Archive for December 2015

Driven Home for Christmas

I could hear her shouting from over the road
through the fences
and from behind my earphones,
wails of, ‘I need a home not a street to call my own’;
I’ve just bought a ticket back up north.

How am I supposed to fit Christmas into this suitcase again,
it’s ten minutes until I leave and I’m hardly packed.
Now and then
between bleaching the sink and hoovering the stairs
I think what else do I have to take.
                                                       Stop. Make a list:
     pare down the sock drawer into four nights adrift.
     hope you pack the wine, protect all two gifts.
     remember to smile, look like your present.
     gather those receipts, sift through the bin.

On the table seat
down
the
aisle, a girl holds onto her phone in hands that should be holding onto hands,
not be on loan to a glorified tin can and string attached to nowhere
no one,
spam email stings looking to stun you of your dollar.
A fella on the window seat opposite drinks from a bottle hidden in a christmas sock
blending in with crowd,
though his community spirit is clearing the nostrils of those around,
everyone’s sniffling like a blocked up spittle valve.
And the brass band in tinselled hats and grimaces sings what station is next, connections not to miss,
and I’m stood there holding onto my suitcase
reading what everyone else has already read,
keeping up with catching up,
standing up without a seat
facing a quiet carriage of Chris Rea extras driven home for christmas,
restless and ready for a familiar bed-
those memory foam ones that’ll throw them to the floor as they’re not the body they remember;
no amount of bucks fizz at eleven will cure them of that, I’m sure of it.

New Year’s resolution, number one of one:
find someone to hold my hand like it's sweet not slavery.




It’s Laughable That You Kick Women

If her stomach tasted sore after that kicking in
then it’s because he kicked the sweetness out; and
if you ever walk past help again you should be ashamed of yourself 
for not stepping in
however faraway you were,
working on that walk of yours
that walked on past
like a tour, a triple A pass to:
here’s what a rag doll with inner tube lips looks like.
Don’t touch. No photographs.
This body of wool, craft of no breath, is not an art nor science
but the leftover regret of noncompliance,
tableaux of a private conversation rehearsed for public consultation,
though she fluffed her lines and got it right,
he was wrong and decided to strike.
This body of spool, cassette of mess, is not a Turner prize winner,
if anything stop the judging,
she’s pale, growing thinner.

I’ll have been over the bridge when they started resuscitating,
summoning disgusting kisses up to rub against the pane of her face.
No response was received by the first responders on scene,
silence filling in where the night couldn’t reach,
whilst the barman and the other guy braced her waist at the hips
with shaking hands, with nervous feet;
they won’t be walking the same way home again,
that probably won’t sleep
because who could forget that,
her eyelids taught like torn bed sheets
crisp,
and they can still see them from here
in dried, dehydrated sunspot floaters
that’ll make sure they never look at another boyfriend-husband-man again
like that again,
doubt the damaging powers of daddy’s grown up comedienne.
                                                                    tracksuit lad of joke.

An Idiot's Anthem

You hung up hope with your coat before you
snuggled down with me and you called it ‘coping'.
Well that’s a disdainful way to shy-away from everything you could’ve been,
and I’m sick of you getting high in room
glooms hiding under twelve tog tombs; it’s
a kick to the back teeth knowing you’re
better than this,
but you’d rather stay in bed again
'cos your 'eyelids hurt and your
feet are asleep’.

Now you’re throwing sums away, son, both
mental and those minted ones, on forgetting
what it feels like to be the first footprints
anywhere. You’ve money to waste not money
to burn, so place it all on next turns in
present tense because reeling in the slack
of these self taught Chinese burns are hijacking hands into shackles
and then how are you meant to learn.
Investment should overrule despair
not cement it

and you know that,
just like how an albatross has the wing span of the sky 
and you’re wearing one around your neck mourning the guy you once were.
Where did your concern go?
                                             When did it last occur?
'Cos it's not in your pockets or next to their purse,
it's not with your keys or left behind at birth,
you can’t just lose necessity like this,
make up a life in between,
as that's not how this shit works:
it’s a business not a dream.

Potential is about breaking down the now into baby steps,
reaching the end of a minute before you’ve put the last hour in context.
Those online productivity tests
Buzzfeed quizzes to see if your adequate enough
only evaluate the level of procrastination you possess: 
1) they do not score you on your achievements, and
2) accurately guess your favourite foods, compile them into convenient lists,
instead they collect your time,
express-deliver it to third party syndicates of highest bidders and their marketing associates
who will make more from this
than you will ever do.

Money doesn't guarantee success only graft does
and even then it's slim at best,
and as soon as you get out of bed
you will learn this,
you purebred
under read
depressed set of limbs.
Now wake up. 

The white cliffs mean we're home

In the drawings of
                              this many years from now, I’ll be...
did you draw your body with a bump,
with the world at your feet?

The ten own-brand Boots tests in the shared toilet bin suggest serving time is over,
and out of all the ovens left on down in Dover this is one bun we cannot do,
authorise its transaction.

Facts of the matter aren’t the same when the percentages print against us:
out of a hundred we can’t even make
one.
We’re eligible for something we are, that we want to become, but

lies in lines are ticks in boxes when it comes to people ‘who can’t’,
though on the off chance of bad weather
on the wind of staying in again
as far as we know it could be positive,
so count with me.
There are a hundred and forty five Mississippis to go
and however long it’ll take to prove that
until we know if the weight of what
will roll into ‘why, I think we’re pregnant;
we’re finally in for a living that’ll never wear off’. 

Treachery of Words

Ceci n'est pas un poem,
It really is not.

The usage of metaphorical language is lacking,
Like waterfalls within desert dreamscapes.

Sibilance is sorely suppressed and silenced
assonance avoided and averted.
It has no necessary nor explicit examples of alliterations and literary allusions.

It simply spares no time for rhyme in any of its lines.
It doesn’t let it spread out like vines and intertwine, 
confine or let define how it should go about its design.

Rhythm’s also unused, 
absent and unnoticed
pacing for a breath.

Form has been hung out

t
  w

    i
  s

t
  e
    d
Mor phe d

Left to cr  mb e
               u     l
But it does have a refrain...