BICYCLE CARCASS

the street sweeper
is old as fortitude & roses
& dismounts her machine steed
& smokes & swears & stresses
over
another
mountain bike carcass
abandoned
in the precinct fountains
scuzzy puddle bed

~

i viddy her slog

from a bench outside Boots

wings in the tree

rats down the cracks

Costa cubby belching

steam punk sounds

INTO GIDDY MAPS

ANGER LIKE A CHEAP MATCHSTICK

the poet was furious
with the publisher
over a missing full stop *

oh to own such fury
such certainty & fight

to release like hounds

 

well my anger eats itself

like the sulphur & filler

in a cheap matchstick head

a blink of flare

then a push of smoke

& moisture on the run

like the frustration tears

of a lost little boy

 * the poem was a single full stop

   at the bottom of an empty page

   by Vsevolod Nekrasov

HOSPITAL REPORT BONE FINGER

he towed his drip stand

into the hiatus foyer

tired & sad & thin

holes patched with adhesive  

he was coloured amber 

coloured like nicotine

going for a last smoke

going for air / for sky

finding cement / bored rain

under englands dishrag dawn

& he drew a circle 

with a bone finger

around the cloud

he thought hid the sun

BARTER TOWN ON ACID, A FESTIVAL POP

blasted faces 

& new morning eyes

search for bearings 

& a gist

in the humid bacon mist 

~

campfire smoke hangs

like battle vestige

over barter town on acid

robots in the rain

watching me piss

100 years ago

PUB DAYS & CAT STREETS

in the pub
stare at the carpet

smoke / mean laugh / real laugh
rounds in & down / quadruples

kill the fear or try
feel different or try
& fall down the hill

fight the parked cars
like steppenwolf
like don quixote

drain pocket bottles
on the bowling green turf

stars & halloween clouds
& a yellow asking moon

follow
follow
follow
& protect my hoody back

down all the cat streets to home

photo by Kathy Morales on Unsplash

BOOZE SONATA VOL1 WORMHOLE

those tiles
over the pub urinal
i saw them crack
under the pressure

of my supporting hand

i remember 

crumbling dust 

ceramic fragments
dusting my white knuckles


~

i remember zipping up

i remember stepping back

& 
the tiles werent tiles

they were lino

but stamped like tiles

no cracks there
no knuckle dust

& no urinal either

was a broom cupboard


~

i remember coming out the cupboard 

to barstaffs sarcastic applause
& 

i remember my composure 

was rock solid

like a drunk-numb dover cliff

& i lit a cigarette
& i went to the pool table
& to all my drinks there

but there was no pool table

was a crammed refurb gastro slot

~

i remember a waiter

he told to take my smoke outside

& i did

blue cue chalk 

on my

pissy smoking fingers

easter island composure

weathering the london dark

photo Night Dark courtesy of the Dagenham Archives

TINY PLASTIC SUITCASE

& i grew

no option

& learned to lean in

lean into it

like on deadmans curve

like on a vincent black shadow

into the fluid apex of the future

& the smoked & amber flood

assembly hymns left in the dust

with the tiny plastic suitcase

& the lunchtime bell

from bikeexif.com

SCHOOL - OVER & OUT

all 
the lore & the legend
we 
lived 
with

the busted virgins
&
the pond-dunk rumour

smoke damaged 
corridors 
400 ft long

is diffused now

into memory
into mediocrity

our turkey slots
replaced
repainted
& spun
a hundredfold

no more
porn for a pound 
sold out the 
registration class rucksacks
stolen with snacks
in the
paper route dawn

from en.wikipedia.org

ALLOCATED SPACES

in the mornings
solid silent 
thirsty salt flats
before
the
first
fuckery bombs fall

we 
dredge & drag
for 
some excuse 
of

m e a n i n g

from where
gods evolution comptroller

lopped
off
our
animal
balls

~

we make up a ritual
blow smoke on it

in the Allocated Areas

hand in hand
&
hand in paw

acquiescent 
beyond
the
pale

fermenting & compressing
a
stress
shine
diamond

hard payment
for
imposed
hologram
transgression

from animalia-life.club

WEDNESDAY POPS AGAIN

ONION GRASS

the wind
is a shout

an order
that moves trees

a base communique
from banished babel

i stand 
in the
dead apples
and
onion grass

earthed
on the lawn



ANOTHER POSTCARD FROM BRITAIN

sos sos sos

nationalist pathogen
deliberately released

and tho sunlight
has got to the
smoke and mirrors

it 
doesnt 
seem 
to 
matter



SAYS NOTHING TO ME

outside the window
the day throws
the air about

its a half-arsed tantrum

inconsistent
irritating me

the uniform grey sky
says nothing to me

nothing

like listening 
to late period radiohead
under cold water

from thefatangelsings.com

DIAGRAM OF A STREET 2/2

new flats
have off road parking

if you drive
a matchbox

~

the creche is closed

its night

i cant picture it
any other way

~

social clubs
beer garden
attempts privacy
with
cable-tied 
homebase bamboo

~

glut of smoke
clot of perfume

in a cloud
round their
exit cab

~

heart attacks 
sign in

for ale
babycham

meat in the raffle

~

faceless rear
of 
high street shops
is
looming
barracks 
of drek

~

behind it all
the wasted scrub
is horseless now

and the train line there

goes to the city
or the sea

from theothersideofthepillow.com

OLD FRIEND SURPRISE VISIT

from amusingplanet.com

we chain smoke
dry buzzed
out packs of ten

Red Band
87p
rough

we strike our 
Happy Shopper matches
just to see them flare

dead end
weekday

TV blue light
leaks out
street-side
front rooms

~

up
the
climbing frame
in the park
we used to know

strange silence
grown-up children
left
behind

talk-chatting the deepness-
bout skys cool hug
nights epic shadow
god or not
&
our temporary meat hq

frosted yellow
bathroom windows
blink out
above
back fence
panels

~

too young then 
to NEED
a drink

so-
walking & talking

inside an evening
inside Proper Time

unexpectedly free
unarranged 
concrete ramble

dog walkers & the moon

catch our bluebirds 
out on the breeze

from fineartamerica.com

PUMICE

i been dry as pumice
for
six 
good bad crazy sad happy mad
years
today

and im rattling 
with the needles battling
to
knit
my
looseness together 

but its all good my sunshines
that sound is a comfort blanket now 
like the washing machine is
when its changing cycles
while
youre
napping

~

sometimes i think
i should have stuck it out
but then again

no
no i dont

it never helped all the other times
and
this
time
the knife edge was too thin

balancing on the folded steel 
was dicing my adidas goodyears
all the way up to my brainpan

~

apparently 
i 
was 

brave to change

so well done me

pat yourself on the back

the therapists said

and tho yeah ok some of it was me
but really there was no choice at all

the days hurt
and
the nights 
well they were a video-nasty
forever trembling on pause

~

the
moon
still knows 
i used to yell at him

used to tell 
that yellow ten pence in the sky
to come down here
and say that to my face
between bars and the bottle shop

and i can still think
drinking away a nuclear overhang

in the wonderful wood of a wooden pubs wood

when the suns on the slide
is to know god
in a very special way

when 
really
it 
was 
suicide in slices 

processed white
and
toaster charred

drunk on the moon by garden sounds

from deviantart.com

WELL ELECTRIC BLEEPS

  well the electric noise
 from the retro video game
   coming out my hd tv
     is primitive
      is a friend
   is old comfy socks for my mind

     i am still here
   i have lasted enough
        that
       these
 noises are nostalgia now

 i can enjoy the rose glow
    that never really was

~

 electric beeps back then
  they were a hound barking inadequacy
    to my tiny mouse
  confused
down
  by
 the skirting board
      too  few coins
 too  few friends

  electric beeps were acceptance then

  i had games
    i had a disk drive

 and tho kids came round
   they rarely came back again

~

    seaside arcades 
    were
  sand and
   sun cream
    shrill alarm bells
 dirty carpets 
  clinking change
         cigarette smoke
 smell of chips  
     smell of doughnuts
   tinny radio on a rock station
      and a fringe of danger

~
    
   seaside arcades
      were 
    hiding in the vampire gloom
     from  
  brown tan 
 spotless youth
   parading and playing
     with
 Perfection and Purpose
     in
      their
    uninterruptible
  healthysexlife
      drivinglicense   
        light 

~

i am so full with these flashback
     that 
   i
    head
       out
  to the lawn 
   for crisp air
    and the 
  mental enema
       of
clean and guiltless 
      
      Reflection
        with
   Perspective

aberystwyth from ashleyabroad.com

SMOKE POPS

1.

  cigarettes 
  fill
 an existential hole
       in
      the
   madness damn

   defiance 
  in the face
    of the 
 fist of the world

  and
  a
victims journey
   to 
 heavens core


2.

  fags are food 
 for soul and mind

   and 
   theyre death
      
      to
    keep
     their
  poetry
  perfect
    
 and complete


3.

theres this young guy
puffed up and prowling
hood up  joggers hanging down  pants out

sucking on a fag in his fist
like wannabe hardnuts do
outside the vape lounge
used
to
be
a
godfreys  where i bought my camera 
hood down  trousers up  pants in

a whole nother world away


4.

  in
 the
morning

 smoke comes out

  and 
   i 
rise like a common phoenix

   and
 perch

touching up the wind


5.

  the
 smell
  of
   match sulphur
 on the night air

  is
 forever 
   a
midwinter
bottleshop
corner

change in my pocket
  and the
 day on the run

from weheartit.com