SHOWER GEL MEMORIES

& the smell of the shower gel
is just like

a friday afternoon was

after getting in  

from a hospital shift

when i would 

fit two bottles

of heineken or becks
in the freezer
& shower
& then get the beers out
& sit on the back step
& crack one 
& look at the land
& the trees
& the hill
& listen to the traffic 

on the motorway
& the hiss woosh
of trains in the cut

& crack the second

& later friends would come

& there would be whisky

& we would be heroes 

of the goddamn night

until

the

rude lurid oil smear of dawn

 

KICK

i put the record on
& its bright & right there

& full of a memory

movie-sunny saturday

train to the coast

sta prest trousers

(knock-offs from behind the market

 follow the path

 of rain stained cardboard 

 & heavy bin stink

 & go up a staircase like a secret

 with the smoothest wooden handrail

 & loosest carpet runner)

& hair gel like shellac

gone fly-away by lunch

nineteen eighty something

school almost done

DOG BARKS IN A SILENT NEIGHBOURHOOD

the hoot of a train horn

funnelled down the grass banks

of litter & scrub & stubs 
&
the movie dialogue 

snappy & truncated 

by channel hoping hope

&
the dog that barks

in a silent neighbourhood

of a teenage sunday

&

the rave whistles 

shrill & bright

on the smoky festival wind

&

the cold hatchback motors 

turning over in coughs

on a frosty workaday dawn

remind me 

of the ambient album
found-sound collages

of the 90s

as opposed to

it working
the other way around

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

INXS KICK PLAYING

 

& from out there
i hear a train

station skipping

in its backfence furrow

down where hatchbacks

wreck themselves now

in the name of weekend joy 

its hiss-whine-hoot

is a throwback comfort

to when stations had staff

& 

i would go southend

in the hair gel days

with the misfit crew

inxs kick playing

in my bbc radio head

JUST SO MUCH PAPER

 

my 

cardboard folder of poems

was 

suddenly just so much paper

& i took my hand 

to the train station home

in the tunnel vision

of october dusk

the 

city laughing

in 

alfresco clots

I BLEED THEREFORE I AM TAKE 2

injuries tell a story
scars are coded braille

leap from the milk train
jump off the dormer roof

fall -

       off the hill fence 

        off the weekend goalpost

         out the stormy tree

& carry the proof
into the next working day

i bleed therefore i am


~

& head down 

& drunk
& eyes shut
& running running running
into 

the midnight roads 

mystery traffic

is

just

another

gung-ho anecdote harvest

from the mad blessed days

of 

undeveloped risk aversion

photo Kill Your Speed from the Dagenham Archive

CHILD INSIDE

like a tree does
he
layered
a
man
around himself

from
laughter & denim
from
night-smoke & circus mirrors

collecting
small collections
of
glass & steel

&
he raped the void
with
sarcastic rebar

soft & hiding
on the
hard train

rolling rolling
magnetic
tape

~

sometimes he calls up
how did i do ?

you did ok
i tell him

careful not to hurt
his delicate feelings

but i miss you

from mizzoumag.missouri.edu

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

SHORT ODES TO OUR LITTLE BRUMM

1. KB04

stretched out
in
the
nights
crazy
soup
i dreamt Star Wars 

light and dark / desert and snow

our 950 Corsa
was
a
droid
rolling round forests
over steel gantries

secret essential blueprints
hidden
on
the
stereo dial
next
to
Radio 2


2. PASSENGER SEAT

i 
sketch out Spain / dreams
and
the PM high street -

  shop lights nuking the dusk
  9 to 5ers
  buying
  supper
  car keys in their phone fists

while
i
sit
in
little brumms 
pushed back
passenger seat

waiting for her train
to
roll
in


3. SENTINEL

out the front

2 tires on the kerb

he
waits
all
night
for 6 AM

like a favourite pair of denims
over
the
back
of
a
chair


4. RESALE

his 
paints peeling
no 
resale value
boot 
full with 100 shopping bags

and
one of the family


5. ROUNDABOUT TOWN

and
she will drive 
little brum
over 1000 mini-roudabouts
to
get
home
for
supper
and
the night

199?

i'd have drowned persistent nagging guilt
every sunset
    and
cashed a dole check
    in the 
Saturday afternoon post office 
    with 
brown package dweebs and pension crumblies
    feeling
    all
    out
    of
horrible place and awful time
    or
have part-time warehouse wages
    in 
    a
brown envelope with a clear window 
    so 
    you 
    can 
    see
the shiny coins and crisp notes 

either way - money buttoned up
    in
    my
army surplus pockets
    with
cinema tickets and bus tickets and cigarette papers
    and
        god
            knows
what else - was a pocket hoarder then

slice of bread

slate hash pipe

    nothing 
    was a surprise in there anymore
    and
always
    a
walkman
with a tape of 
Mind    Expanding    Rock
    
    then
i'd burn a quick j in the empty street
    before
    the
train into town packed with day-off theatre couples
over dressed and feeling it
    and 
burn one walking to the Tower Hill tube
    past
early clock-off commuters and hungry late-lunch hunters
    and
tourists flocking round the Novotel 
    or
climbing off coaches with European plates
    and 
burn another somewhere not that discreet at all
    in 
Charing Cross or Victoria
    before

            HIGH

i'd ride old wooden carriages with dead-cushion benches 
    and 
sliding doors to the corridor 
reminded me of b & w films
    where 
men in macs smoke filter-less fags
    hats
        tipped
            back
on their heads and i'd roll
    out
    of
    South London
    into
    the
    green
rolling hills of Kent on some dirty adventure 
    
    headphones 
        playing

Mind    Expanding    Rock    
    
    a soundtrack
    to
    my

paranoia

    and
back then this gave me an Edge
i THOUGHT this gave me an Edge
    and
my Drinking

well, that was POLITICAL

from ehsankhosbackht.blogspot

BAD MOOD CENTRAL LINE

central line 5 30 pm
    and
    i
    find

    the
train station is too lucid 
mad with sobriety
a naked photo-shopped interactive map
where cut-up programmed mice
    are
    impossibly dark brown

    the 
train pushes in on a movie column of air
blowing hair and skirts - action !
    but
    instead
we slot into checkered seats


    in
    a

locked can of sweaty dogs 


    the
extras are dressed in people clothes

pointy shoes and ankle hugging sleeves

    they
clutch glass squares folded in plastic flaps
with dull blunt paws
like its Holy Sanity in their palms
    their
    underground
    eyes
flick over new hounds
    like
snakes searching tongues

    they 
    sit
silent with worry
pale and reduced
    in
the gloom and glare
    of
adverts and flickering light tubes

    its disgusting

    all disgusting

    used and ugly and over
    blue under sodium

    they are all lost
        and
        denying it

afraid 
    of 
    their
    own 
    minds

FOR A MOMENT

riding the train to town
under the rain and the sunshine
and
all
the
bright dark inbetween

man stands on a deserted walkway
outside
an
industry building of glass
and corrugated white

on a smoke break
talking on a phone

for a moment

i
am
him

watching the parade of small faces
slide
past
the polished rail junction
fifty yards
and
a
fence
away

DREAM

saw my dead grandfather
in a train station waiting room
clean
white
hair
clean
blue
jumper

he was back with news

he had found his grandson
missing on a train journey
nine 
years 
old

happy tears in his eyes

and when i speak and call out a farewell greeting
he turns into the 
missing
grandson

he is still nine and full with news and joy

none of this is based in reality
and
anyway
i
got
a
jar
of transparent jam in my hand
that needs to go somewhere urgently
and
i
have
questions
about 
that

Photographic Print

|

By John Coletti

EDL

FAAHHHCK he says every third word 
fist
holds
a popped tin of Strongbow 10 AM

the St George flag tied round his shoulders
is dirty
cheap
creased

his eyes are watery and dull

FAAHHHCK he says

i assume theres some football on today in town
but
no

he's EDL

i don't think he's qualified to deal with
complicated
problems
of
integration

HARD CANDY

this new anticipation 
is a hard candy to chew all week
i savour the flavours
that NEVER fade

and tho the train is modern electric and too bright inside 
with rush-hour free papers folded and thrown
and all moulded plastic lacking soul -
a
future
mistake
of a hum-rattle-thrum -
its 
all black and white and shrill whistles and past elegance and 
rolling steam and uniformed porters in hats
to us 
when we meet 
in the cold chav station of New Town
where
the
echo swears from the monkey clots
in denim tubes and pastel tops
might as well
be
unicorn farts
to
us