PIZZA EXPRESS

apple sauce
belly pork
crackling
sage stuffing

on a pizza?

no!

TELL THE CHILDREN

dont be a poet

i tell the children

or BE a poet

but youll have to put your balls on the page
where
they get caught by staples

so dont be a poet
be an earner instead
cos theres no money here

or BE a poet

if you can be mad and wrong
and write down the truths
that
a
year or two later
can still shake you
in
another
typing morning
sending your words across the world
in the hope theyll meet paper

we need poets

i tell the children

but it doesnt have to be your job

or BE a poet

i tell them/cos every job finds its man

and if the world burns your edges
like paper thrown in the fire
and the contents or your bathroom cabinet
can
fascinate you
for
a
lost hour
and
nothing that bubbles in the clock ticking surf
is
concrete unless you hold it tight
or
write
its
madness down in bursts like epilepsy

then
be
a
poet
and catch your balls in the staples

GENTLE WAVES

the notes written in exploding scribble
in
moments
of
insight desperation and bluetime
might
later
appear like a weak brain farting
but
they
are
the
gentle waves breaking
into
the
choppy surf birthing 
maelstrom art and revolution
and
they
keep
me
floating functioning and breathing
in
the
small house
behind
the redberry hedge

HOSPITAL ME

who's that joker
walking
the corridors
with
his
shuffleboots
and
bald
potatohead
blurting
blunt
warped
smalltalk to nervous automated laugh replies?

that joker - the 40 year old underachiever
with
bicyclemud
smeared
on
his
chin
chewing nicotine and biting pens
and scribbling in a pocket bent pad

and
rubbing his scalp in the stairwell
and
pounding his temples in the tearoom
as
if
to
kickstart his mind
and
put
some
reallight
in 
his
sleepdull
manson
lamps

ITS ALRIGHT MA, ITS ONLY SUNDAY

into the quietest of rooms
comes the loudest of guns

ricocheting
off
the 
plasma screen
bubbling in near silence
inoffensive
and
unwatched

the
flat crack echo of a late starters pistol
the
rumble thunder of the cannons of age
and
the
THWOCK
and
POP
of the suppressed assassins pistol
right behind you
as
the
mid afternoon sun
falls
down
the
sky

BLACK-LISTED MAGAZINE

HURRAH FOR ME

http://black-listedmagazine.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/three-poems-by-ford-dagenham.html

LONDON HIGH STREET LONG AGO (GOODIS)

desperate 
for 
a 
drink
like an empty bellied winter bird
falling on a breadcrumb in the snow
i walk fast 
and talk loony
avoiding
all
subjects
anywhere near real

cos something happened

hurtle into any pub
empty middle of the day bricked up window joints
and
open fire tourist guest ale taverns
and
buy
us
all
beers without asking
tired of the weight of the bags
and

the thing that happened

i dont know who knows or how much anyone knows

about the thing that happened

and my wild mad head doesnt know
either
except 
that

somethings happened

buy scotch deliriously in supermarket queues
and
drink it in hurricane gulps from bottle while the glasses chill
in some afternoon flat
talking
about
anything
thats is not really real
channel hopping the tv 
and 
murdering and swearing
on the play station
while
they
all
cook
in
the kitchen

and its never enough never enough never enough
till
i
hobo-crash on the cheap and rough rented carpet
listening
to london trains and planes
rattle and rough
at exact intervals
and
then i run away at dawn
forcing my hangover to eat greasy food
before
early
trains
east
and
the something that happened looses its grip
in
motion and solitude
and
the cool fizz
of
cold
morning
beer
bought in cans from the station shop

ALIENS/ANGELS AND THE ARTIST

the artist didnt know who they were but he called them.
everything was done.
he was due his payday.
he called them, the angels/aliens, whoever, and they came to see.
he'd met them, well it was weird.
enough to say he met them.
their taste in art was expansive and he had an idea.
he had technology too. 
physics was his slave and the angels/aliens had promised him Paradise Now.
the artist went to work.
he froze the earth.
or rather he froze all the things that make up time.
or rather he slowed them down.
a lot.
weather cycles, metabolisms, chemical interactions.
slowed done.
a lot.
so it looked like the earth was frozen.
he created a still three dimensional living diorama of everything on earth.
the couples in bed frozen at the moments of conception.
the criminals trapped guilty in a still orgy of evidence.
rockets firing with frozen flame.
in hospitals and retirement homes the instant of death captured.
all it.
all you can think of.
the fairytale moments with kids in the sun with drifting blossom.
the moments minds were lost and hearts broken.
car crashes and tumbling planes.
the miracles and the mundane.
he'd dome it.
he called it Earth.
and the artist called them and they came to see.
they were pleased.
Paradise Now he asked?
Paradise Now they said.
they put the artist on the moon in a glass room of money.
there was a plaque that said Artist and his name down by his shoes.
the angels/aliens renamed the work Losers.
they brought all their school children to see.
then they moved on.

STORY

BUT YOURE BEAUTIFUL . . . she is wound to the wire.  
she carries one bag to the station and buys a ticket north.  
out of here.
but his head is a problem he thinks.  
hes not wrong.  
is he?
all the years of sunglasses and high collars and bad beards.
his head is a problem he thinks.  
or is it?
he is in front of the mirror looking deeply.
he is still there at dawn.
it IS  problem!
but he sees it then.
in the soft dawn light.
he is beautiful.
he looks at himself in wonder.
he is still there when police break the door in at the hinges.
he smells bad and he is bloated.
his head is a problem now.
his
smile
wide
and
ugly
in
death. 

STAR WARS

somethings changed in the old ether

a
demarcation
agreement
is
signed
in
the star dust
with the heart blood of old wounds
and
the
weird and fierce battle
on
the 
terminator lines
is
a
cold
war
now
as reality skydives in the supermarket
and
solidifies in black winter streets
with
silent action
and
scribbled activity

DEAD AIR ON THE RADIO

i
observed the two minute silence
for
the
first
time
since
i was made to
back at junior school
where
my
idea
of
war
was Carey Grant in Father Goose

and
i
thought of the end of empires
wars new clinical terms
and
illusory
freedom

the radios dead air was pregnant
and
the
ignorant chatter in the corridor
stillborn

ONE FAG BREAK

a coarse and loud scottish cleaner
ruins
my
one
fag break
of
the
working day

she lists all the english words
she
struggles 
to
say
in a harsh 
sink estate 
bark

dried up cronies
listen
and
laugh
their
comments
a ticking stream to her rough tsunami

FASTERMILESANHOUR

faster and faster i went 
fastermilesanhour

deep into the dark hug abyss 
at fastermilesanhour

i scribbled on the graffiti wall of denial 
with
a
fountain pen loaded with accident blood
an
eloquent
record
of 
pain  

the words became a blur of white icefire 
drowning my dumb exile 
in 
a 
fearwave of panfried panic

booze stopped working its wonderfire 
and i crashed thru my own shoddy walls 
at fastermilesanhour

and
burned bright and black
in 
a 
3 AM 
of
future
dread

SWEET SOCK

found a single sock 
clearing up

it smelt nice, fragrant

it wasnt mine then

but
i
washed
it
like it was

sweet sock

SKYWALKER

he left the single story concrete building glad to be outside the modern steel frame doors.  it was autumn and it was cold.  a crowd of bodies flowed onto the black tarmac touched by evening ice.  
the path split around a flower bed and he took the lower path. it was quieter, he remembers the brief solitude walking by the bare rose shrubs.  it divided the crowd of bodies like white water.  
he doesnt remember the bag he had but he must have had one.  it had a new book in it the lady gave him and the home made bookmark.  
the crowd was as noisy as white water too.  he's eyes were pinned ahead like lamps looking out.  his head was filled with the new smells of the building, his eyes dim in the new dark from overlit corridors inside.  
and he was full with the surprise of survival, surprised its over, surprised he was allowed to leave.  he was alone in the crowd of bodies and it scared him.  his eyes looked out like lamps.
the bookmark he remembers.  the vivid and glossy blues and pinks. cut from the front of a humorous greeting card it was the police pulling a drunk over under a huge pink elephant in the blue black night sky.  
the more he remembers it the more it tries to fade.  the details fade.  exactly what the joke was he didnt know then and doesnt know now. 
he sees his mother waiting with other mothers.  she has a long coat on, maybe a dull itchy pink.  he remembers the fabric and the fibres thin and silvery poking out.  he rushes up to her and hes holding the book mark.  it seems important.  he shows her the book in his satchel too.  the bag - its a satchel.  he remembers now.  but not what the book was.
he doesnt remember talking to any kids or anything else that happened.  just the early dark and the bookmark and how all the other kids were talking about star wars.  
he hadnt seen it.  
he'd never heard of it and in his wildest imagination he could not comprehend what a skywalker was but it seemed really really good and i wanted to be one.

Science!

IMGP8833, a photo by ford dagenham on Flickr.

WORKDAY ART SEARCH

at work
of
course
and
again

thinking about buddha and his noble beginnings

thinking about warhol and his pre-fame work

when
they
test
the
fire alarm and i know it must be thursday

or else it isnt
and
theres
a
fire

and i smelltaste the burnt flesh
where
the
surgeons are working
in
the room next door
and
i
look
for art and for sense
in the tumble stacks
of
plugs
and
pipes
ripe for ramming and jamming
in the feeble soft machines

but
its
all
too noisy here
to
skew
my eyes that way today

A MORNING HAPPENING

its that time of the year
when
in 
the
grey and crazy edged
dawn
like a burning dishrag
the
street lights blink off in surprise
as
i
pass
under
them
in an attitude of mysterious science
and
imaged
snub

BOO SAYS STUFF

moments come out of nowhere
and
then 
youre
in
them

and no one asked permission
and you didnt see them coming

they 
arrive 
clunky and blunt
without flow
or
ease

and its like the last room you were in
and the people sitting down in there
never
happened 
at
all

NHS MOMENTS

cant tell his age because of how his hair has come out in clumps and his walk that's a straight-legged limp.  he's fiddling with a phone like a younger man but his eyes are watery will illness. his skin is indoor blue-white and his belly bulges randomly like overstuffed pockets or hernias.  
he comes rolling down the hospital corridor with that awful limp rocking him side to side swinging his bad leg out wide pulling a trolley too big for the narrow space.
the guy he's with, cant tell his age either but he has to be older.  he's balding in a more conventional pattern with a greasy wispy top tuft bending to the corridor drafts.  a thick handlebar moustache hides a mouth that never smiles.  
they take the corner in each others way in a moody silence.  the loose padlock on the empty box on the trolley is hanging free and bouncing back and forth in metallic rhythm.
i hand urgent drugs in a box dense with stickers, a before nine delivery i'd been lumbered with because today's DHL driver is new and didn't care.
the sick guy with the watery eyes signs for it in a laborious tiny cramped scribble.  it is illegible.  i ask him to print too it takes longer but looks just the same.
the moustache guy stands silently big hands by his knees clutching at nothing.  
the bleep of a hospital pager prompts a flow of swearing from sick eyes.  he drops it in the silver box bleeping still and limps on hitting laundry trolleys and fire extinguishers and everything else he can.
i watch them go.  their pace is slow.  bleep still bleeping.
they stop and talk to a teenage cleaner with a short mohican who leans on a mop handle with no head.  
sick eyes and the cleaner have their phones out, jabbing with thumbs.  moustache stand there silently.
i turn my back and head outside.  i have time for a smoke in the bus shelter with the dizzy and the elderly by A&E before the meeting in the admin tower about my sick time.  
my work phones rings.  it is my union rep.  he cant make the meeting and that really doesn't matter at all.

DIETING FEEDERS

they bring in shortcake
chocolate cake
big multipacks of crisps
and
stack
them
on the round table in the corner 
monday 8 AM

they say 
i bought too much for the grandkids
and 
cant have these at home - they're LETHAL

these work women -they're dieting
all
the
time

i snack the day away
and they say
where does he put it all
and
lucky sod
vicariously

PORTABLE TRUTH

to write
to REALLY write
they say tell the truth

but
the
whole
truth?  ALL OF IT?

its too big 

i
got
the little truths to write

the pocket sized ones
you
can
carry
with you
and
wont
weigh you down 

DUMP LOCATIONS

its only when having a crap
at
work
under
the
harsh
strip bulbs
that
i
see
how raggedy and frayed
my
red
pants
are
crumbled down around my work boots
cos
at
home
the lights are friendlier
and
they'll
be
a
book hiding
my frugal keks

CAR LEAVING

her
tears
lit 
a
hot
fire
in my bellys balls
that
turn
to
ice and horror
as
she
drives
away
up the street

all will mean nothing again now
for
a
long
frozen
week

NO BIG DEAL

its no big deal
just
go
to
work again
do your time
and
come
home
again
spend a bit of time
on
the
things
that plague you
the
pitter patter of tiny words
no
one
will
read
and the scribbled notes for the grand schemes
that
theres
no
time
to
follow thru
no big deal

now

off you go

GONE TREES

the sixty foot conifers on garage corner
council
hacked
to
raw stubs
leave an absence
like
a
tooth
extraction
my eyes repeatedly explore
like
a
restless tongue
a blown open gap in the A road skyline
trepanned
for
new air
and
orange
new
builds

A CERTAIN ARROGANCE

i see a certain arrogance in retired drivers driving some '85 Jaguar or high-end Rover when there were high-end Rovers, bought with retirement annuity or whatever, when they cruise slow and pointedly sedate down the crescent, him fat and red faced and unsmiling with the wife, and he'd call her the wife, sitting silent next to him, both in good overcoats, her clutching a bag on her lap, him full of thoughts of owning the road because of his massive no-claims - because the car is all he has to remind he was a man and it is blandly spotless, has regular garage visits where he bores the mechanics talking about its smooth running and borderline classic status, and he makes the grandkids clean it for meagre pocket money while moodily supervising, yes he cruises SO slow, the turns calculated and inyourface smooth and neither of them look left or right out the side windows and neither of them see me sweaty on a muddy bicycle judging them accurately
yes, a certain arrogance
indeed