Fun is a function I’m an F5 short of

I’m too loyal to laziness,
pyjamaed most of the time more or less,
lost in not thought but in something worse: ponderment.
And I’m still wondering why I never walked to the coast and said sorry,
cherry picked excuses from the surf
and knitted them there, right then, with a two by four into an apology,
hung it up to wet in the sea mist,
welcome home, this is it.

     You see ‘em all along this stretch,
     all half deaf and muttering to one another.
     They tie the knotted wrack around their wrists and wander in and never swim back.
     Maureen at number four says some-other ones try saving 'em by pulling them from the shore,
     but they get dragged in like leads after dogs
     on their knees,
     fumes through draughts upon a whipped up Chicago breeze
     on ice,
     slice of lemon, served sunny side sweet and just how they pictured it,
     a massacre on the beach.

One day your scales’ll break and you’ll see a naked wrist and wonder where your watch went. 

get Swimming and forget the trunks

A tide from a tongue,
yet we paddle
never swim
towards the end of sentences never said because the subject’s always so thin,
neither of us studious enough to keep up with each other’s own trains of thought,
Jesus Garcia shovelling coal onto both
saving us from ourselves.
Humane way to go there, Dude,
but thats not cool cos you didn’t ask first,
hand down,
pride for not wanting help.
And we learnt he died in a display of fireworks,
40 planned minutes down to a sketch of 30 seconds
and one obvious bang,
a lurk that rang among the chimneys for the following weeks to come,
a glum Guy Fawkes igniting mad into max,
a coked up Ravi Shankar playing sitar quicker than your mum can beat you at Singstar,
secret rehearsals when you were at school.
Stop learning and start reading,
the spool they're spinning is only part of the question,
tide from a tongue:
get swimming. 

Short of staff so this had to happen; Sainsbury's manager

Four days off
and all she got was her own hair tucked behind her own ear by a manager she hardly knew and would newly fear.
‘Cos four days later when the holidays were pinned up
he mouthed across to her,
no one rejects my advances,
and with that a holiday off house sitting the dogs was disallowed by an umpire four rungs short of a manager in control,
four cocks short of cockless,
and lost of all thought-
reassess your stress levels, mate, and live well for less
but you won’t
'cos your too loveless for regrets;
forget and carry on and trip over toes in the process,
two wing-mirrors short of an MOT test,
missed and ticked and moved on
not returning
to say you’re sorry, didn’t mean it,
     but sometimes yearning holds on
     it clings and lingers more than pritt-stick on dumb fingers,
Rum Tum Tugger with a cause,
always lingers, never calls,
in the background, in the bakery,
smelling suspicious lately, looking like potpourri,
managing a Sainsbury’s store
worse than he should be. 

Some days all I do is kill flies

On a one seat sofa-
a chair some people would call them-
rang a ring of HB pencils,
tree trunks felled for foolish thoughts,
joined tip to toe in a hexagon
around a whole of dead flies.

Eyes darting,
try follow one of these guys around after fifteen rounds of Raid and tea towel to their face;
kraken tail with a wipe clean mane spraying
down insurgents as he walked back to bed
back to where he came,
and in his wake remained a trail
of dismembered flies who had once flew,
their processor pin legs, size zero nibs, laid strewn cast in egg white tombs,
marshmallow stilts of te-tram-e-thin coating old wounds and tearing open new ones,
a 9/11 to your heart,
match to your hair,
nervous system on the floor cos there's more where that came from, Fly.
Buckle up and cry,
you got in my way.

But fumes follow thieves,
bandwagons on breeze,
and he smelt marshmallow in the air,
came to rest just there with legs lost in a white tomb duvet,
Juliet above him, happy cos he’d made it so soon,
whispering ‘I’ve bought you some presence so you’ll always know the time’ and from her spine,
cracked open,
fled a thousand flies in crusade,
sewer covers from the sky chiming
‘better luck next time, Pal, this is a mother fucking raid’.


You warm my eyes like a palm on the window of a washing machine at 60,
and I know that’s a broken record, dentist on repeat,
please listen to me, you need to brush your teeth,
but I ain’t seen a stare like that
since you bathed in the dishwater naked
and left the next day.
What’s one to do when his Prime membership’s over
and there are no air miles left?
What’s one to do when the freezer’s also broken
and he’s under house arrest?

The next time I turn up to New York I’ll be wearing a suit,
a slim man
thin George Harrison
knocking at your door
in the bask of your
West Village brownstone glow,
auburn hair, red bricked and