Archive for December 2012

When Home Feels Like A Hotel

When home feels like
a hotel and
forcing water down
like its wine in a glass,
warmed by a MDF fireside-
you know your real bed
is a world away.

Cars that laugh
wait at the lights,
as they become 
just another set of traffic,
set into the night-time tarmac.


So where does she go when
she's been fingered and drugged,
abused and sexed up?
That's right, the end of the bar
where they'll never find her,
let alone kiss her.

Tucked behind her right ear,
blonde hair fell as if a tear
from cheek to chin,
bowling ball to bowling pin;
stacked at the other end.

This poem is for you long-blonde-hair-behind-the-bar-girl, written down by paper and pen.

Your quilted jacket,
leather in material,
won't keep the cold out;
only a white-stick-arm
will warm, guide and
ignite you home.

Fill the wardrobes back up again        
with hangers plucked and picked from the
carpeted floor.
                        Lay the lover down amongst the sheets
                        only the whisper sweet thoughts and memos and
                        kind words in low tones
                        into her ear.
                                           Kiss her neck and grace the thigh,

It's Raining Again, Again

Here comes the rain
the weatherman said would come,
and arrived just like a train.
No wait at a platform
or delay for a death,
just precipitation
and a whole lot of wet.
Wet windows and wet grasses,
moist tables left from the summers,
plant pots turned bowls,
to catch the water that floods and falls.
Here comes the rain again,
that the weatherman said would come. 

Five Day World

It’s a 5 day world out there,
followed by a 2 day scare
of baths and walks
and holiday forecast talks.

Planning goodbyes before you’ve left and gone
whilst sitting still on Subway platform one,
with stationary thoughts
like the stationary train,
wiped down and dried
by the city state rain.

It’s a 5 day world out there,
followed by a 2 day scare,
together a another
7 day affair.  

Christmas Noose

Frost rests upon the sills
with fire lit skies providing visible noise.
Floorboard streets creak
with the heaped lost handles
of the midnight cement men.
Only silent moral support carries
the burden of their 10 ‘til 10.
Doorway arch and the ice that hangs loose,
marry each other in
a ceremony of contrast, 
forced together like noose
and a neck.

Noose and neck break
bonds of trust, and out 
of the fractures that appear,
make coppice bone branches
of words: the all clear, the end
the funeral march pier.

PETA Badges Peppered Her Lapel

A well cured woman with
tied back hair and 
a Mac for fashion,
with also a mac for all weather action,
sat across from me on the train.

Probably sexually active and
without a doubt physically attractive,
she wore morals not money. 
PETA badges peppered her lapel,
as she toyed with the check-in details
for the Four Seasons Hotel.
Never will I forget her scent;
high class, high art, high culture,
all distilled within a single
sculpture of smell.
My word, how she spoke so softly,
on the phone or too herself,
even when she asked me for help.

Definitions aren’t embodied
in a person that often.
Maybe ex-girlfriends define hell,
but sitting-on-a-train-Mac-user 
personified beauty, love,
and the everlasting man seducer.

Ideas Are Hotel Love Affairs

Ideas are darkened figures,
built upon pigments and ideas.
They can whip through gallery doors,
the canteen,
across mezzanine floors.

Ideas are hotel love affairs,
with their take away trays;
they’ll check up on you
every once in awhile,
with a phone call diverted from
the Hotel Lobby’s, binary file.

Ideas are those ghosts of girls,
pale skinned beauties that’ll pass you
in the street,
only to unfurl at the feet
of some other man
as a fireside treat.

Fictional Deaths In A Non-Fiction City

Girls dressed as daughters
of the bookshop sellers,
take over the road
as if they owned the traffic that flowed.

Kids with glasses
belonging to European families,
sit staring at the girls,
wishing they’d notice their brunette curls.

Watching, is the lone man,
Christmas shopping for that frying pan-
the one with induction-hob-capabilities built in Japan.

Teens in backseat window silhouettes
stare back towards the girls,
flicking the V’s as if
to say look at me
I’m everything you want me to be.

The girls dressed as daughters
of the bookshop sellers,
nearly crossed the road,
but no cars slowed for them.
Only by chance did the ambulance
stop and help,
as now they’re clearing up their bones
and body-mass-pulp.

Always look both ways before crossing the road. 

Redlight Women Help You Finish Novels

Depends what your idea of colour is
or if your forever will ever exist.
Too many ink lines on one too many lists,
another reason for you to invest in one kiss.
Visit them, pay them,
lay next to them in Milan:
as there you can let every crease
unravel and unfurl,
let the block roll on,
like every Italian street.

Here, a fake friend has helped you
write a novel,
she helped you out of that darker hovel-
where you once sat and laid,
cut yourself off from
apartment rent and all the prices paid.

Noughts & Ex's

Time called,
it wants its watch back.
So too did love,
it wants its fake relationship back.
Literature left a message for you,
the book you stole should be returned.
Oh! You’ve just missed music,
it said that album you murdered is pressing charges.
Time called again,
just to make sure you got the message.
Check the machine,
there’s one from Platform Eight.
Bonfire night 2011 just hung-up,
it wants you to know never to return.
An email just came through,
from that film we knew every line too.
What was that,
you use people?
Oh! Politeness dropped by,
he said he’d like to slam every door he ever opened for you
back into your face.
Wait a second,
I’ll put him through-
it’s time, he wants to speak to you-

London Underground Suicide

London subway
metro train station connection,
busy off-peak City rush,
escalator packed, another northern crush.
Ticket barrier blockade,
pass through tomorrow not today.
Police at the exits,
a black sea of law abiding abyss,
protectors of the peace.
Another announcement over the crowd,
“Platform 2 is closed for the storm cloud to be cleared”.

Body parts have spread
over carriage doors,
torn from their sockets,
slipping pictures from necklace lockets.

John Lewis vs. Other Department Stores

The dry dock cruise ship shop
sits still, basking in the
air conditioning’s cool breeze chill.

Makeup stays clad to the skin
of the marionette workers, well presented,
ever so stick thin.

Perfume scents the room as if a wrist,
but no carpals I know have
their own stock list system.

The ugly sit in seats made for them,
wide berth for the wider ass of
greed not guilt.

John Lewis is no place to be at Christmas,
as the hounds of cosmetics
will pin you down,
deep into the laminated, pretty white

Shoreline Epiphanies

When you stand at the shoreline looking out to sea,
wondering what the world is,
what it's got in for me;
do you ever let sand meld and fuse,
bond with the in-between bit between your toes,
and think that you’re utterly alone?

In front of you is an ever-changing
specimen that knows only
of tides and floods,
yet somehow along the line
it lets you know how to spend your time,
as if far away smoking shit-cut-drugs.

Evening Twilight - A Short Film

Follow the link to see a short film entitled 'Evening Twilight' >> >>
Made by Hall Light Productions.

Mill Road, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

Mill Road shops don’t sell good wine 
nor do they tell me where I can find some, 
in fact they take their time- 
tease, control and have their fun 
with the lost customers of the-not-so-Highway-61.

Last time on the wine, it made your veins morbid
miles of madness, that took
you out into the woodland; to the trees of darkness
and no one, no one could stop you.
Red or white the colour doesn’t matter,
because the girl you held when you were 17
turned into the devil when you reached 18 and
now you’re lost in myriad Benzedrine world:
map burnt, compass broke, sat cross-legged under the oak.
No knot can help you now neither can the knees you rely on,
because ripped jeans caused minor ligament failure.

Running is not an option.
So wait until dew drop rises from the dirt
as then knees will bend, contort, run away and work.

It’s a good job Mill Road doesn’t sell good wine,
as students would end up in fields far from
never to return home.

Appartement de Trois Frères

Everything had a place,
neatly tied up, zipped in the case.
The handle extended ready for
the station;
a one way train to a working vacation.

She stole the tickets before he’d gone, hid them away to deceive and prolong.

Over there where street names are art
and the coffee barista, 24-hour-bars 
sit brimming like every star or
burning ember,
found within iron clad, raw splendour;
is where he wants to sit and reside,
to write about the commuter tide.

Books will live on reclaimed shelves,
stacked high like Tokyo, midnight hotels,
ordered by tears shed
and poetically written lines, 
not alphabetically 
or in genre kinds.

There, for 900 Euros a month,
with a deposit to be paid up front and all at once,
windows look out onto windows-
tenants do the same; but
this time smiling, mid-browse, 

She stole everything he wanted to regain,
so parried her move
and took off in the rain,
to the nearest station
to the first train.
No ticket was held in his left wet hand, 
just a Howl for the planned
and one for the descent, to the 
Three Brothers apartment.

Cambridge Nightlife

Everyone’s looking for anyone
but none of them know no one.
Queuing in the cold
hasn’t deterred idiots
from drinking multicoloured,
clear glassed spirits.
Toilet lines that drag out to the bar
are a sign to wee somewhere else, someplace far;
but because there’s that girl you like
waiting for the cubicle without a light,
means we have to stay put with
our feet stuck, and fused
to another dance floor’s
confused groove.

The DJ swings merrily
to another over produced
boring melody.
Bouncers sit and watch,
check out the ladies
wearing nothing but crotch.
The bartender battles with noise,
disrupted conversation from
drunk knitwear boys.
Close down the joint
and recline with a book.

There, chaos is but fiction,
not a whole load of
club scene drama
and throw away diction,
costing six quid a time
in order to dance
with no reason or rhyme. 

Yorkshire Stone

Taken, whisked, picked from the plug,
grass grows inside crack walled shrugs,
built by hand by a northern named man.
His dog lays still in the heather,
in the fog,
on the hill,
by the river;
resting in the bleak hill town, morning weather.