Monday, 17 October 2011

Poem 103.

Poem 103.

My fucking audacity,
Knows no bounds,
It can lift a fucker up,
It can shut a poem down.

It allows me to see the person,
Within the person.
My fucking audacity
Is gravy brown.

My sheer fucking audacity,
Makes me equal to you,
Nothing else,
Just my sheer fucking audacity.

It is a dart of pure honesty,
Which pierces through insecurity,
It starves paranoia,
And makes the impossible, possible.

My sheer fucking audacity,
Sounds like the swimming pool,
Tastes like curry,
And smells like petrol.

My working-class audacity,
Has lost people and things along the way,
It carries a stick or a golf club,
And is aware of the facts.

Oh, it feels good,
Until you come along,
And catch me in the moment
Before I can fight back.

Friday, 14 October 2011

Thirty Pages North

Pre-injection alcohol swab -
Swipe me from behind,
Hit me hard,
Punt me with a Martin to the palettes in the yard.
Use Jamie’s Magic Torch
For Tunnel of Delight,
Thirty pages North,
Toward the Slinky in the night.

Brasso –
Force my hand to the list,
My vow to return,
To eradicate the PVA
From the Crêpe Heart-Burn.
Occupy my list,
- As you occupy my past,
- As you occupy my present,
As you’ll occupy my Last.

Honeysuckle –
Roll my bobbin up,
Unpick all the issues,
Wrap them then discard them
In the sea of salty tissues.
Say, “What happened to us? What happened to me?”
Forgive and lay aside
My Action Man.
My Action Man can
Daisy Chain my pride.

Ocean –
Cry me distant roars,
Thawed from ice,
Let loose,
From Dens and Tannadice.
Surprise me with a Lucky Bag
As a mass of brute-red faces
Steam around the corner
From “yer no allowed there” places.

Thirty pages North,
Through a grimy crack in glass,
Still the ground it shakes,
And trembles as They pass.

Saturday, 1 October 2011



Autumn First Fervour.

Colours and altered states,
She remembers,
From Autumn mornings in the park,
Alone with scarf and gloves,
Passing puddles,
Bitten by the cold air,
The last tune she played looping round her head,
Mixing with the smell of coffee and Polo on her steamy breath.

Spring. Pissing out the fire.

Early morning dew,
Sparkling in the sunshine.
He took the tent down and called the dog.

Looking down,
The city lights go out before him,
Through the rosy spring haze,
Finishing their work for the night,
As he picks up his stick,
After pissing on the fire.

Back to having to talk to people,
Back to the effort of being polite,
Back to not hearing that noise,
Of sizzling delight,
Of pissing out the fire,
Or the river in the night.

Winter: From the Hospital to the Car Park.

Old Jim in the past,
Walks with a stick,
And a tap, tap, tap,
Hears God in the rhythm,
Which drowns out the crap.

Subtle words,
Soft timbre,
Explained and apologised,
For the agonising inevitable.

Hocca-tokka with his tongue,
As he taps taps out.

The erratic symphony,
Subliminally sinks with his heart,
While the straying beat sticks,
And familiar allows,
Pleasure pads forth,
And repitition
- overlays another time-signature.
- overlays another time-signature.

Outside exists Man,
With the drum of profanity,
In a Ford with a spoiler,
And a cloud of insanity.

Kendo in the present,
What the fuck was he doing anyway,
Rapping on the glass,
With his big fucking stick.

If I ever see you again,
You fucker,
I’m going to kill you,
Or say the fucking things,
I should have fucking said,
That will keep you up at night,
And proper fuck your head.

Summer Came and Went.

Summer came and went,
Largely without event.