Lost Words

I mislaid a lover’s poem tonight –
now undone over wireless files –
by the members’ club –
near my short-lived home –
I dropped the text – her words have gone –
my lust-spews lost her – internet-blown
What of un-doings can I now re-build
in this swilled night-time
with sleep to kill?
A recall of her squats –
her tight compressions
over my thighs – shoved without questions –
and my pained hands on her flattened breasts –
I type too fast to retrieve behests
Tonight I’ll dream of us reaching – fumbling –
fingering and buried – ever French-kissing –
but all those breaths are a short frustration
I’ll lose the lines in my translation –
I was stood naked on a littered road
and her lost poem lay folded –
still unknown


Lost Dad

Dad turned into a dog just before
the US-presidential election,
the world was changing so much
that anything, anything was possible,
like Dad becoming a cross-breed,
like Dad then shitting on our lawn,
(Dad never, ever, did that before).
He turned into a beautiful mongrel,
possibly part-Labrador, part-Poodle:
‘Stupid, with good looks,’ was all Mum said.
But what do we do about it?
I spent a few days hugging him,
trying not to catch his sad eyes.
What could I do? I am only sixteen.
Mum was rubbish, she told no one,
not even Gramps, who knows everything.
We were confused, in our own little world.
Perhaps the re-count would happen,
and prove that Russians fixed the election,
and Dad would become Dad again?
Not likely, according to the feeds I grazed upon:
Yes, I do RSS. I AM a child of the internet,
we don’t all just do Insta-snap.
I sat at the window, the grass grew high outside,
Dad’s peeing on it made no difference:
Mum got a cute lawn boy in,
who complained about Dad’s shits.
Try scooping them up each morning!
On the seventh day I bought a lead for Dad,
Mum was still in denial, so I took him out:
Opposite our house are the best woods ever,
once you have crossed the dangerous road,
the one Dad forever moaned about.
But now he strained at his lead,
desperate to cross, no matter what.
He responded well to my commands,
which I had looked up on Google.
He ran off, like a furious sprinter:
Dad had never run anywhere before.
I watched him spin on the loose dry leaves,
chasing the wind-blown ones,
and then he disappeared, forever.

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retweet this quick poem,
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could ensure they survive.

I’m a Celebrity

I dreamt Ant and Dec
were happily hosting
‘I’m a Celebrity..
Get Me Out of Syria’:

“It was tougher than
I thought it’d be,
drinking foul water,
eating what we found,
which tasted so sick,
but I am so proud;
my camp mates are great,
I want them all to win,
but I’m a free celebrity,
and their future is grim.”

She smiled in her moment,
prime-time TV,
whilst crossing back
to reality.

No Lift

I am alone, stood,
stranded in the dark,
outside an unplugged,
vinyl-skinned, olde pub,
both so remote,
the last orders forgotten,
and the staff have gone;
left with no signal, no lift,
under that ever-same
stretch of try-to-name stars:
me, a witness to the late
rush of commuter cars,
and out-for-dinner suitors.
A lone owl re-calls,
but it is only discernible
when the road is lulled,
when her refrain greets
the dead heavens above,
and, for those still seconds,
Sussex returns to old ways.



He’s thinking too late,
slightly pissed before bed,
stiff and undressed
into cooled nakedness:

He will make you stand,
your eyes turned east,
you will face from him,
as he drops to his knees:

There your reduction,
him a flesh-bare thug,
as you stand blinded,
and his heart binds hard:

Your white legs splayed,
by his too-sure grip
pushing you open,
to find a fit in your hips.


I stand at a window
in the heart of Beirut
counting bullet holes
in the wall opposite:
Fireworks overhead,
jarring the senses,
reviving my long-buried
childhood memories:
And what does the man,
fourteen floors below,
make of such explosions,
in his war’s afterglow?
I am here for a meeting,
in this luxury hotel,
for hedge fund managers
who will all go to hell.


Each line is filled,
he is cross-referencing,
the train spotter marks
which model and when:

but his life speeds past,
one without note,
except when he’s pushed,
and then we know it:

Delays to services
due to body on the line.
The last thing he wrote
was ‘8:59’


Bens (sic) Place

I am that bent man in the long raincoat,
with a bagged bottle, my red antidote:

I am stick-led past the bar lessee,
still struck by his loss of an apostrophe;

in there a couple, I fished from reflections,
looked me just once, then resumed conversation.

I crossed shone tarmac onto grey matt stone,
that moment I gripped, not quite alone:

In the small park under rain-weighted trees,
I found my own place below the bent canopy,

with shelter from the worst, poor-afforded below,
I turned into an old man, and walked home alone.

Card Shark

Protectionism is the Trump card,
and with his Ace the West will shut,
reduced trade and less bartering,
see the embers of boom then lost.

Our bank rates will rise tomorrow,
as our true values take a dive,
the right will scream for purity,
as the beaten left, again, divides.

Shadows from the last century
are returning on the scans,
science has since developed,
but lies are fact for businessmen.

Trump hid from early battles,
draft dodged it is said,
perhaps now he’ll take a bullet,
to become a short-lived President.

Interesting News

I heard it on the radio
this morning,
they have delayed the future
for our own good,
it’s in our best interest
to know nothing,
because nothing
is our future’s last good news:

What we watch tonight
on our wide-inched screens
will be the past,
because nothing is now live,
all transmissions
are being pre-recorded,
we’re dis-engaged
in these interesting times.

Advice for Jeremy, from Jeremy

Jeremy Clarkson
you are such a cock,
turn a new leaf,
read a self-help book:

The Thoughts of Jeremy‘,
writ by Corbyn,
‘Take the shit that’s
always coming’;

then no small foreigner
will screw your life,
if you see the world
through such alien eyes:

Next time you rage,
getting very irate,
heed Corbyn’s words,
and swallow back your hate.

Hotel Entrance

Her other self steps out
under the hotel-lights,
with the sun lowered,
as the early dusk scowls:

In heels she copes, as ever,
on irregular paths and routes,
a recall of her airline days,
those trips less troublesome,

just turbulence and trolleys:
These punters, these travellers,
more equal in measures
of demands and sullen desires,

and not so easily stepped over,
but, in her head, in her way,
her coping with passengers is:
they all pay, they all deserve:

Holding her coat collar-tight,
chin-wrapped against them all,
swinging her bag in the other hand,
on time, on her high price spoor.