THATS MY ENGLAND

damn cockerel
he bought opposite
needs oiling
needs a new battery
needs the chopping block

i am on my knees

in my mind

when i hear it

now someone is shouting 

bless you

after

every

cock-a-doodle-meh

& thats my england

right there

CATCHING A WEAK THERMAL

i sat down with my notes
to write about modern england
& see if its england still

i was going to start with the trains
& the fat metaphor potential there

but i slid into reminiscing
about hair gel & untethered pop

~

this is how i fail as a poet -

i am so firehosed by the yesterdays 

i will catch a weak thermal to anywhere

& this is how i succeed as a poet -

by answering the trades entrance bell

& catching weak thermals to anywhere

SPRAY TAN & PROMISES

england is eating itself
like pop did
like hollywood does
every oscar time

england bastes its young
in spray tan & promises
like hollywood does
with every new crop

england exiles its sick

like insects do

like hollywood does

silenced on worry beds

dreaming of what could have been

NOT ME NOT HERE

not me
not here

not left any eu

not building any walls

not me

not here

i am not sure about borders at all


~

nationalist reduction

isolated patriotism

up the 

oppositions sold-out hole
all over

& under 

englands green & peasant land

~

hello denial old friend

set me free again

to see again

the way again

to the amusements

& a simple seaside pier

MONDAY POPS, LOCKDOWN DIAGRAMS

we
wander
half-fucked now

in a fatalistic hue

&
theres
a
gulf
waiting
nightly
to
cross
quietly 

in the grayest shade 
of boat there is

~

the hard seats
in
the
soft gallerys
penny
peon
arcade

rock full & waiting

~

the highstreet
is panic blown 
& sunday'd

dropped shutters
rattle impatient 

in the dry wind
of
englands
still
hatchback garden

from walthomstowforest.gov.uk

TUESDAY POPS AGAIN

THINGS WERE BETTER
BACK IN MY DAY

what
kind
of
wasteland
is
this
past ?

that permits
itself
such a rosy glow ?



Q&A

whats its like then
being a poet
and that ?

he asked
like all the words
were new to him

well i wrote it down
didnt i

i said

so i didnt
have to talk to you



POSTCARD FROM BRITAIN

cluster fuck
in
the
fug
over here

rich seams 
mined
to disaster

i hear a sid james laugh
whenever news sneaks 
itself on the tv

im behind the sofa
worse than dr who



ENGLAND NOW ?

is there no england now
in the post truth world ?

and when was this
truth world
anyway . . .

did i fucking blink ?

from telegraph.co.uk

PUB POPS REDUX

PUB HILL BENCH 
BEFORE INTERWEB

well we was only going out 

for beers and shots

and

no offence at all

to the luxurious charms

of the bigger lady

but

the dozen or so abandoned porn mags

left on the pub hill bench 199?

were folded open to the stars

like some weird offering

to a chauvinist feeder moon

no art in angle or lighting

they were

titled
crudely

Fat and Slack

and under the pubs low ceiling

we drank to these women

and their strange sacrifice
among
a
hundred
other
toasts
to 
all
the other odd and lost
exploitation
niches

NY HOTEL BARS

plaques listed

past glory big name bar rats

who

sozzled here in cool gone days

and

fucked up in deep chairs

we

laughed laughed laughed

at the mad expanse

of booze to choose from

missing the simple choices

of

englands city-corner

one-scotch philistines

we made the best of it

we worked thru all their gins

gurning on fat ice

stirrers and napkins 
piling up on the table

like no one would believe

back home

LONDON MEMORIES 1

coming

out

of

a

bar

hidden down 
fifty feet 
of 
pissy alley

heat from its 
industrial brazier

dried out my face

i

find

its

PM still

isnt it ?

and . . . leicester square ?

LONDON MEMORIES 2

looking

for 
another 
dark bar

i wonder why i left the last one

then i remember

it had 
weird booths

of 
wood and iron

with locks on all the doors

TRAIL

i leave 
fingerprints

on brass poles

i leave dna

in the cold 
back room pissers

we buy drinks by the tray

we wonder if we have found heaven

or at least a place . . .

a drinking bubble isnt it ?

long may it last

amen

pic from smokealondonpeculiar.co.uk

SUNSHINE ENEMA

stretched out across the PM bedspread
the
sunshine scrubs clean my intentions
and
soothes my conditions
like 
a 
warm yellow balm

why dont i claw it south
out
of
Englands rusty gusset
and
into
the
Meds al-fresco longevity kitchens 
or
Africas ancient orange bazaars ?

  but
like Kerouac in Tangiers
  or
Thompson in Vietnam
  i 
  never wrote anything good
  off
  my
  native
  landmass

from pinterest.com

SILENCE 1

i read the q
wheres the poets of today ?
asked
in
discussion 
online

of course theyre talking about the beats . . .

where is the outrage?
who pushes 
the edges of poetry ?
where is the 
spoken word soundtrack 
to social change ?

has the Man gone and won ?

well ask the students too
why they dont demonstrate anymore
they
got
debts
and who needs a police file

me
i file reports - leave me out of it
im
doing
what
i
can
and outrage is exhausting 

anyway this is england
another weird century
we're not that pushy
dont second guess us

ask the industry
ask the readers
ask the shoulders
we
had
to
stand
on
how they got so slick

has the Man gone and won ? 

i read the q
where have all the poets gone?
and
felt
outrage !

we went nowhere
we want to know where the world has gone
and
who
let
the Man take it there

from english11poets.pbworks.com