THERES NO ENGLAND NOW

'another century gone

what will we leave for the young'

dave davies

i
am
listening
to

the kinks

to

the kleptones

to

karen marks
for 

all the vapourised children
who
will
never
hear such feelings

or smile like sunshine

at a small new toy

MALL POPLING #1

cursive shoppers 

with children

like commas

ignorant of

the prose poems

on the burger king receipts

PERCUSSION OF THE WIND

the hollow wooden tap tap thunk

of the plums falling
onto next doors
carp pond rooflet

here on the edge of storm floris

is the same sound
as children
dead & knocking 

an asking paradiddle

on heavens
unsure door

GARDEN HOGAKU

time is measured in pets
&
tower fans
&
discount thermals
&
lengthening children

& in the stolen propagule
thats a fir tree now

& theres a strange cat up there
in a nest of dead needles

waiting on birds
& dreaming

THAT HARBINGE SLEEP (A BRACKET GAGAKU)

the oatmilk of human kindness
has gone up 30 pence

& at night
oh yes 

there i am 

( undistracted & translucent

  in the phone screen afterglow )

worrying

( the rubble children 

  & the orbiting star net cage )

& hallucinating

( my too-vivid self 

  limping out on the wild beaches )

& waiting 

( hunched then stretched

  hunched then stretched )

for the coded 

lightning flashes
that harbinge 'sleep'

ITS A HEAVY SCENE

balls from the poundshop
on the brown grass lawn

are left where the last game ended

& bleached & dirty
they punch at
the low part
of my heart

~

its a heavy scene
like a bomb site snap

broken chair / lost doll
you know ?

so i wrote the following -

        balls
         in the garden
        but
         no child to play
        &
         i dont want children
        but
         i am sad anyway

         balls

DOOM-SCROLLED OUT OF THE SANDPIT

the small school children
answer 'present' truthfully

like no adult ever could

danger warnings sellotaped
on the roaring winter radiators


~


grown-ups 

doom-scrolled

themselves
out of the sandpit

the moment is code to them

reserved for musicians

& the waiting-room sick

UNHAPPY WITH TROUSERS, AN OFF-CUT POEM

 

& all the children

their innocence hurts you 

                reminds you 

of when you were car badge height
     unhappy with trousers

     &
     they dont know 

     they just dont know

FRI A.M. POPLINGS

THOSE WERE THE DAYS

blair & bush

sexy dossiers

a redo war 

fuck times
inevitable
rosy glow



VICARIOUS MUCH

listen up you loser children

i
shared
the
world
with
elvis

TV ME

its
a 
blessing

& 
a curse

to be ill
in the days
of
netflix & pill

now-
i think i speak swedish

now-
i am never ever going
into any french woods

now-
second season sadness
&
menu hell

from telegraph.co.uk

ITS ONLY NATURAL

us-
tempted
seduced
blindly reassured

to imagine-see fates glove
reach  hold  control

the freestyle hiccup
happenstance hazards

~

us-
squint-glance in the rear view
see
dangerous
hard shoulder
manoeuvers

assign purpose assign blame
mammal pulse cooled 
by lizard brain

if our road ahead
maintains
familiar
expectation

~

only natural
to seek reason
as shelter 
from the storm

cos who will fight thunder ?

narrow application
shows busted logic

leaves bomb children
finished
early and reasonless
in the 
robot rain

pic from dronelife.com

CORPORATE POPS

PINSTRIPE DRAINPIPES

ceos are manson
in
golf
shoes
&
abercrombie

i see 
the family
funnel down
lombard st
in
the
5 pm

in the wine bars
of
fenchurch ave
lime st
&
at davys in unit 8

in their pinstripe drainpipes
they choose from over 40 wines
while i count my pennies
for
the
southbound
underground 



THE GOBLIN

did the goblin ever admit
his
manson lamps
were
rasputin eyes ?

there aint nobody i cant touch on the nose

he
still
says
2012
his flip flops on ebay

& if i can touch you i can kill you

which 
all 
sounds 
pretty corporate
to me




BONUS GRAVY

theres foxes fighting
in
the
chicken shack

fighting for superyachts
shale gas
and
the
shopping compulsions
of 
the 
biomass billions

& all the smashed eggshells

are
just
acceptable collateral
&
bonus gravy

are
just
our
lives & children 




ONE CHOICE TOWNS

& theres bomb factories
propping up the marginals

sold as solid employment
in one choice towns

( &
  i 
  wouldnt
  say 
  its 
  not . . . )

but
how
is 
that 
good enough ?

good enough 
for the hearts 
that dont weep
to see the seaside

rolling death tv
on the 
beach cafe
flatscreen

& brown froth coming in
on the plastic tide

from ebay.co.uk

SOFT BUFFET

between
gods bomb children
his angel drones
lazy government fudge
and
all
the
other
broken biscuits
swept under a rug 
eight miles high

is a no mans land
is an everyones land

a writhing soft buffet

of
jeans on the radiator
wind blown wifi
and aspirational pasta

of
sold holes and souls 
dodging spikes and system 
for a high like amputation 

of
fatty brainless meat
basting itself
in function creep

and anyway its all swallowed today
in
the
spaces the rain found
in
another
slow
british
morning

a whole generation long

from jeremyrhammond.com

MAD GIBBONS OF ARMAGEDDON

the morning called the night a liar
as low risk expectations grew higher 
and 
the safe blue map spread out redder
and 
somewhere out there 
i bet theres a cross on fire
and 
here the town crier
had never felt so alone
and 
leaving his home
he
gagged on the news
and
he 
gazed at his shoes
and 
he wept
he'd not slept
and 
to not have to speak and say
he threw his shiny bell away
onto a liberals astroturf lawn
whod got up early 
especially to mourn
to 
get 
used to being invisible
and 
to 
practice being conspicuously miserable
for 
when the cameras came
and he upped his game
with useless analysis
and 
endless words
all teal piss
and 
hangover turds
in the suitably sad moan
of this dimmer switch dawn
and 
the 
prius on the driveway
couldnt have saved us anyway
and
the town crier found a wetherspoons
to pour bombay gin on his wounds
and 
there he sang delta blues
for
the zero hour shift workers
and
the unloved sex workers
and
for
all the uncertain lovers
and all the worried lovers
and all his tinted brothers
and all the single mothers
and all his turban sisters
and all the thirsty children
and all the hungry children
and all the unborn children
whod
pop out of the global lottery
into plenty
or land thats empty
and
know no other way
till their last day
and 
the town crier resigned
for the health of his mind
he wasnt old
he had time
to get out there and find
somewhere
where
theres
something better to say
and whatever and anyway
he sang
what a fucking day . . .
and
all the underclass
couldnt give an arse
business as usual 
when you live in a urinal
and
all the trustfund rats
and
all the fat white cats 
who followed the freelance piper
that acid dream of the gipper 
had
all
glued their blinkers on
gave up free thinking as one
and
coughed up
and
shat out
their unleashed desire
thats been on a fast
in the root cellar
and
they were calling out 'at last !'
knee deep in assassinated bees
like canute in rising seas
holding up the locker room keys
to the rotten empire
that balances over a pit of the past
on a high wire
wobbling in the wind of words
only the angry really heard
and
now
its
all
nuclear breeze and hard rain 
border walls and arm-stars again
and
old leaders are suddenly shadows
mumbling 'well how could we know ?'
and
now no ones knows where to go
and 
from out the banished chasm
that 
free speech wouldnt let us fill in
had come old school populist manipulation
punctuated now
with the wet bark of a rapists orgasm
as
the
mad gibbon of armageddon
touches all the women
when he should be in prison
and highbrow derision 
is no pragmatic solution
so
lets go to hell
but
might as well
mobilise that liberal army
with its printed benevolence
and kind artillery 
and see 
if that 
does any good 
at all 
anyway

from youtube

OFFCUT POPS

1.

the sci-fi noise
in the space-age bathroom
is
only
my
ancient
guts


2.

the blinds are open
so i write quickly
as
soon
it
will
suddenly
be
dark


3.

  without 
  drugs
i became horribly aware
of the PHYSICAL FACT
of
the
earths-solid-girth
  pressing 
  upwards 
  against my boots


4.

  no 
  matter 
where the Grim Fuckers
washed up in adulthood
as
children
they
all
painted
autumn
scenes

from kidactivities.net

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