobody can criticize, living on your own,
But then there’s the catted carpet
And tab end chasing crisis
Belittling your best attempts at living on your own.
Although it will be yours exclusively
And can be rented out
Creating new financial benefits of living on your own,
But then it will be useless,
And any gains rebounded,
As you’ll still need somewhere to live on your own.
So you agreed the wife was safer,
And didn’t look that bad,
Well not as bad as living on your own,
But then she kicked you out
And moved in a new lad,
Who was, well, living on his own.

GRIM.

The heating has stopped working,
And as is the deal,
It only cracks when it’s freezing
And set to congeal,
So the ends of our fingers,
And toes and our tits,
Will chill ‘til defenceless
And crumble in bits.

A LONG WAY FROM HERE.

During those Greater London moonlit wood hunts,
When we strayed too far from our garden,
The music of Nirvana called us back:
“Penny Royal Tea” and “All Apologies” appealed
As we stumbled with our lumber;

And though we were far from home the weekly
Souls we entertained were more kindred than
Any family firm; chipping in for beer and
Ensuring we didn’t need to leave the house,
Save for the gardening of course.

We weren’t the noisiest of neighbours, but I
Guess that depends upon the neighbourhood,
And as we were in the middle of a
Terraced street it’s fair to assume we
Issued more decibels than most.

And camping clubs should really not be sited so
Close to residential areas, especially with
Our scouts; heaving condiment
Jars over fences and leaving a trail of
Russ shaped spaces in them.

The boys would turn up all hours; passing by the
Usual convenience stores and the ones that
Slipped you a porn mag when you asked
For a pork pie, or allowed you to run up a
Beer tab in the middle of the month.

And the electricity would fizzle out every time
Our wages did, and we were forced to burn
Other fuels found in the shed, or
Liberated saplings from the verges of
Neglect at the side of the road.

Consumption of home brew ensued but didn’t
Last long as our patience was more short
Term than memory, so me, Kev and
Moz stayed up all night playing computer
Games whilst straining the remains.

World Cup years are seldom as memorable for
Their football, and although that was on
Who could forget the use of two
Portables to view it when the grand old
Box blew before a whistle did.

And with a new romance and a mid summer’s
Dance we secured the year’s immortality,
And if looking back some facts
Appear displaced I’m damn sure the
June Christmas tree wasn’t.

And as the year progressed we fetched more
Timber, either found or purloined from
The fields beyond that weren’t fields
As such, which was used to illuminate our
Exit (in a moonlight flit).

MOUND.

Cheap and nasty trackies
Were stitched about the kids
Whilst adult forms where
Fixed by other needles,
And strangers roamed the
Streets in search of either
As damp cycled and crept
Into everybody’s creases.

Winter had a way of separating
The sunken from the scum,
But nobody was taking up the
Job of skimming surfaces,
So society in county form
Was forced by its constituents
To build a wall around the town
And start over in the spring.

COUNCIL OF WARD.

For this
Instead of opposite,
As usual,
But so as not to stray
So far, I’d like
To say under duress was
I persuaded to
Assuage my nature’s angst.
Worry not my
Child for though inclined
To invite all
The woes bestowed
Upon my
Shoulders, I have
Lied.

WAR ZONE.

Wasn’t itching;
I’d scratched my thatch
Scrubbed so I felt no need to,
Was merely thinking about
My next move when the phone spoke.
It was one of the usual yawpers so
I said yeah yeah yeah and ditched them.
They never learn not to tell me shit
Even after I’ve asked them,
Especially this early:
The unremitting blink
Of non thinkers constantly amazes me.
I jigged with them by calling back,
Asking what they’d
Wanted, and they said hi, how you doing...
I mean...
I got up then anyway as I was about
To indulge myself before the blower went,
And it put me right off.
Took a look in the shower room and
Decided to dip my bits in the sink,
It being cleaner, believe me.
Dressed the best I could and
Left for a slug down the pub.
Nothing new to report there;
Another passing,
Another rude awakening for the landlord
The night before,
Another aggravated face broken,
Another tooth
For the fairy to loose amidst the weekend rush hour.
He asked what I wanted,
Which always spoilt my appreciation
Of the term ‘local’,
So I fucked with him a time
Before I said ‘The usual’,
Which he knew,
And settled in my booth to wait for the
Morning’s caller to inevitably arrive.
They topped and said man you look good,
Lost a little weight?
No I said, not intentionally,
Must be cancer.
What did I know?
Nothing as it happened,
But that’s no fault of mine or my knowledge:
Unless my body shuts down quick,
Or another’s does for me,
Or a suffocating amount of matter sticks to it accidentally,
Then I’ll go slow,
One night at a time
And welcoming;
Pitted against the wishes of greater faiths
Than mine,
Inside and out of my sphere of influence,
Dangling on the end of their little kitten strings and
Teasing them even more.
The odd day may get the better of me and
Your name frame a mention,
Your mother’s too,
But other than that
A few hundred lucky bastards will be glad
They didn’t ask how I was
As I dribbled out of sight
Without bothering theirs.
Reeling from the loss of one more summer,
Cricket tossed and football coming,
Should be worth the
While to miss another fun filled winter ritual.
But hopefully not today.
The moron ordered another
Round and sat down to tell me and
Himself, once again, his news.
He was an old friend,
But one you wouldn’t want to end
Your days sat next to on a weekend
Full Of Sundays.
He’d been married for twenty five years,
And he and his wife had decided from
The beginning to devote every sixth and
Seventh days to themselves;
Shuttling their glutted kids upwards
Upon arrival to an older generation
In order to be allowed them some me time.
Leather straps and chains were attached and
Reins were used to move them;
All sorts of porn,
Except the kiddie kind of course,
Was introduced,
And they swore its use was
Cathartic for their marriage.
So why he was here on
His sacred day intrigued me,
Seeing as on those weekends when
Either of them weren’t up to their perversions
They’d waste their time at the track
Or the game
Or in the company of lesser blameless conquests;
Switching partners
From a dish full of keys and
Discussing buggery with a bunch
Of hardcore anal-ists,
And afterwards
Teaching their kids the Importance
Of calculus.
Then they would simply forget,
From one day to the next,
Their actions;
Poor continuity.
At every stage in his misbegotten
Life he’d called all his cats Aslan
In the hope that one day,
One of them,
Would be,
But today he’d encountered a different
Witch to repel.
Apparently he’d come into contact
With a rat trap of a bag on the internet
Who looked like she’d
Stepped in a flesh pit
And found her way out, and he couldn’t
Convince her to leave him; so I did
As I needed to get through
The weekend in one piece
Because I’m at ease with myself,
Even if no one else is.

BEACON.

Bricks and stones and mortar,
Made as walled support,
Cowered under roof tops.

Rooms and halls and stairwells,
Left to shape themselves,
Coloured in surrender.

Books and disks and pictures,
Layered on throughout,
Caught beneath a dust cloud.

Shirts and shoes and trousers,
Stored in timber drawers,
Used to lure tomorrow.

Morning, noon and night time,
Dressed in different cloth,
Similar once naked.

Window frames and doorways,
Opened from inside,
Left to light arrival.

ME TURN.

The crisscross of road fork,
The switch back and forth,
The scrape of blade carving
Toward an ice hut.
The old shapeless options,
The new shameful choice,
The tale of one tucked between
Two legs opposed.
The right or the right to be left,
The forwards that always invert,
The first love that makes less of
Those feelings before or after;
That truck driver’s daughter.
The vault and the vaulted,
The hunt of the haunted,
The early search halted,
The circle hurdled,
The fall stalled,
The last foot
Tripped up,
Then on.

OLD GOOLE.

At the back of the bus
That’s us;
In the bilge of the liner
You’ll find us,

Where the soybean stink
Is the thing,
And the option of shops
Has been dropped.

Where broadband was last
To be cast
Over two docks and a river
To wither,

And those factories standing
Still manned
Are thumbed to be tumbled
And shed,

And the fuckers that put us here
Whistle,
Like the shipyard’s old siren once
Whistled.

THE LOCAL.

Madge and Jim welcome you,
(Please come in)
Open seven days ‘til late,
(Never closed really)
Weekend entertainment,
(Piss heads and whores)
Bar meals available,
(Crisps and nuts)
Lunch served each day,
(Toasted sandwiches)
Sunday dinner too,
(Frozen all in one meals)
Full size snooker table,
(In a half sized pool room)
Sports on a big screen,
(Last year’s horse races)
Warm friendly atmosphere,
(Bring your own knife...)
Real Ales served.
(...A big fucker)

THE CORRIDOR.

The ceramic floor tiles need bees waxing,
Or similar, to stop their surfaces scratching,
And pine needles dribbling down between cracks
Will never improve their general attraction.

The woman who moved all her objects from Bourne,
And her German hounds have been dragging their claws
Down the hallway and crusting the paving with spores
And other grit picked up and dripped from their paws.

And those old Victorian encaustic squares
Had been sullied enough by time’s wear and tare,
But Frenchmen and Londoners, parents and friends,
Still added their tread as they made for the stairs.

Though they’re better laid down than dug up for a sale
By unscrupulous builders, or worse who retail,
But if bankruptcy follows then some lucky fellow
Will probably carpet them over as stale.

Which I hope is the case for their safety through time,
As the bailiff has wakened and made up his mind,
And the floor in the hall and the rest of its kind
Will be repossessed until fortune walks by.

LESS TERRESTRIAL.

Seldom are truly beautiful women
Seen in town, but today, when I was
In the supermarket, they were queuing
Up, literally. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m
A married man and all that, and my wife is
The one, but when a vision of Venus crosses
Your path there’s a certain head snap that you
Simply cannot avoid; luckily I was on my own this
Morning and was able to spin my head in peace or
Otherwise I may have found my neck post stamped
Upon permanently. Still, we do what we can with our
Radars.

BULLSEYE.

I find myself along the lane that runs by Westfield
Banks, where secret lovers come
To chance their arms,
Pased the riverside and under Boothferry bridge until
A roundabout that’s actually
Rectangular comes to me.
Right to Howden, Airmyn ahead or left back into
Town, and you know there’s only
Ever one way to go:
Up the overpass and down the road, and, like a
Second skin, before me sits my
Ancient armour plate
Protecting and deflecting this world’s carnage,
Regardless of the fact it’s not as
Flexible as most.
And local shit scum and junkies, foreign labour flunkies,
And mewling childlike monkeys
Will all be saved
As this place courses through us and impurities
Therein are welcome too,
As long as they behave,
For everything that’s here, and there’s really
Nothing here but us, is all that counts,
And isn’t that the point.

DOWN DIFFERENT STREETS.

So your story was slow to unfold,
And you were glad for the end and repentance,
Though in truth if the tale had been told
Without bowing or being too defensive
You’d have had nothing to fear from its mention.

Though sufficiently more than required
Was suffused with gratuitous silence,
But unlike the dull guilt of the quiet
Who assume their own act as compliance,
Your deeds were akin to defiance.

Your foot was quite awkward with forward,
Though once moved it propelled you along
With commitment to more than a prologue,
And a flair for adventure and song
That ended with more than it had when begun.

So stand up and bow down correctly,
In receipt of our well earned applause,
For you life is a light for the unsighted lie
That believes toil alone is just cause,
And not the last gasp of the forced.

THIS OLD PORT OF MINE.

The salt and pepper pot
By the port
Contained the town’s
Water supply,
Though the real worth
Of its contents
Was reflected in the dock’s
Infrastructure:

Rhine barges and larger piled
High with boxes of
Obnoxious products, and
Less useful things,
Lifted and tipped of
Their wares
By a new generation of
Agency worker.

Sheds built on the last
Acre of land
Available for stuffing
With rent free goods,
And queues of red and white woods,
And coffin shaped rods
Of unwanted metal besides
Human sized rolls of shit paper.

Seasonal tours from museum
Owners transporting
The needy and nauseous
Into the unknown;
Those recently cleaned up canal
Ways once full of
Tom Puddings shoveled high
With the area’s coal.

And one lonely green hoist in
Remembrance of four
Fingers lost to the frostbite
Of progress,
Like most of the once handballed
Items and weather worn
Faces of Dockers two decades
Older than seemed.

And finally us who were born here
And once strolled where we
Wished in an age when the fish were
More plenty than fences,
And rights of way were a given
Without yellow lines
To remind us to stay in them,
As if we’d forgotten what was in the dock.

No.65.

There are flies in the toilet
And noises in the fridge,
Inches of upheaval set
To spoil our acreage.

The television off switch
And washing machine on
Have recently gained glitches
That have confused everyone.

A satellite receiver
And an errant internet
Compete for worst achiever
Whilst amassing peak call debt,

And the curtains are uncertain
As to how they should be pulled
So daily condensation
Creeps into the window sill.

The carpet has a pattern
That entices you to puke,
Whilst magnolia just happens
To be everywhere you look,

And in the hallway and the landing
There are clothes in dusty piles
Whilst the holes they used to hang in
Have been filled with new textiles.

And though the bedrooms are appealing
For a shorter contribution
Their occupants are dreaming
Of a stay of execution,

And those in need of feeding
Have assault courses to cross
As the dishes are receding
Inbetween the dirty pots.

And the furniture once featured
In the grandest catalogue
But now it only teaches us
To leave such tat alone,

And those same life lessons learn us
Not to drink too much in bars
Because you never know who’ll turn up
And break open your old heart.

WHEN THE RAIN STOPPED.

I stayed inside for many years,
For many years I stayed,
In front of screen and plastic keys
With more than fortune made.
The world came to amended eyes
Through finger tipped abridge,
Then to my gate with invoice signed
For its assemblage.
Until one day the data ceased,
Requiring a response,
So dressing in my finest crease
I ventured out beyond.
Its colour did not match my own,
Nor that upon my canvas,
And paler still was life in tone,
Though liberally amassed.
Breeze wilted in its very clothes,
And hung on hidden rails,
As if a leak in colour’s load
Had bleached out of its sails.
So brushing off a settled rust
I turned around for home,
And fixed what cables had been crushed
Neath creeping monochrome.

RIPARIAN.

If you do not find the sanctuary of the
River bank as calming as the locals do
Then you should reconsider living here,
For alongside the old colonial style buildings
Runs a tranquility that most can only dream
About or have to manufacture.

On summer days the trees fly every shade
Of sacred green and evenings a flag of fusain
Gauze through which the stars emerge,
Whilst winter crunches under foot the last
Remnants of autumn’s festival of fallen leaves,
And branches brace the flagging clouds;

For overhung in costume of either skin
Or skeleton this place conspires to help
The spiritless or lover blessed with joy;
Forgiving any thought of penitence,
And furthering the tidal flow of hope
Along its winding modern course.

WAITING BY THE WATER.

The well known hotel,
Now an egested shell,
Sits by the bridge
With its name,

Which swings to prevent us
From leaving its mentor
Until we have filled
It again.

But its windows and doors
Are encrusted with boards
And its walls are appalled
At the thought,

That in order to enter
We may have to vent
Our fire outside them
Once more.

For it was many a year
When decent folk feared
To meet on its street
After dark,

As they were aware
That insanity flared,
And fighting was nightly
Its spark;

Taking hold of the young,
And those coveting them,
In a flurry of hurried
Imbibing,

And denuding the doubts
Of the bar inside out
Where the rain and their stains
Were colliding.

And come the next morning
Policemen stood warning
The landlord of laws
Being breached,

And old Don did his best
To assuage the unrest,
But the times and their crimes
Went unbleached.

And the shame of the scene
Was because it had been
Once a haven for brave
Northern souls;

With Les G. and his crew,
And my sister, who knew,
Not a thing about slings
And arrows.

But the eighties were eager
To marshal the meager,
Whose thinking the drinking
Enhanced

To a state where their day
Was a class war away,
And their reason an evening
Trance.

And the nineties came creeping
With a house crisis reaping,
And money was funny
To find,

And bitterness whispered
To locals who pissed up
The last of their cash
On cheap wine.

But dear Fred held the reigns
And was able to tame
The listless and lost less
By far,

And shipping clerks crept
For a swift one as debt
And it demons were screened
At the bar.

And the trade from the Docks
Slowly grew as the clock
Was increased, and a peace
Was declared,

Though as the years sped
A drug culture spread
And the punters where shunted
Elsewhere.

While the Royal and the Mac
Were well placed to attack,
And entice all the nice
People left,

Until all that remained
Were refurbishment games
And the zoo was turned into
A vet’s.

Anesthesia held
As the decade expelled
The remains of the aimless
And burned,

But millenniums seldom
Occur when you tell them
And quickly the sickly
Returned.

So the insides were scraped
Of their tables and drapes
And changed to a strange
Kind of dance hall;

With queues round the block
And tall doormen to stop
The boisterous from foisting
A brawl.

But discos are risky,
And this one fell briskly,
Becoming a slum
Once alighted,

And there by the water
Our sons and our daughters
Walked by when the sky
Was benighted.

And here we all are
In our over sized cars,
All sated and too fat
For fit,

Awaiting a builder
Prepared to re-gild her
And grant us a chance
To remit.

THAT SWEDISH SHOP.

You can tell that everybody shops there,
Although some refuse to be seen with a carrier bag,
Even the tweed clad twats in their four by fours,
Who, although looking incongruous, and possibly
In denial amongst their own, still fill their barrows
With food produced more cheaply than their own farms.
My daughter avoids the place though, whilst willingly strolling
Down the isles of pound shops and discount clothes stores.

THE OPPOSITE.

And now then here at the end of the line
There is a station that resembles mine,
And out beyond it is the rest of my town,
Although apparently the wrong way round;

It would appear that on the train from Hull,
When I was feeling worse than usual,
I did not wake up only back to front,
But in fact awoke beyond the sun,

For on the platform where this coach has stopped
Are stood the people beingness forgot:
Old friends and family from near and far
Around my father with his open arms,

And I have waited almost all of my days
To feel once more the love of his embrace,
As all about my feet old pets close in,
And on reflection I am home again.

TRIBE.

FERET AD ASTRA VIRTUS.

MIND.

There was movement in the tune,
And versed words;
Shape arranging cues,
And learnt curves.

Images improved,
And terms served;
Schedules overruled,
And worms turned.

Brotherhood in bloom,
And you first;
Family values
Preserved.

DELIVER ME FROM EVIL.

Give me cigarettes and booze
And a poor diet’s hues
And a room with a lock on the door,
And I’ll write you a book
With a sound and a look
Unlike anything knocked up before.
Full of words and their ways
And negotiable space
For their content to gently consume,
And before the last vowel
You’ll be keen to allow them
Inside you to mentally bloom.
Where they’ll mess with your mind
And your mouth when you find
You’re surrounded by those you adore,
Who will be so impressed
By the way you address
The opinions they chose to ignore.
And convinced of your wit
And the wisdom of it
They will ask where you sought inspiration,
And you’ll mention my name
And the letters I’ve framed
And at last I’ll have wrought my salvation.

LABOUR.

When I was younger
I considered certain things intolerable
And right wing,
But now I’m older
These simply appear agreeable,
And right.
And I know I might be imagining swings,
But even time ticks their way at the moment,
And it’s such a shame that my own party
Ended prematurely for me without
Considering this passage.

OCEAN CENSOR.

The land mass cracked
As ripples unwrapped
From abroad.
Demands stacked up
When shipments impacted
Our shores.

The splits considered
A tether to hold them
As one,
But fitness withered
And lesser men flowed
To the front.

A faction splintered;
Its fragment lingered
Then fell.
Their track was wintered,
And lagging hindered
Travel.

And though rose the trail
The ridden detected
A haven
Where nobody veiled
The hidden effects of
Its wavelengths.

PASSING BY.

Every town hour,
And street minute,
And house second
A spirit sheds its skin
And prepares to appeal;
Each home has a soul of its own
These days to witness hereafter,
Verify the past and represent the present.

SIRE.

Tash had a hook on the end
Of his wrist where a hand
Used to live before being
Lost in The First World War.

He’d sit on his step and
Frighten the kids with it, as
Liza would gather up Charlie,
George, Ev, Rhoda and Kaizer,

And sweet little Ruth
Would look up to her
Brothers with such love
In her heart as to weep.

Hollands and Butteralls
And wedding processions,
And farrows and funerals
Controlling the stock,

Spreading their feet by the
New poppy fields which have
Witnessed their ways to
The ends of the Earth.

EQUALITY MORTAL.

When men make sense
I will cheer,
When sense makes men
They will hear;
When sound carries more
Than a broadcast,
When more than a sound
Have the words massed;
When all of the Lord
Are acclaimed,
When the Lord has made all
Men the same.

AS SIMPLE AS THAT.

So gather round if feet allow
And hear a tale of folk
Within the vale of York;

Sheltered long from hale and haze
And littered evenly over
Firm and leveled groves.

And although riven of most comfort,
Bright enough to learn
New mischief of their own,

With independence and its kin
Employed for services
Devoid of worship,

And arrogance a given,
But without the usual use
Of louts and fools,

And where ignorance survives,
But with gratitude for
Chances it exudes.

RECOILED.

How well men wake
Once shipwrecked,
And planted in
The sand;

Battered down but
Still unbowed,
And standing to
Expand.

Shrugged of dust
And detritus;
Sticks and holy
Stones,

Then off again
In reverence
Of their unbroken
Bones.

K.O.Y.L.I.

My Harry was a railway man
Who signed up for a foreign war;
He never was a sailing fan
Or champion of the flying corps,

So with the army he enrolled,
And off to France he duly went,
Where after digging many holes
He climbed from them a sergeant.

He was a kid before the Somme
That autumn brought a change,
When birthday number twenty one
Defined for him an age;

Whose stories rarely passed his lips,
Of mustard gas or worse attacks,
Though afterwards he never slept
Without them shouting back.

That vintage British infantryman,
My grandfather and saviour,
Ventured out of history’s land
And into my parade yard.

IN OXFORD STREET, 1985.

In a second hand three quarter coat with
Fraying cuffs and hardly any lining over
A great white baggy linen girl’s shirt
That I wore for years tucked into those
Faded sky blue denim jeans thick belted
That eventually ripped whilst covering
Semi patterned lace up black sued shoes
Whose rubber soles split evenly along,
And because I bought into Eighties’ cool
I didn’t have any socks on and was cold.

THE GRATEFUL END.

It was three weeks after the end when
You found your new boy through a friend,
And whenever I come to town
You parade him before the crowd.
Surely, you’re not that awful.
My God,
I don’t think I like it,
At all.

Now it’s ten weeks after the end and
You’re entangled with him again,
I’m observing you from the bar,
Baby please don’t take this too far;
You must know it won’t make me think,
Or even stop,
Or stay,
Or go
Away.

Remember, it was me who told you
That I couldn’t breathe,
And threw our love away
Regardless of my fate;
I thought I’d beat the wings,
Didn’t count on doing worse.
Surely I’m not that cheap.
My God,
I don’t think I like it,
At all.

Now it’s one year after the end,
And I found me a brand new friend;
To behold,
And unfold,
And eventually
Bankroll.

My God,
I believe in it all now.
Look at what I have made;
Embrace it,
Believe it,
Erase it
And grieve.

THE MEDIOCRE.

In the arena of the even
The unequal legged veteran
Has a greater chance of
Settling than the level
Headed due to the
Equity of issues,

For the chambers of the
Strangers who constitute
Our spokesmen are
Cluttered with the
Literature of political
Invention and its quotas.

And in the hallways of
The boring the more
Erudite who laud
Their stories on
Communal chalk boards
Are being ignored,

As on the channels that
We hang upon our flat
Paneled screens once
Glamorous and great
Pantomime routines
Are banged and baited.

And in the cattle sheds of
Mortals the extraordinary
Sportsmen have found
Less noughts after their
Names than the shameless
Well supported.

And in terms of foreign
Policy we’ve earned more
Solemn promises from
Less than steady presidents
About the rising sediment
We’ve settled in.

And journalists and
Broadcasters have passed
The point where news was
Last associated with
More than just a
Semblance of the truth.

For in those walks of life
Where giants used to talk
Of more than life the lanes
Have been overrun by
Joggers and the jugglers
Trying to become them.

CANDOUR.

In memory
Retake my face
From image
Makers set to
Place its outline
In the book
Of buried
Profiles.

And in doing so assure
A while for me,
Or more if time
Should stay,
And countenance
Its reverie
Alongside
Holidays.

For I will reveal myself
To thee
If concealment
Leaves thy side,
But if it stays
I’ll dungeon me
Deep in my own
Disguise.

MAKING SURE.

It can be awkward
Doing what thought did,
Especially involved,
When getting caught
With short shrift
Will test your best resolve.

For somebody
Accompanied
Will feel embarrassment
When someone else
Cements their act
In sudden excrement.

So when taking
Thought out walking,
With lover, friend or spouse,
Be sure you do
Impromptu
Before you leave the house.

LAY LINES.

Some demon was Simon
Whose scratched back reminded
Me of that lass from Batley, where they
Must build them tough as it’s so far
Down a hill as to be hellish;
It’s permanently nighttime there,
Well in the working men’s club anyway
Which only has windows on the inside.

She took me home from a
Morley pub one evening, after we’d
Passed that glance across the table which
Excludes the company you’re with,
And upon arriving and being
Smuggled in proceeded to tear
Into me; collecting enough skin beneath
Her nails to leave a fair impression.

And by the morning she had
The audacity to ask me to hurt
Her, so I shifted as quickly as possible,
But a week later in the mystical
Glades of the Lake District
I had to tell my girlfriend the
Marks were the result of raw bedding,
And that was the worst line of all.

NEWs.

I cried
Until my eyes
Dried,
Then waited
For the rain
To supplement them.

I spoke
Until my throat
Broke,
Then stated
That the pain
Was incidental.

I slept
Until my rest
Kept,
And muttered
In my dreams
To all who’d listen,

Then rose
Until my old
Prose
Was uttered
To extremes
Of repetition.

KID SKIN.

I fell into a pile of my child’s clothing
Whilst tidying her ruin of a room,
And was swallowed by the heaving
Mass of down and dirty linen.

After what seemed longer than it
Should I came to rest upon an under
Garment floor and caught my breath;
Mingled as it was with pelted sweat.

It trailed fibres through my lungs, as
They settled for a minute, before panic
Rushed their ration and compelled me
Up; worry fitting better than apparel.

I scrambled, but my wrists and ankles
Caught in dampened arm and leg
Holes, whilst turtle necks detected my
Approach and shot inside their shells.

And with swimming being a queasy feat
I pulled myself up by the collar of a
Rain coat and was as ruddy as a single
Coloured sock amidst a wash of white.

Wearily my sense returned and
Shaking off the must of many hours
Sunken in such filthy cloth I climbed
Further than a jumper’s wool allowed.

By and by I broke the surface of the
Cotton Sea and shrugging free of all
Material spilled naked from the waist
Bands of ancient parts I’d left behind,

Unsure of whose hems were lying next
To mine or hefted up above a water
Line I thought I’d long since covered
With a more autumnal costume.

BACK TO BASICS.

When you’re sat in the depths of yourself
On a Monday morning,
And the once swirling world no longer
Seems concerned.
When daytime television beckons your
Attention until school breaks,
And your kids return to take what’s
Left of it away.
When Tuesday blurs through Friday and the
Once hallowed weekend starts
And all you’re looking forward to is
Another hour’s lie in.
When Sunday grunting rumbles through
The household’s rivalries,
And you’re sick of picking litter from
Beneath your family’s feet;
Then take your lover to a corner
That’s avoided deconstruction
And tell them to lead you back to where
The universe began.

FOREVER YOU.

Flush your buffers,
Freshen up,
Put your best boots on.

Pass the butter,
Spread your bread,
Feed until you’re full.

Get up early,
Go down late,
Dream of Avalon,

Keep your figure,
Scrub your skin,
And stay exceptional.

I BAY.

The auction site
We signed up for
Was unlike any other,
As all the items
Bought and sold
Were medically covered:

Hands and fingers,
Feet and toes,
Organs, blood and sinew,
And any further
Body parts
A higher bid could win you.

GREAT ARTICLE.

She thought she
Had a nice arse,
And told me so;
She said it should
Be on page three,
I said yeah I know,
And page four.

FAMILY COUNCELLING.

Spending life misunderstanding it
Is all well and good if your
Family can handle it,
And you have time to contemplate
The relationships between
Man and fate.

But if they should abandon you to
The surrounding fog then
What is left of thought?
Your considerable intolerance
Of casual events
Will swallow you,

As the formidable impunity you
Underpin the future with
Will default on you,
And waves of present tenses
Sweep away the evidence
You have predated.

So you will have to comprehend
As quickly as you can
The greater plan,
Or run the risk of being overawed
By shop doorways and
Their courses.

MY FISH’S FEET.

Our child was walking around the house
Pouring verruca juice all over the floor;
We’d told her to wear socks, but these
Kids they don’t listen to laws. The nurse
Advised us there was nothing to do but
Let nature take its course, but that was
No good to her when her feet were so
Sore. The pain compelled her to forget
Whatever was unnecessary, regardless
Of whether she spread her spores to us
All. We were eventually forced to stick
Stockings over her toes whilst she slept
In the hope that their warmth would
Keep her distracted enough to forget
The discomfort they bore. But as is the
Score, these things don’t work out that
Way and we swore blind that we hadn’t
Glued them to her when they wouldn’t
Come off, but she got over it and lived
And eventually even learned to forgive
Us, and she never complained anymore.

WALL AROUND US.

He keeps kissing me
As if kisses were free
And I’m not kissing loose lipped guys,
And if he keeps kissing me
So contemptuously
Then he’s gonna kiss these lips goodbye.

I can take footloose
And the odd excuse,
Just as long as I keep my pride,
But the stink of his bitch,
And her pink lipstick,
He has not even tried to hide.

So when morning comes
And he crawls for crumbs,
As his ruefulness descends,
I’m gonna kiss him back
And whisper that
I’ve been kissing his best friend.

And if he’s got some sense
Then he’ll take offence,
And he can do so stone by stone,
‘Cause I’ve had enough
Of this two-faced stuff,
Especially when its my own.

MOTHER AND FARTHER.

However badly she tret them,
He let her,
And he couldn’t use distance
As fetters,
‘Cause it was his choice to stay in
The wilderness
Whilst his ex wife abused their
Two children.
And so now they’ve turned out
To be lairy
The blame must be shared
By both parents,
And I hope when those kids grow
They’re close by
And tend to their elders
As grossly.

DIATRIBE.

It’s not racist, is it,
Just the result of unsettlement
That’s all; the unquiet stir of resentment
Perpetrated against the alien, whoever that may be.
An incursion into
Territory once seen as sacred; whether
Religious or political or simply geographical,
By a minority invited without any local debate.
A group of men,
A group of white men,
A group of white men in their twenties will
Have a pop at anything because of circumstance;
As would a group of black or Asian or gay or old or
Incapacitated men, or women for that matter, and better.
A herd of Tyke or Geordie
Or Scouse or Brum or Cockney will call
Attention to another type’s difference without
It being overly malicious, even with an offensive suffix.
A pack of dogs will attack cats,
A pack of pedigrees, mongrels; it’s not
Personal, it’s impersonated, that’s all. Don’t
Take it to heart because it’s not meant to be
Cardiac, it’s just a barracked attack; it’s just words,
And they can never harm you.

MISANTHROPE.

Now will there be a race offenders list,
Where people of dubious racial views
Are posted to and shunned; shorn of
Their dignity for reports of schoolyard
Name calling or contemporary
Disillusionment with out sourced work
And in sourced financial tourists,
Or disenchantment with the vision
Of multiculturalism and its islands
Of insularity inside little England,
Or for waving or displaying of the flag
And falling into the stereotype
Associated with that, or failing
To run with the pack and throw
Stones alone first or suffer with
Slings full of common ground....
Well if so then you’ll have to stick
My name at the top cock,
Because sometimes I just don’t
Like folk regardless of where
They’re from or what they believe in.

RAILING.

In the breaks between your conscious
Trawling
Sleep but leave the day some early morning
Bait;
Fall into your old ruffled nest clean scraped of
Nettle mess,
And while away the hours until sunlight spends its
Energy again.

Unfold from post fetal rolls and shine
Brightly;
Blips and beeping interruptions greeted
Well.
Exercise if needed but if not breeze easily
Upon the strength of dawn,
And bind yourself as tidily as possible to your
Day’s frame.

Speak with heavy blotters handy if
Required,
But do not allow your words to be too
Blurred,
For in the clarity of your repeating echoes
Lay the secrets of achievement,
And if some little wisdoms catch in nets you
May well find the peace you need.

STARTLING.

I don’t mind
A few lines
Round my old ladies’ eyes,
Though she reckons
They make her
Look past it.

But it’s better
Than getting
That gape of surprise
Once her skin’s
Been pulled in
Like elastic.

DISPATCHES.

How transient relationships,
And fleeting our acquaintances;
How speedily fresh fingertips
Advise how crisp existence is.

Friendships formed by nursery greetings,
Forged in school and college speeches,
Used to grant a business meeting
Then left upon career’s beaches.

Colleagues floating thru the work place,
Keen to latch onto your highway,
Eager ‘til promotions surface
Then migrated on life’s byways.

Lovers rolling in the morning,
Leaving as the evening calls;
Another falling to the awning
That projects beyond your walls.

Family fed and watered well,
Turned into you and your newborn,
Then gone before the carousel
Has time to stop and mourn.

A SUMMER SON.

I had the good fortune to be born
In June, and avoid the calamity of winter;
A cherub laying in the sunshine instead
Of pebble jumping puddles of
Still water frozen to
The curb side.

GRAZING GENERATIONS.

They
Bred,
Died,
Fed,

We’re
Brood,
Dead,
Food,

Don’t
Breed,
Die,
Feed.