They’ll solicit obliteration of
our old theatre [not heeding
complaints from preservers
& old-way-fixers with books
referencing how long those
stall & circle dream pits sat
in our gist]/ Homer was not
one for such revery/ I lost a
phone in Paris – among 200
tipped-up seats – it rang as I
searched – unusual acoustic
tricks did me/ Acts spooled
on my Walkman – fast fwd &
that mechanicalness [we no
longer degust]/ Our mobiles
rewind our playlist of screw-
ups & messages from those
whom we kicked back – that
ruinate of old performances
with no awards [or encores]/
Bingo halls serve less balls –
those so-monotone tenants
of unwanted playhouses are
on a list – to be ever-emptied
with a similar blow by C-19’s
twistings [best played online]
Tag: AUDIO
Christmas Island
Their trams still ran [in
Hiroshima] – among all
of their loss of 1945+/
As if precise modes of
public transport would
[still] rotate in a flawed
country like ours/ Time
has moved for Britain’s
schedulers ever since –
since a bomb dropped
on Christmas/ One-nil/
We twitched – us kids/
We saw a darkness [of
life] sat outside a bank
[a shock – of imprecise
truths – of hitokage no
ishihi]/ There are grim
shadows on our maps
of cooled off craters &
green atolls/ As kids it
was a joy to ride trams
in Manchester – delays
forgiven – never forgot
Hiroshima] – among all
of their loss of 1945+/
As if precise modes of
public transport would
[still] rotate in a flawed
country like ours/ Time
has moved for Britain’s
schedulers ever since –
since a bomb dropped
on Christmas/ One-nil/
We twitched – us kids/
We saw a darkness [of
life] sat outside a bank
[a shock – of imprecise
truths – of hitokage no
ishihi]/ There are grim
shadows on our maps
of cooled off craters &
green atolls/ As kids it
was a joy to ride trams
in Manchester – delays
forgiven – never forgot
Quadrophenia
Shingle/ Vinegar/ Under-pier
strokes of cock – undesired
[pills were not dropped after
a fuck]/ Complaints by age-
weighted sunbathers – youth
scum/ Sing to me [when you
can] ’bout zoot suits & sharp
creases [being a Mod wasn’t
about anything honest]/ Gull
calls & chip wrappers – upper
litter still blows into seafront
trippers [they used to ride on
scooters]/ Old Mods look on
as girls bare too much – hard
times of under-pier I-love are
lost – There should be a sign –
Here is Brighton’s least costly
room [a consummated place]
& let every Jimmy there-ever-
was return to savour old spray
[but – I gotta get running now]
Devices & Desires
.. we fail to realise how unnecessary
many things are
Seneca – Letters from a Stoic
I may forbear fingering magalogs
of wants-not-needs – buying hope
on our poking ‘phones of popping
offerings/ Mutterings are greedily
overheard by AI [I’m replacing our
barbecue – a B&Q ad appears – its
pop-up perturbs us whilst we view
Love Island’s insta-brigues]/ I can
navel-gaze all day/ I am a shoddy
commodity [mine not so desirable
unless re-figured by an airbrush in
Photoshop’s too-mendacious bag]
My weight drops off when I bezzle
less – mathematics of fact – Money
don’t grow on trees – Mum’s mantra
from 1982 – Use of public transport
a sign of failure – Margaret’s lie/ My
first kiss was so cheap [still – it sits
on my tongue – that sort a’ buss – it
was false] Cash was a way to sex –
porn – not free-to-use [shame rarely
fell away] & kisses ad-libbed – atop
bus #72 – impurity among us teens
[on snogged trips to better shops –
one after another] & invigorated by
a weekend of expectation – parties
& bars – fingerings & fumbles – fags
& drugs – waking up numbed & lost
in off-girl sweat in unknown rooms/
Street signs guided me back home
with my thirst – but not desiring my
night’s before/ Shops locked up for
one day of rest – unless you craved
tobacco or red top headlines – such
days – could we survive them now –
in this miniaturised world of want?
Parcels fall through front doors & a
momentary high of fresh unboxing –
an art for product-placed vloggers/
Hopes are unwrapped & set buzzin’
[a buy-it-now drug]/ China will fulfil
endless shite – ’til we gripe – sucked
off & broke/ Kick me back to ’86 – to
those top decks of tongues & tits – I
lived a simple life without Byzantine
choices to tug my eye/ My return to
nothing much to do would follow my
shutting off purchasing in my palm/
It draws on us – until we are drained/
Perfect knowledge? Let it discharge
A Taste of Honey
Dear Steven Patrick Morrissey –
mononymously known by your burly surname
I fell in love with you in nineteen eighty-four –
or maybe slightly before – when you sang a lullaby –
Yes – it was just for me – played on an ache-laden
Scouse-spun John Peel Session
You were Alan Bennett – on a sweat-rinsed riser –
taking straight boys with your stirring words
A glimpse of your chest was enough to doubt
girls’ shapely tits had enough to give up
Then you spoke out from your tooth-whitened America
whilst making those Mexican boys doubt
How you turned me off with your racist complaints
My Dear Steven – you no longer interest me