WITH TARTAN INSIDE

i used to call
the old guys
the shuffling phalanx of the lost

their bugle call
i assumed 

was a long & mournful fart

& they go

no more
for morning papers now

~

beige zipwear

with tartan inside

in donation bags by the door

africa jokes

about summer tans

gone from them for evermore 

ABOUT THE FUTURE

the androgynous
& softly beige

intergenerational crowd

gather at the seasons change
around the dry monolith

of the last standing tree

~

they murmur the old rumours again

about the old god Cloud

& how he caught the whole world one time

& bade them worship glass

WEAK TEA VISION

it is an overcast
& room temperature day

a day that tried for more
& turned out like weak tea

there is a sense of something 

forgotten / lost / gone

& a feeling of something

missed / wrong / skewed 

& then there comes a moment 

when i think / feel / know 

that if i turned round now
my grandparents would be there
 
a reassuring perfection

of themselves

maybe even hand in hand

in beige & smiling

CAMO GRANNY

my old neighbour
over the way
is wearing a brown spectrum 

again today

& is nearly invisible
against the house bricks
beige & ochre shades

also her white hair blends in

with 

the
front windows 

peppered veil 

of net curtain

I SHOULD BE EMPTYING OUT

the

white noise lingers

like

a forgotten subscription

raging 

in the downtime

when 

i should be 

e m p t y i n g   o u t

~

its almost voices

its almost harmony

its a radio dial 

ghost-jimmied

to beige space static

its the 

homey hum of landline dial-tone

swollen 

with the noise of the world

faceless

anonymous

&

blue

YESTERDAYS MEN

 

yesterdays men
beige wrapped & dawn charmed

shamble & gamble
up the top 

to the paper shop

for their own personal choice
of infoprint prejudice meat

folded in half & carried home

for another naked breakfast

~

they navigate like history ships

weak wind in worn sails

round the pavements cement cracks

recounting recurring tales

&

they reach out to brick gateposts

for a hint of masked support

the flat shoe shuffle going slowly now

keeping it together till home port

TIME DIAGRAM

you 
are 
granny knitted
dna habits

till a stitch drops
& 
context lets a quirk get in

~

you disappear from each other

youve children now
& in-laws

your bedroom bohemia
is sad-bright nostalgia now

tho
to
me
it
seems only yesterday ago

~

youre fed into 
a pulsing beige ether 
it feels like

diluted like homeothapy

your identity
but a pip
of
obligation

ego a hungry dog in the dark

from acmewhistles.co.uk

FULL WISDOM

Great Wisdom
& 
Full Knowledge

hip hop body-pop
at
my
picked fingertips
& tremble teasing
on
the
tip
of
my
dumb tongue

when all i am doing is -

observing
the
ancient
wrinkled
greatest
generation
have
tea from a pot
in a 
homeware shop cafe

so of course it doesnt last

the promise
was
maybe
only
a
caffeine mirage

&
all
thats
left
is
gums
spittle

& a 100 shades of beige

from hwilensang.blogspot.com

NEIGHBOUR POP 2

old men out
doing the  

8 AM 
shuffle 

collecting another 
tabloid teacup storm

they lean on gate posts

& natter like the birds

nothing to do with me

~

zipped up

in hemmed beige
&

invisible in 

autumns superior riot

they call anyone 

with a spanish tan

a visiting indian

not in front of me

~

shadows of alpha
self righteous
in the shade

sixty years of shitwork
under pu leather
supermarket belts

nothing to do with me

from flickr.com

PAIR OF POPS

      GARDEN POP

   i am drawn to the trees
 to the  quiet riot  out there

  barks rough edges  leaves smooth sweep
 theres a calmness to the tied earth

   an empty that needs no filling

    and my manmade fabrics
   feel loud
          and a mistake 
     in this beige ribbon 
        this fenced eden

from unsplash.com

      PLANNING AHEAD

 old couple  in a chilly costa
    huddle shoulder to shoulder

  theyre doing a crossword together
    their coffee steams
   their mugs touch

     will  that be us ?
 that will  be us

     if we have money then
  and  britain is not  ashes

from whitbread.co.uk

THE WORST DREAM

i 
dreamed 
the sky was newsprint epitaphs
and
i 
was
very normal - a forgettable grey 
              and 
              ashamed

and 
i grew older and blander
and 
i was fading and shrinking
into
unnoticeable
head-down
zipped-up beige

and i tried to yell to my dreamself
no
no
nooooooo

but i didnt hear

from the bugoutbagguide.com

OLD GUYS ARE BEIGE LEAVES FALLING INTO AUTUMN PUDDLES

old guys
    out
    on
    the
fucktown street 
    with
dead cocks of dance hall tales

    worn cog hips 
    roll 
    clogged with plaque 
and time 
and  factory waste

brown
blunt
orthopeadic 
feet 
shuffle slow 
determined and deliberate

    with
    dull muscle memory 
    of
the pitch and shudder of wooden-decked destroyers
    South Pacific 
      underage 
        and 
         lying
 
their
slacks 
are
shapeless beige
    and
    grandkids bulge their wallets
    and
      a hundred years of keys jangle on one ring
        and
          like
    camouflage
    in the autumn sun
    their
jackets are beige too 
bland and zip up
    and
      bought 
        from 
          Saga back pages

    up 
    the 
    paper 
    shop 
in pairs like unionised dinosaurs
    they 
      lean 
        on 
          gateposts
     their
gone low balls
    drained
    by
shore leave 
    and
    gravity
    and
    the bewildering long grind
        of
        change

today their lives are on the history channel
and
made
into
toys
and 
games