[ POETRY ]
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A Night on the Town

The silence is unbearable
So I try to sleep with the window open

The hustle and bustle
Hustle and bustle their way
Into my street-lamp-lit room

And I picture the scenes
     of carefree abandon
     and careless drinking

the man
with the biggest forehead
on earth
strides proudly forth

another with the sharpest suit
and scruffiest beard
smokes weed and philosophises
in his kerbside auditorium

an oblivious capitalist
spends his minimum wage
on cheap vodka
at an all-night off-license

What are they building this late at night?
Where are they driving?

an unaware communist
sells her body
to the highest bidder
or bidders

a lonely thirtysomething
avoids the lonely gaze
of possible friends and rapists
as she quickly returns to her lonely loft

a bus driver smokes
and wonders whether this is the night
when he takes the drunks
to the beach for a milkshake

What are they building this late at night?
Where are they driving?

a friendly local loon
shouts at the kebab shop owner
and god
for his dinner

a policeman sits
and waits
for the brawlers
to tire themselves out

a baby cries
for what? she does not know
her young mother cries
for what she does not know

The silence appeals now
So I close the window
And sleep a fitful sleep

A fork in the road

I’m on my way to your funeral
and I come to a fork in the road.
It is plastic and white
and it was dropped by a man
eating chips
after a debauched row with the wife last night.
Rita.
It was delivered
in an EU standard box
of approximately
327 units
to the takeaway restaurant
opposite the park
by George
a van driver
on his 39th birthday
just as he was
pondering
jacking it in
and running away
with the woman of his dreams
not his wife.
Rita.
It was made
in a factory
that people drove to at 4 in the morning
with a refectory
where workers
mainly eastern european
stared into
their plastic boxes
three times a day.
It was packaged up by a sad lady
who couldn’t be bothered
stopping beauty slip through her fingers
because no one could love her
anymore.
Rita.
Except me.
You died
and I’m on the way to your funeral.

A Poem About Slugs

Lying on his front
Chin in hands
Legs tangled
Watching a slug on the path

It can't help but move slowly
But the sticky trail glistens and charms
Bewitching his sparkling eyes
After forty minutes he grows bored
And skips back to the house
Taking the long route around the flower bed

Some time later his father
Returns from wherever it is he goes everyday
Ruffles the boy's hair
And heads outside to put down more cider and salt to kill the pesky plant eaters

None the wiser,
The little boy tells his mother about the new friend he has made
Whose name he has decided is Martin.

Countryside walks

Countryside walks
flower stalks
nature at its best
for all to enjoy
breathe in its beauty
look how fresh it smells
smell the clear sky

Countryside walks
wayside talks
skies blue
skies red
nature’s purity
brings out our honesty
love
hate
togetherness

Countryside walks
hidden porks
romance under the open air
clean breathing
fresh sky
cold wind
deep sigh

Countryside walks
dinner forks
hidden pubs
quaint and pure
overpriced menus
big fat beer
the chips are quite nice too

Countryside walks
forget our works
children laughing
dogs running
people playing
everywhere
happy

( Countryside walks
  darkness stalks
  psycho waiting
  masturbating
  in the dark
  maybe death or mutilation
  may pass you by? )

( Countryside walks
  country sidewalks
  lets tarmac this field
  then the arseholes from town can drive out here in their 4-wheel-drives without       having to go off-road to see this beauty
  pollution and litter
  and dogshit )

Countryside walks
countryside walks

bus routes

she had the world's first shell suit
and a face like a council estate
she dragged herself and her daughter onto the bus
(although i suppose it could have been her grandaughter)

sitting down her eyes glazed over
as the beautiful little sad girl
babbled about everything, wanting a response
eventually falling into disappointed silence

arriving in the oxfam region of town
she dragged herself off the bus
and thought about the future and the past
and the economy box of washing powder she had to buy

the toddler toddled a metre or so behind
as if wanting to observe her future
the woman walked a metre or so ahead
as if wanting to ignore her past

Tuesday morning

Tuesday morning and I wake up. I rub my eyes and prepare to get up to undertake my usual morning routine (shower, shave, coffee, cereal). However, I stop in my tracks when I realise that I can't remember what I am called. Slightly perplexed, I rummage through my bedside drawer and pull out my passport. Strangely enough, the space where the name is supposed to be is blank. I am now worried and I start grabbing papers and documents from the drawer. I check bills, old diaries, school socks and letters but in all cases there are no records of my name. Just blanks everywhere. I am shaking when I pick up the phone. My friends will understand I tell myself. It will be okay. They'll tell me my name. These things happen. As I start to dial a number I stop, shudder and put the phone down. I can't remember their names either. Close to tears now, I console myself with some cereal in front of GMTV. At this stage I stumble upon the unlikeliest of solutions. I decide to call myself Geoff.

in the supermarket

I went to the supermarket yesterday to buy some groceries. Some washing up products, bacon roulades and some Easter Eggs for some homeless orphaned children that live near me in a hostel. The problem is is that I had only three pounds in my pocket. So I only bought the bacon and some Cyclon B. Not the eggs. Is that bad? I always thought that the thought was the thing that counted the most above all things. But I have bad thoughts all the time. About having sex and fights and stuff.

HOWL (for the BBC3 generation)

To you spread legged cross foam jutting check seating I force a grip metallic fixed straight ahead so you must look me in my eyes or your neck will be snapped

To you sat behind desks behind doors encrusted black behind paper faith and toothy hair I take their cuts their hurt their blood and scrawl over your virgin page

To you frothers in your saint george cross tops with your smart casual dress codes and your Sun reader moral codes and your Stella letching Wayne toads I ask god to project your mummy boy thoughts like comedy halos for all to see

To you with your ‘did you get home safes?’ and you with your ‘are you off to work nows?’ I give answers you deserve like no I got raped by the way my name’s Geoff and no I’m not going to Sweden with Barnsey next week

To you with your hairy handed hubbie stepping onto the street with brighton bags fig full of golden grins I take a polaroid on which I will scrawl yes yes yes it is possible to be truly truly loved

To you with your teary cratered face gazing at orange blurs to the east on an evening autumn train I reach for your hand and hold it tight through the night until day light it will be all right

To you with your inane rhymes all the time waiting in your room with the door just ajar desperate for me to enter to see if you’re okay I tell you I have no interest in your so-called mystery histrionics and I turn up the TV

To you slavering at knees like a water less dog with your conquest of spaniards and your angels hirsute and blind I reach for the remote control and put you on mute

To you little dark princess with your junkyard paintings letterbox confessions pencil box impressions transparent secrets that you’re gagging to share I show that pain is knowing what it is to be truly truly alive

To you ruddy faced tracksuited Geoff with your filthy stinking bomb breath and your mustardy teeth and your pantry of a beard I kiss you a long lingering saliva tongues kiss

To you September screaming wind with your shocking schemes and your spitefully systematic attempt to ruin my day I swipe slash strike across your contorted cackling face

To you Huw with your peeling skin and your toilet fetishes and your soggy blue cardigan and your itched on hat I drag you onto a wooden train and order the hoses be turned on full

To you with your Greek poems clutching Gitanes behind the glass unable unwilling to attend to matters at hand namely a return to Liverpool Street please I cast a spell that freezes your face into a smile

To with your chimp chomping chomp chimping crisp scrunching nut clicking lick lipping knuckles cracking I chain you in a vice in a dripping drip cellar and let you hear your bones go crack crack crack

To you with your one hundred and six contacts and your message from Gary and your head full of wires and your mouth vomiting words I take your tiny plastic phone turn on the WAP and vibrate radiate through your brittle skull

To you with your inadequacy packeted for all to see your incompetence paraded your childish glee your slippery handshakes your podiums and stadiums I send you to the wars you start and are unable to end

To you with your bald head moralising about war vets campaigning whilst trying to sell overpriced products to people who don’t care I pray for a crash for confusion for your polystyrene tiles to flame around you

To you patients on the yellow bus that rock to and fro and to and fro on their way to the clinic who dribble and shake I give you an hour to rule this world to show us the truths that we never can see

To you who say yes say no say yes say no say yes say no to me like I’m some sort of talking show machine with your bland small talk I strike a match against my stubble and douse my hair in petrol and I let it go to give you something interesting to talk about

To you in the history department with your put downs in jokes beer guts beardy smokes I return bearing gifts of sleet hail phlegm frogs and a particularly bad dose of genital warts

To you with your screaming brat and your sullen pierced face and your x-factor pop star dreams I hand you a spell inside locked up silent in a nine be nine cell

To you with your sincerity enthusiasm and chucklesome ways with your bland chit chat about Bryan Adams and Darren Hayes and your feeble grasp of the concept of personal space I yawn insecticide poison into your face

To you my brain that never stops that keeps me awake with Bobby’s couplets like newborn triplets that never rests and never ceases I paint the bathroom with you red on white on bone on red on white on bone on red on white on red on white on bone...

Grandma doesn’t breathe anymore

I’m not that sad about it,
and that’s what makes me feel so sad.

I want to cry,
but only because I think I should
but I don’t want to cry
just because I think I should
and that’s what really
makes me want to cry.

What about my Dad though?
My Grandma may have died,
but his mum is dead.
She’s dead and…
well not yet buried,
but will be soon.
My Dad has to bury his mum.
And I have to hold his hand
without holding his hand.

Five and Three Quarters

P-45's
P-60's
0898 numbers
standing order for rent
meeting up for coffee
paying off a small loan on a cheap car
different curtains for summer and winter
buying my own pasta
scheduling in time to see my friends
scheduling in time to phone my brother
83.9 pence for a litre of premium unleaded
no time for breakfast
postcode affecting insurance
talking about careers and furniture
understanding the 6 o-clock news

I want to play Marbles
And Conkers
And Kiss-chase
I want to have to take my shoes off when I get inside my house
I want my medicine to taste of sour banana
I want to carry on climbing on the rocks when both my knees are bleeding
I want to believe in God

Goodbye

I can lose you easily
because you never really found me.

Messiah Complexities

As we stood there
I felt like Jesus
Kissing Judas
As if to say- please don't betray me

I was taken away
You were left
With your payoff inside
As if to say- Barabbas was a better man

A martyr I may be
But a selfish, useless one.

Dirty Winner’s fickle finger of fate

I was pondering the imponderable
whilst reading Camus
as one does in one’s local coffee shop,
when suddenly the world famous film director Michael Winner
                                                                   came up to my table

To cut a long story short
he offered me a leading role in his latest film
which I readily accepted

I became famous
and married a beautiful woman
called Francesca or Sandra
We honeymooned in the Maldives
and moved to Hertfordshire
to an eight bedroomed behemoth of a house

The reason I write this
is because I am sat here in my big house on my own
on my white leather sofa
supping an aperitif
and I’ve just seen my tattered and unfinished copy
of Camus’ the Outsider

There is a funny hole in the middle of me
where I think I used to be sad
or was that happy?

a novel idea

I wasn’t about to say what I really thought, though,
I saw parts of it I’d never seen before
and never heard of again
though when the smoke clears
convention is never the same
and in no fit state to escape.

I could try to rebuild
to relieve the irritation
to consider the way ahead
but there’s too much time for gossip.

When I tried to move, I felt as if I were tied down,
but too tired to cheer, I slept where I was
and dreamt of the poetry I cannot write
vainglorious and letting the excitement subside
as a gift for the darkness
practically untouched.

So peaceful, so rich,
beside the busy street,
horns honking all around
I answered but couldn’t be heard.
I was so ashamed
as a bitter cold assailed me
too slowly and too deeply.

I smile manfully back,
for ignorance is strength and good habits die.
But it passes,
as if a memory of youth
that lives on in hope.
These dreams pollute their own bodies.

When turning, wait for safe gaps,
but bristle,
for great art need not be immediately accessible.

[if all else]

so you see I'm in love with my girlfriend and I just want to spend as much time as possible with her because I love her more than anything and she loves me too and we've been together forever and we dance together and laugh together and sing and shout and skip and dream together; but then one day she doesn't want to dance with me, she wants to dance with someone else, she says she still loves me but that she needs to dance with someone else, that she'll still dance with me a lot, well sometimes, but that she wants to dance with other people too; but then I see her laughing at something one of these dance partners says, though she tells me she still loves me, but then I see her sing with another, shout with another and do both with a third, and it seems like an eternity since she even danced with me, and so I wait until she comes, but then she tells me that she had a dream with someone she hadn't even danced with and that she isn't sure whether she loves me anymore, although I can't hear her words because she doesn't speak them, her mouth moving without sounds; but still I wait and one day becomes two days becomes I don't know how many days, and still I wait becomes too many days to count and still I wait;

then one day I realise that I'm God and she is humanity and that no matter how much I love her, she'll always want to sleep with other people;

then one day I realise that I'm not God, that I'm my girlfriend and I'm in love with myself; in so many ways

Death By Family Hatchback

His name was Colin
Or was it Chris?
I'm not really sure
It's unimportant anyway

He worked in IT
Or was it PR?
I'm not quite certain
It's irrelevant anyway

Monday evening
Drinks with the lads
Same old university friends
Same old stories
Same old beers

Tuesday evening
Dinner with the parents
Ingest their food
Ingest their tales
Ingest their damp

Wednesday evening
Work at the office
Catch up with paperwork
Catch up with transatlantic clients
Catch up with masturbation

Thursday evening
Workout at the gym
Sweat away the beers
Sweat away the guilt
Sweat away the lust

Friday evening
Comedy TV with the family
Same old jokes
Same old snacks
Same old hilarious situations

He had a blonde wife
Or was she brunette?
I'm not really sure
It's unimportant anyway

He had three kids
Or was it two?
I'm not quite certain
It's irrelevant anyway

Saturday mornings
Football practise for the son (or sons)
Exchange banter
With the other fathers

Saturday afternoons
Drama lessons for the daughter (or daughters)
Exchange compliments
With the other parents

Saturday evenings
Take-away dinner for the family
Exchange arguments
With the other members

Sunday mornings
Occasional brisk copulation
Both enjoyed it, sometimes

Sunday afternoons
Occasional brisk walks
All enjoyed it, sometimes

Sunday evenings
Snoozing in front of the television
Putting off Monday

He had a three-bed semi
Or was it detatched?
I'm not quite sure
It's unimportant anyway

He had a Ford Focus
Or was it a Rover?
Or was it a Nissan?
Or a Vauxhall?
Or a Toyota?
I'm not quite certain
But it's very important

It had all the extras
That his christmas bonus would allow
Cruise control
Passenger-side airbag
Six-speaker stereo
Electric sunroof
Metallic paint
Alloy wheels
Wood trim
Journey planning computer

It was a Tuesday evening
Or was it a Thursday?
I'm not quite sure
It's unimportant anyway

He left the office early
Or was it late?
I'm not quite certain
It's irrelevant anyway

And he set off on a journey

He sat in his car with pride
Selected his favourite
Adult Orientated Rock CDs
And headed toward home

He passed houses and trees
Children and mopeds
Churches and mosques
Without noticing a single one

He turned left and right
Went throught traffic lights
And around roundabouts
Without thinking at all

The music blandly soothed him
And the car gently cosseted him
Into a happy coma

He drove onwards

Awaking with a start
He suddenly realised
He was in the middle of the road
And had been for quite sometime

Looking blurrily around
Things looked vaguely familiar
But he wasn't sure how he'd got there
Or how to get away

Sweating and panicking
He struggled for air
Loosening his tie
And turning off the journey planning computer

Swerving past screeching cars
He headed for the hills
They'd always been there
He'd just forgotten they existed

Faster and faster
Clear breathing and vision and head
He turned off the music
And sang his own song

In the hills now
He looked in the rearviewmirror
And saw what was behind him
Faster and faster

The tarmac ended
Where the grass began
Faster and faster
He skidded and laughed

The grass ended
Where the lake began
Faster and faster
He jumped and cheered

And as the water seeped in
Through the electric sunroof
And the six-speaker stereo
Started to fry
And as the passenger-side airbag
Inflated

He smiled

He was still smiling in his coffin
When the vicar spoke of him
As a good friend
A loyal son
A loving husband
And a devoted father

And he was still smiling
As his university friends sat stunned
As his parents held hands

As his blonde (or was it brunette?) wife
And his three (or was it two?) children
Bowed their heads
And cried

His name was Colin
Or was it Chris?
I'm not really sure
It's unimportant anyway.

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