FOOD COURT MUSINGS

if young me from back then
saw this me right here now

what would he reckon ?

i reckon he would appreciate

my silence & the sunglasses

my boots & this hash brown

but anyway
what the feck can he know ?

the jefferson airplane
red stripe & rum muthafecker

all loose change & clippers

shell-top trainers & time

in two hoodies two hoodies

& those gig patinaed 501s

~

well my 

nothing & nowhere 10 AM 

dim lit mall fug morning

of right now

matches his 

ditto

from back then 

oh so perfectly

that together 

we both smile

DEVASTATION

every day is devastation

but sometimes
a heatwave 

will unbleach 

a coral reef stretch

& theres colour
back in the sea there
again

slim pickings in the valley

slow harvest in the mall

jellies thriving

in an atoll lagoon 

4 POEMS GETTING SHORTER

1. BIG BANG POP

the big bang ?
well i never heard it

but i dont even know
how big a photograph is
anymore



2. FOOD POP

my pain
flares up
in the shape of bones

& still i smile at bacon



3. MALL POP

theyll find you

itll be clabby

in the xmas hallelujah dusk



4. FREEDOM

freedom

burns

FROM THOSE HOSPITAL MORNINGS

hes tall & thin
or looks tall because hes thin

& his neck is made of hollows
a deep shadow round his apple
from the 

phone stores 

heaven glare

in the shopping malls
level one coffee array

~

he is the colour of antiques
& his eyes are wet stones
& i see the misfires under his skin

i dont know him
but i know the look

from those hospital mornings
& the goodbye souls
on pyjama parade

& ending there

SHARING CIGARETTES

whenever i end
&
where ever i fall

after it all

im still back there

under the college arches 

& 

in the malls back road bin stink

in the rain & forever

sharing cigarettes
with you

calling bring out your dead

like we were clever

like we knew it all

from everydayhealth.com

MO' WORLD POPS

DYSTOPIA

dystopia oh dystopia

spank
me
in
the
town
square

for my disbelief
and
download
deficit


SOME OUTSIDE

my
morning
mercy
mission
in
the
murky mist

is a few steps
for
that fresh air 
on
real soil thats our home
in
space



ARSE ABOUT TIT

they paved our garden

cut it with
malls and motorways

now they plan
to
plant  nuture  grow

new gardens

on
dead
space
rocks



ARSE ABOUT TIT AGAIN

white coats in money labs
race
to
create
a
new 
people

more machines 

without fucking

 ( why ?  when we are legion
   and
   paddleless
   in
   shit creek )

from decadesofhorror.com

MEMORIES AT THE FRONT DOOR

the woman in mismatched sweats
stuffs 
the
phone book 
thru the door

( so slim now
  it
  will
  stay
  forever
  in 
  its 
  plastic coat )

i recognise her from the mall
15 
or 
20
years 
ago

we sold film tie-in plastic tat
and
flat-pack bedroom units

i remember her almost divorce
and
breast cancer scare

her hangovers and her tears

but
i
stay silent behind the front door
when i could have done anything

because

i cannot think of anything
for her
to
remember 
about me 

from justsomething.co phone boook portraits by alex querl

ONCE I KNEW TWO SOLDIERS

ex-soldiers 
on
fucktowns ear-bite streets
work
temp contracts
in
the
malls dusty backways
demobbed and dumb
tight
with
steroids and shruken tempers
fighting off duty cops
on 
a 
drinking night
in
the
light
of
a
MacDonalds window
locked up now
on
Dartmoor
painted too real 
from wars smudged palette 
of 
greys 
and 
red

from www.worldwar1postcards.com

LIKE A TITANIC DREAM (199?)

the bar had a fake front

someones idea
of
a
Mediterranean bistro 

plastic palms on a pretend street
chipped plaster, all that

buried
deep
in
the
sunless
mall

i drank there 
before
my 
shift - screwdrivers / lots of ice

and i had a vision

all the shoppers were dead - walking dead

nothing
but
an
old
memory - like watching newsreel footage
of
a
gone
age - the Titanic ballroom / dancing before drowning

i drank
i was a cipher in denim

my
role
was
observer and it chilled me inside

it was dark / nearly night
the
winter
outside
like
a
limbo void

i finished my drink / swallowed my fear
and
walked
between the bodies and their square shopping bags

sick
inside

careful not to let anyone touch me in the crowd

what 
might 
happen
if our plasma met ?

i
went
to
work - the hardest thing i ever done

i clocked in
put rum in my coffee and waited for the midnight break
to
smoke
weed
in
the
service road watching shadow thin foxes
tear
open
abandoned
brown paper fast food bags
on
the
icy sparkle
of the empty car parks black top

all
of
us
running
out the night clock
till
we'd drive to the truckers diner
for
cold
beer
with
hot breakfast

a hot breakfast and a warm dawn
i
hoped
would
take
the ghost chill from my bones

from zombie uppercut.com

KNIFE BOY BUSTED

when i was a kid
i knew this kid
lived over the other side of the park
beyond the fire path 
and the cycle barriers
and
all
the
big flea dart bushes

he always had a knife with him
pen knife
but a big one
he had a mouth full of bullshit
and
we called him a perv 
before we knew what one was
there
was 
sickness 
in his eyes

he knocked on my door one night
the time was inappropriate 
he was turned away
he stayed out there in the half-light
sawing
at the 
conifers 
with his knife
i
watched from my window
peeping from behind the net curtain
and
he
disappeared after that

years later we're both soul-sucked
dying of retail
working in the mall
trying to remember our dreams
and
one saturday theres a bomb threat
the whole place opens late
car parks full
police horses crapping in the bus station
and
queues of hungry shoppers 
at the big glass doors

he'd rung his hoax into Special Branch
he was after an easy weekend
with his perversions 
and 
knives

he used his home phone
he was easily busted
and had to write an apology 
to every retail unit in the mall
to 
be 
pinned to Nobo boards
in the staffrooms

the IRA had been knocking about in Canary Wharf
with a Transit full of explosives
and
there'd been that Pub in Covent Garden too 
blown to bits one summer afternoon

so
that
was 
the 
least of what he had to do

from squirrelbasket.wordpress

TOO MUCH 2

too much inner dialogue of ill hot thoughts

to get my

burnt hiding mind round tomorrows real future

too much

so 

i

ran

from

the spot light of accidental university

to the retail rut of shift work mall 

killing me every dawn over greasy spoon breakfast

where time crushed its top hat 

standing on its subjective head

too much

too much - i poured neat cheap rum in bitter black coffee

and smoked a smokeless hash pipe

on the two trains home 

after found whisky and babbling high existentialism 

in 

that 

mad 

guys 

van

1988 ford escort by scott barrett

ENGLISH FUNERAL IS A STALE CHEESE BISCUIT

the crematorium is laid out on
thin
flat
land
busy as a mall car park

hard to tell what theyre peddling in there

smoke hangs over hatchbacks
heat
haze
hovers
above
the stacked brick like industry

black cluster-fuck in
black cluster-fuck out

the 
wake
is
better - everyone pops beer tins
and
looks
at
the photo albums laid open by the door
and 
smiles at the past

acremation.com