Shy (advert to live cleaner)

Boycott the bards, they’re empty
save for minor desire for love unconquerable,
love foam,
love intolerable walking home hopeless
to the motivation of process,

and the yellow sweat of
everything gone and nothing known
gets thrown into the catacombs at 40
and I clean my bedroom after twenty five hours awake. 

LOSING TEACHERS TO A MUG CALLED MIKE

Along with the last moment to complete any homework,
one was instructed to etch name, number and form
upon the tag that lurked within the rim of each new polo shirt,
every pair of trousers and that stretched, sleeved jumper
(better than any other in the house that were just the same).
Without those legal details properly stated you’d run the risk of losing them to lost property,
that orchestrated tub, dead sea stench, of pre-pubescent potpourri.

Now, all we wear is the earned income of a bestowed cognomen
and it embellishes the backs of our necks
and we mustn’t forget it’s all we have;
that, and our teachers.

NEW SHOES RUB LIKE A MOTHER FUCKER

You gave me gyp those first few walks,
swindled me of comfort, bled my feet with force.
You dug deep.

I called 111,
troubled both sets of neighbours,
rang every hotline asking for a moment, for just one favour.
I eventually crawled to the local sweatshop and asked to see their designs,
for my feet were a pair of hot mess, pressed thin and in a bind.
I waited in line for the manager of the factory,
propped my feet upon foreign furniture,
ate two biscuits, drank a lot of tea.

My nails were unclipped,
my toe manes unkempt,
my blisters had now ballooned,
began to ferment.

Dave (it wasn’t his real name) came in and sighed,
Not another one. Hear me out, boy, I’ll repeat this only maybe twice:
wait for the monsoons, wait for them to wear in,
quality’s earned and only known once the stitching's rubbed thin.
Next time trust when you’re right.

Dave (it wasn’t his real name) gave me my money back and a complimentary soya latte,
tacked on a one way ticket in first class, said
Get out of here, kid, you’re not the last.

Hugs in Dirty Socks

Recorded live at St Paul's Church 01.05.16
www.shindiggig.co.uk
Tech: Matt Widgery
Edit: Wesley Freeman-Smith

THE GUARDIAN SATURDAY POEM

Were we not once love stood in abbey shadow and sun,
were we not once lovers at the top of bowling alleys
holding, having fun?

As you showered, I
bathed in the oeuvre of your
aura opposite,
thought of 
midnight scrambled eggs
     then bed
and the coffee to keep it company.

It’s then we woke
to the Sunday cacophony of avocados on post,
head to the second supplement in
to learn of the best twelve coasts where good lovers go to live,
where good lovers go to hide and give,
where good love exists.

If only the car wasn’t broken:
second hand, forecourt pile of piss.