Archive for July 2015

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

I ran away from the bank.

It’s not about numbers,
just how well you can do the maths.
Like, it’s not about time,
just when will the hour glass waistline stop,
drop dress onto floor,
relax you of responsibility,
of all of your more,
inner sanctum turned shopping mall,
‘here’s what I buy when I’m tired of running,
so, tell me how you’re doing?’.

This is what I said when the debt was confirmed.
It was scripted below some sympathy in a red biro pen,
no matter where we went it would follow us around,
from Drachma back to Yen.
No matter where we would go it’d be there
bible-esque and diary bound,
the lost and sound hunting us down.

Nothing’s ever good enough now we’re in a rush,
gotta wake up even earlier if we want to attempt to keep up,
meaning every after-dessert aperitif from now on is our milk for the morning.
Call the valet!
Fetch the keys!
Let’s stare at one and other from across the Sands,
make grand plans inside these hollowed accounts,
conjure up second-hand amounts of plans to nowhere feasible
with twenty-six quid wands from a tour we did want to go on.
To bed a lady like Sinatra would kiss them would be enough for me.
Now you, what would you do with free?

Dropping Sausages

I’ve done nothing for the past two hours and twenty two minutes.
I’ve done nothing for the past two hours twenty.
I’ve done nothing for the past two hours,
I’ve done nothing for the past.
I’ve done nothing and they call in procrastination.

500 posts and still there is no fence,
500 pens and still a lead declaration;
no sense of will,
moral compass direction.


and enter
and from hemisphere to horizon our eyes met in a soft bay-window close of a blink,
an I Do mimed back with lip sync accuracy,
an actual love at first sight:
a 400cc transaxle Wheel Horse,
the lawn mower to the z-list stars who mow their lawns in stripes from the scars of those first few months of learning.
I’m one wacker plate and hedge cutter short of a deal
and I’m nowhere close to the 250 your asking for
so I'll mention the broken steel.
It’s exhaust looks bust,
more gust than a forty a day for several years.
I need light siesta breath from speaker phone,
smooth rum down waterslide whiskey of sauna and overflow,
and that don’t come cheap after you factor in the shipping for everything.
The cutting deck looks fucked, too,
needs a patch up,
but I’ve got a double first in Ground Force and Grand Designs,
nerves of Robson Green fishing over land mines.
I can fix anything as fast as it takes Ross Kemp to diffuse all situations,
never seen confidence like it;

the yarn stretched into a sink hole of a cardigan sleeve
and from it’s depth rang a village shop doorbell bundled into the back of a snooze button,
gone but not forgotten.
Yet here was some presence from you,
a bit of time for after,
had your very own western front play out there from above you
hydro-dam heartbeats soloing from ribcage to temple,
where headaches smashed holy men taking handfuls from cash cows.
We wouldn’t care for your applause,
cheers from the house,
'cos there’s always more debts to pay,
beers in a drought.
And the trench walls in periphery bent into laughter
as our stares turned into sights to see if the other would surrender.

Egg whites under neon lights,
the thousand yard glare,
reflections in scuffed metal 'cos mirrors tend to ware
unlike the wars they hide,
causes for more arms,
I’m a pacifist baby,
got a lawnmower and a farm.