Archive for July 2012

Red Light District


You wanted everyone
that shuffled past in timid steps
and it’s not fakery or a con,
you really sell yourself for sex.

I was sat in a bar on the corner,
The Old Sailor with pints as big as hands,
and you gestured, I grew warmer,
we knew money would be spent, beer or sex?

Off the District and into smaller streets,
you were there either side, naked,
unclothed and generally stood up away from stool and seat,
lighter clink on the windows pane, a noise of sex.

Turn off smaller street into back alley, wide
enough for car or two and you were there.
One went first then I followed into that cubicle divide.
paid and went upstairs.
a good chat and conversation finished with a kiss on the cheek.
Give me another five days and I’ll make it a week. 

Need New Double A's For A Working Watch and Relationship


Batteries can leak
and break
and never seem to wake.

Hands can shatter
and snap
and create an eternal gap.

Straps can split
and fracture,
buckle, break and shatter.

We can stop and halt
and stagger to the finish
limping soft on the foot on the foundation of love.   

Trippin' Over Sized 12 Shoes


I was followed home by
a cold breeze, a clear moon
and a conscious sky
that peered down,
sat and spied.

Hedge rows shuffled,
moved
with movements so subtle,
that only the blind would see
and could only agree with.


To Paris I Fly

To Paris I Fly.

Irish Accents for Yorkshire Folk


How are you there me wee little girl
who stands bright and tall in fur swirl
of white and black and shimmers of mist gray,
moorland fur bright as hay.
In the sun of January
and in the moon of February
and with wide eyes of the Lotus eaters
whom possess the power to chase shadows
and ignore those with the human features.


Kevin McCloud of Grand Designs: The One Who Got Away


Home I go to channel 14
where I’m met by old friends and TV teams.
They take me above and beyond the realms of reality
into the homes of others and the other homes
where, like me, we sit in the comfy,
the warm,
the flare of the burning tree.
Exuberant designs from the pen of mind
and the grand gestures of the underlined line,
all sit where we can see
and admire the ever more blank fancy.

Skip a channel up
and there we have another butt
of a cheap film and a movie slut
parading around in clothes, low cut.

Skip a channel down
and there we go!
Home again; starting again; finished again.
The cycle of a new build all helped along
by him, the God and the builders puppeteer.
Kevin, our Kevin, the Kevin McCloud
the one that works and the one that ploughs
a new furrow for us to burrow
our dreams of nice new
home, to make us proud.

The Prostitute Who Drove A Prius


The hot wife who never was
drove past in a haste and rush,
through the streets of Yorkshire’s tarmac bumps
on tyres that weren’t that pumped up,
so low that they gave a moan
and reminded me of her once thrown
that sat front of the class
in a green haze of fabric and brass,
where she once sat
teaching numbers and maths.

The hot wife who never was
drove past in a haste and rush,
our eyes met for one brief moment
which in we saw times of enjoyment.

Jaundice, Jaundice, Yellow and Jaundice


Jaundice feelings inside
turn to black lengths glued to the kites,
that whimper and waver in the wild Wednesday winds.
I wish loud silences on no one,
but on those whom walk on PIN number bank runs,
greedy individuals that fake emotion
to get that pure green grass upon the other side of the riverbank ocean.
Time makes pubic beards grow
but does let them sweet memories go
nor slip into the wash basin’s white glow,
illuminated by the realisation that she has flown.

Flown the nest, the cradle
her 2 bed-roomed  street styled stable.

Fortnight


Hung from the hook beside bedside
a pink gown of fleece mourned the loss
of wearer and princess-
rock of St Catherine’s street.
And here in the spinning soup
of ward numbers and blue tight suits,
doctors weave around the teary
in an attempt to fix the ill and weary.
How is it that Grandma, Mamma, Mum and Shirley must
ride out the tide and swells of the cancerous cells?
How is it that others go on abusing?
whilst she sits losing
the only battle incurable by battalions of needles and drips,
comfortable sheets and jargon scripts
of scribbled odes, named medicines by doctors pen tip.

And now, just now, right now
he walked in with eyes of hell red and tiredness
and shot to me with arms open, weak with stress.
Never will a short embrace feel like a week,
Never will a fortnight feel so bleak,
Never will Wakefield be the same
without the
rock of red bricked St Catherine’s street.

Red Riding Night


Daughter and son at her side,
next to her bed painted wipe clean white.
Yellow is her skin and yellow are their eyes
sleepless nights of endless goodbyes.
Blackcurrant Vimto and Barley Water Lemon,
the drip held high, moistures blue drop crumb.
Room 4 on 3 and from ground floor door
only a 2 minute walk through polish cleaned floors-
to mum, to grandma, a friend and family on a ward war worn by the ill and poor.
St Catherine’s and Wakefield, together they sit
in a tight hold of putty in grandmothers fist.
There she walks the same beat twice,
to traffic and tail following back there in

Red Riding night.

July 16th - 1:14pm

Shards of mirror have let loose,
in the sea of mostly greens and blues.
Windows spilt the scene into three,
reflection of a portrait, back at me.


The sleepy rest wearily.
The restful walk hastily.

The mournful suit quietly,
whilst I sit here, writing quietly.

Keys sit a top stone marble table top,
fake MDF that hides below waiting to crop
secret laughs at inexpensive thoughts,
of those whome sit and admire,
kiss and court-

on faux leather, faux comfort, faux black couches
that ease the hurting buttocks
whislt sea sends them to sleep in tin metal, tin-can cot.


Un-pirated in North Sea swells,
tankers trail along:
seed heads in still black mill quiet pond.

Computers on knees,
hands on eyes,
smokers sit
'til yellow becomes the sky.

Paris #1


Paris awaits those with money and vacation,
tucked in their pockets, another escape,
another duration.
A time lapse weekend in cafe fronts
with espresso cups to be drunk at once.
Ponders and wanders ‘round the arrondissements  
longer and longer is the brilliance
of the architecture that looms over head,
the fresh smell of boulangerie bread-
through the streets that wind and thread.

Overheard Over The Flags


A miserable day persists outside,
one of those that does not dry,
nor simmer down to a partial boil
on the stove of mud wet, deep brown soil.

And on the phone in the kitchen again,
voices and scribbles with dry point pens
are heard amongst the Radio 4
break for lunch and another war.
What was said were words so coarse
that with a single hit, hard force
led me to beg for mercy’s cure
‘it’s back again, the colon cancer’.

Rifle Butt Blood


Painted together we watch and wait
for the woman to come alive.
There behind the Plexiglas hive
she sits in an elegant, sitting stride.
The artist in question signed but a name
below her right buttock, naked shame.
Arms folded front of house,
she’s the lost and weary white lady spouse.
A fine figure drawn with ink
let slip not a thought, or an awkward blink.

Back turned to all who look, everyone
wastes a glance toward the books,
lined like soldiers in the Somme brown mud
who look down on the girl with
rifle butt blood.

The Window Cleaner


So thunderous were his steps
That I awoke from a stirred dream
And up he climbed ever higher forgetting the forgotten
sleeping inept.

Sumptuous metal work serves as a base
for future endeavours up towards the apartments waist.
The window cleaner saw and left,
in a speed setting known as haste.

With Beauty and Silk Like Grace


With beauty and silk-like grace,      
the cat sleeps upon her face.
Not only with the fire on,
but with the clothes hanging long.
Off the horse and on carpet,
a draft does but only whip.
Up from the woodcut door,
Along the floor and up the wall.
Down past the cat so sprawled,
across the rug, across the lawn.
Of wool and fluff, of warmth and lust,
the wind does not stop, nor cut.
Out from around the room,
around the house, past the broom.
Leant upon the wall so steep,
a spider holds on, just by feet.
The wind joins its brother, its sister,
outside in virgin twister.
Licking the walls with rage and fury,
undecided, like a jury.
Whether to stop or to carry on,
Move to France, move to Cannes.
To hassle those with money and fear,
to hassle those with love and tear.
To hassle those without a care,
To capture those within a snare.
The snare of society, or government,
realisation of wonderment.
To find out their own person
whilst the wind does only worsen.
Find out now and find out young,
that you are one of many among
many a undecided man
that toils in trouble and toils in fear.

Listen to the wind outside,
to where it goes, to where it hides.
Around the corner, under the bench,
It waits for you, it waits to drench
you in rain and you in leaf.

Untitled #1


Jazz inflicts a certain loneliness on those
lonely enough to listen,
in wicker chairs that are hasten to flicker under
the match of all those whom seem much fitter.
Of course with age, knowledge and insight
is but a reality,
whilst for us the gain is as slow as the definition of steadily.

So how do we, the young, fight our way to the front?

With vigour and balls of course, elbows out
feathers cocked and drawn.
Peacocks dominate their farmyard lands with
inflated breasts and a fan of fancy to do,
with white old time crescent moon eye shadow
and hues of blue that cut below and through.


Julius Mandrake, I Hope This Rhymes For You


Give me your hair and I’ll plait it in two,
sit with me please when the train flies through.
Talk to me across table for four minutes
of me, and hours of you.
Sing what you know and take the rest
as license to thrill, take that risk and let it live.
Touch of the feet and shuffle of toe,
under worn torn leather bound Italian brogue,
tied tight to the top and loose to the shin.
Tethered by wire, audiences watch web based widgets,
whilst we journey on, on to limit and end:
Paddington Station, Platform Ten.

Give me your hand and I’ll plait it in two,
two fingers of mine and three from you.
Warm it and hold it,
with your thick glove of violet blue; frosted
by the fierce flutter of winter’s dew.
January takes us, us, further
than the boroughs.
Unknown and untied,
let slip the dogs of war and havoc’s cry.
To resonate and accumulate off walls of London town,
back to us whom stand with tear in eye and snow in frown.

If The Leveson Inquiry Was 2 Questions Short of An Answer


Britain.
What pretty lies
will you paint the Sky
with today?
How is it that you and your friends
and your government tends
to get away with absolute green eyed greed?

Axe Handles For Beds


In the sunlight of that morning
daffodils lifted their heads
to nod at the wakening sun
and it was there that the cat hopped along the wall
to its home for the day:
Beech tree roots.
Silver birch and Beech tree shadows
litter the pavement, redone this past week
by council workers and minimum paid sluggers 

Rusted Belt Of Illinois Man


Gun-law arrest of 79 year old,
man with belt up to denim’s fold,
rusted with the bronze paint of the earth’s palette
and now he works on getting out and by with every hit of dollar and mallet.
Aged hands pull from wallet
coinage of the America’s to pay for shovel from the Asia’s,
dig for victory and dig for glory and dig to hide
the insufferable pain of incarceration’s bride.
White veil walls with cushion of pale blue stuck in corner of cell.
Outside Illinois marries the fresh air in a scene of confetti leaves,
roads, roads, roads lead away the bakeries and open up the technologies,
Chicago’s arms are open to the man with the rusted belt.

 

Back To Square One: Definition


Ordered my map back to square one,
gonna get on my bike and go.
Travel along the math book spine
to hit the staple and slow down.
And now I’m finding the pen
in order to start and write,
follow the ink and begin to lie:
not for love or loss, family or wealth,
but just to keep me warm in my own words
and to escape your circus 

Italian Cab Driver #2


And the beige cap wearing cab drivers of New York City
swing around the bends,
the sixth sense of New York City
racing around arm and vein
as fast as they themselves race around the sidewalk refrain.
And with each footstep fall on the ground
pedestrians lead themselves outwards,
tenement habitants lead themselves inwards-
home to both bath and bed.
And they’ll take their macs off to hang dry,
the tears of New York City dripping down into carpet
into a perpetual damp mess of misery and untidiness.