Baby Steps

Take your fucking fedora off you are not a Jones.
Kid, leave the captain's hat on, gods know you're going it need now,
those waves are knee dip and those rip-tides drag:
lay flat across the hull in dreams of concrete and something a little more stable
until someone takes over,
guides you back home to the lit terraces,
glowing apartment advent calendar,
lighthouses of cushions
and the sofa just how you left it.

Within simple pleasures sleep intricate tasks, 
curled up dogs at the foot of fires:
someone please tell them their Dalmatian died whilst they were on holiday,
he was
below
the radiator in the spare playground.
Am I a weak man? it asked the black marble glare of the corner skirting board joint.
Am I meant to feel like that gasp after a slow kiss? that come back for more
               Godfather Part Two again,
               Lord of the Rings: Return of the King,
               rumble string of motorcycle parade through tarmac and your core
               sat crossed legged on any first school floor. 
AM morning calls to vets,
stumble for words and
over the abbreviations,
the IAADP have got your back in case Gandalf ever witnesses your blinding,
forever led forth by a lead and little more faith in something worth confessing over.

Love is a tango
it's too hot to handle,
someone sang in a spontaneous smoking area
spawned from a spare terracotta pot and someone asking for help once,
so nervous their knees quaked,
slow down reigns not effective once their BPM was past 200 whatever
Jeremy Clarkson was screaming that week,
but their eyes,
they were knocking down walls with toffee hammers,
scattering chunks under werthy wooden horses,
rubbing sweet stud wall shards into coarse prison gravel with waiting soles,
whistling so not to give the game away.
Escape now back to a Lowell of an old park bench,
dig through shit and pipelines of earth for
canons of authors stacked high in front of you,
you awfully well bled individual,
the wounds from those words about to heal
all the slips you fell into
dragged yourself out of,
clawed back your fedora through more doorways than you can
remember: it always gets you into trouble.
Kid, one thing at once.

i don't care for your politics i just want you home

The quiet fishermen and the even quieter doggers are
pleasantly passing the time across from someone's father's wheelchair locked up under the bridge,
and from the lilac door on St. Joseph's street
came thunderstorms and
a girl packed up ready to go away awhile-
after a tumultuous few years in Paris
she's comfortable in her own skin,
pilot in a long haul seat.

They're going home and there is no riot
their placards from the protest put down
(seat belt icon lit above)
and burnt back to make doorsteps for the fridge.
This is confusing enough
(2000 Pulp covers singing simultaneously) 
stop shouting at me to stay and watch,
new news footage shot now will be making the B-movies of tomorrow,
wrap your hips in that,
grease them so your pride won't fall off.
I wanted to get an image of a grey-scale
CCTV cull shot from above into this poem,
but it looked too much like a game.

There's a wolf in the salsa dip

under sweat and fears,
played out before you like
the stagehands backstage,
a patio garden, weeds and all,
covers you in filth, sweat and
tears your guard down,
massage in the silt,
the grit guilt that grinds on
in Amsterdam windmills,
the Chaplin cogs in
shop window tills.

we dress up
scared to leave the house without our scabbard,
be it loaded with gambling habits
shaped as Prussian boulettes
thrown by French men 
in OX postcodes
or Ohio zipcodes;
we fall for the wolves
who fell for the masquerade,
let them nibble at our coat tails,
Christmas parades of intolerance
and chance,
snap the spoons from our hands,
mark another on the board,
troughs follow dips in front of
nacho bowls, a three pack for six quid,
another hour passed:
the belly's getting bigger,
exponential waist inches,
hitch up thoughts,
the rooftops we should sit on
to see where the stars go,
or the milky way,
how far can we throw this mars bar,
wake the dog sleeping in luxury,
unlimited bed unhindered by nothing,
alone is where the heart wants to be,
tempt it away with dog treats and
treadmills.

I’m still using the perks of your premium account

The bullet was meant for you,
not the mule,
now we're stuck here carrying our own stuff
up the hill.

This guilt is heavy,
and I’m still using the perks of your premium account
to satisfy my most basic of needs,
and I'd like to tell you I stole a hoard of Ya-ba for you,
left it behind the bins for ya'
next to the parcels Royal Mail left for you,
your designated safe spot:
driver, drive me home,
take the scenic route back.

I think I thought I knew you on a cellular level,
but then the 4g dropped out
and I was left to wait by your Western Wall,
queuing up to use it for a local phone call to a God,
quarter and cut
by the string lines that make up our tin-can connection,
the West Bank murals opposite
the story of how it should turn out.

What I'd like to say to the moral high ground men at the moment is:
swap a day of feeling sorry for yourself for a chance you might hear a song that starts with a Wurlitzer,
swap your gum for something sweeter, you compulsive ruminator in the tumour mill
waiting to find out it's all for nothing.
Tell your partners they needn't ever say,
     You look tired, babe
     I'm scared for your wealth,
no more,
tell 'em there's more to money,
like Jacuzzis and 
Kevin Spacey's Bianchi & Cecchi.

Yogurt for a heart

Somebody put Kylie Minogue on
from the wall mounted touchscreen one-pound-a-go jukebox-
Coldplay would've been better, but I should be so lucky-
and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise
rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet
and the queue to the bar grew a little longer

and then
you
walked
in
like
a
Sunday
morning
walk,

one long stroll by a river edge or lake side,
through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall
in one long rehearsed map move entrance
dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench coats and Boden shawls,
and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons behind you as you
walked
on
through
the
crowd
to the pool table at the back where you watched
pot after pot
after pint
after pot
after we need more one pound coins to play more pool,
and you went out for fags though you don't smoke yourself
and you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York Stuart Little big:
mostly building, building, building, window, balcony, bridge, statue and Central Park trees,
and you walked back in with river eyes, your lids moving from cold back to behind-the-fridge, pub-room warm
and they watered a little, Pacific blue sliding over eternal black;
I think she's the kind that needs a lion tamer not an orchestra leader,
but I've only got Petit Filous muscles and I had four raw eggs this morning and I'm still not as strong as I’d like to be,
(put the baton down, Tim)
a River Phoenix younger Harrison Ford stasis, one train wreck ride to remember,
nowhere near the lion tamer you need.

Kylie sings for the fifteenth time in a row, 
and the bar is past last orders though cash is pushed under for pints 
and you disappeared under bar light 
and then into the moonlight
and now I'm sat grieving 
the Golden Retriever of The Nutshell
in Bury St Edmunds this evening.