Boxing Day

Sunlight is unexpected today
but welcome across the floor

it is heightened by blown clouds
and their linear crossing of the blaze

such quick shadows are soft removed

and before this all the branches dart
outside my front bay

those bared arteries conduct the skies.

Broken

And these awakenings roll
from stones into movement

of cruel stretches to unlock
my fixed hands from the straps
of an accelerated illness

as my skin crawls with insects
within the scratched at tingled layers

and no tablet on earth can fix
the inner unrubbed itch

no cream can offer emulsion
enough to bleach the nettle beaters

except for her mouth on mine
and a foreign breath to confuse

Brighton 1 – Watford 0

This concrete and steel
oozes last week’s freeze
where I sit with my pint
high in the East Stand
having travelled with my boys

but they are already perched
on the folding seats
as I wait for my beer to push
me there via the toilets

where scarfed men shuffle
and queue in silence for urinals

there they unwrap and rezip
after pissing a few quid
before the match
on to others’ left pubes

these gents hope beyond hope
for a home result
as they wash down those hairs

Fucking Christmas

These yearly demands unto revelry
with tipped back long stem glasses of Italian blood and French piss
are now taken in our blinded stride
through this season
which we should claim back from baby fucking Jesus
to now take the true Yuletide home into the debauchery we once had
good and bad
more traditional than trees and yo-fucking-ho
resurrect
before Easter
the true solstice.