I Can’t See Past Friday

I can’t see past Friday and neither can you it seems,

‘we’ve been here before’,

the comments read,

scrolling disappointment.

Things can only get better,

or get worse,

it’s all so black and white.

Orange says that red can’t win here,

and blue doses the countryside.

Wipe my conscience on the mat at the front door of the polling station.

Because that’s what passes for democracy.

Enjoy the five seconds ,

tick the box.

I can dream of what might happen,

hope is bothering to vote.

besides,

its payday on Friday.

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Three Little Words

Parkbench
Three little words whisper
through black, white and
red lines of enquiry.
In idle gossip at the corner shop,
on buses , streets and park benches.
Three little words enable
ignorant , rich thieves
to get away with murder
and keep them ensconced in
gilded rooms and green benches.
Three little words frighten
carers, shopworkers and cleaners
into foggy bubbles of flat thinking,
thinking, they’re lucky
Thats not them sleeping on city centre benches.
Three little words define
success as not being on the street,
in the jobcentre or at the foodbank.
Success means looking down,
not up or around.
Three little words belittle,
hope, faith and charity.
If backs are to the wall,
hope , faith and charity become
pragmatism, fear and mistrust.
 
Could Be Worse
Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

3 Songs; A memoir

I’m fourteen years old, my Grans mate clocked me drinking beer in the park below the pit heap, she say’s if you’re going to go drinking , you do it in the pubs. So, off to the constitutional club I go for snowballs with me Granda. To the Catholic club I go with My uncle Ken where people buy me brandy, to the Top House with my Uncle Brian.

The Top House is  global instituion, its a shit hole and back in the day frequented by East Durham MCC, which played host the the annual ‘shit house door rally’ festival on land owned by the local butcher just outback.

Know one’s care’s I’m underage, but if anyone put a hand on me…

One night I stroll in by myself , all short black shirt and white blouse, order half a cider and I hear this opening bass. I’m immediately obsessed with the harshness of it, because I recognize it. Stock , Aiken and Waterman ruled the airwaves but some how , Metallic found a way.

1993; I’m doing a bullshit sports and recreation course at college, I was good at sport but found myself in a class of people I didn’t understand (story of my life). I go to the canteen and see the coolest looking people, goths, indie kids all crouched together on a couch debating something. A vending machine is close by them so I make out I’m hankering for scampi fries and listen in. They argue about the lyrics , I know the lyrics because Virgin radio just launched and played the entirety  of ‘Automatic for the people’, they look like folk who wouldn’t mind a smart arse. They didn’t.

 

2000. I’ve seen the millennium in, kicked my drunken uncles out of me Gran’s house , because I’m 5’6 and tower over everyone. I wearing a nice dress and heels, played up to the camera.Two days earlier I was at the Top House, my ex has hooked up already, I do the whole ‘I’m infuriated shit’ in the bogs with with the woman in question, but then I realise , I’m not the loser here, I didn’t want any of this, you have it.

I look round, nothing is familiar to me, what the actual fuck is going on?4th of July came on. The familiar dark bass , I know dark bass, I know fancy words and somehow I know. different .

Hush little baby don’t say a word

Coming in to wake her up

Once asleep but now I stand

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Screensaver

Tracy

In the background of our lives ,

there’s always a Tracy.

We don’t bother to question her back story ,she’s there,

When we need her to mind the bar, she’s there.

She nods and understand as we vent,

and stays a constant.

Constant, safe in the knowledge that years will pass

and she’s still there.

We’ll never question why,

until,

she’s given her marching orders.

You’re sure she can’t march

and thats what get’s you mad.

She’s a bus Driver, the landlady who bosses you around

at the local.

The busibody, the old crone buying twenty benson at the corner shop.

Not important in anyway,

until they’re gone.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Version

I liked her when she recited ‘the sidewinder sleeps tonight’.

I liked her when she decided she was in the wrong place,

and took a plane out.

I liked her when she decided not to steal fifty grand from a dealer.

I liked her when she decided not to bother asking for real names.

I liked her when she made friends on the internet

and made friends in RL.

I like when she stood and spoke ,all gowned up.

I like when her friends smeared fake blood on themselves,

best birthday ever.

I like when she dumped the seemingly, perfect bloke.

I liked her.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Week 2: Journeys

The nurse swipes a card and the door opens

I see a view of Oxford I hate through the window.

Its not fair.

I summon the lift

and a small dumpy woman appears.

The lift is open and I press the button

The woman asks me where i’m going

‘out’ I say.

She sighs.

Apparently G isn’t what I want,

I’m on LG2,

I want 0

she tells me,

she’s just off for a coffee.

I remember holding the door earlier for her

without looking back.

I’m embarrassed and say

I’ve only been here twice,

she says,

It’s just the beginning for her.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Pat my arse phillip Schofield

I bought a book with prompts , I’m late to the party but here goes:

Resolutions are bullshit in a world of downward spiral.

My tax credits will not match triple inflation,

my white face won’t reassure a woman in a hijab,

men are more likely to call me a cunt than a comrade.

I should do yoga,

lose weight, tone, get some collegen,

eat raw, eat like a refugee, eat live de  Asda,

pat my arse Philip Schofield,

I didn’t buy prosecco this year.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Deadly, Delicate- Poems by Kate Garrett.

15443206_10210560938554692_7104936065643844330_oDeadly , Delicate is a new release from Kate Garrett , a Sheffield poet who founded a motley crew of a webzine called Picaroon. The subject matter therefore is about historical pirates, specifically Women pirates.Anne Bonny and Grace O’Malley  amongst others are richly brought to life in a readable ,transparent  fashion.

Readable, because there’s no fancy language, we are transported from what happened , to a moment which Garrett imagines  changed their lives.

Transparent , because at the end of the book there is a glossary , appendix and notes on some of the peoms at the back and full disclosure that she is an amatuer historian on the subject.

Who doesn’t like historical pirates? The imagining of freedom and camaraderie against the forces of ‘legalisation’?The outsider that goes for it despite the odds?

I’m no expert on poetry at all, but I’d gladly give this collection to a poetry shy friend.

Buy Deadly , Delicate here

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Battle

An invisible anaconda took hold of me around 4.30pm

It was sneaky.

I ignored it and carried on with the ironing

until I could no longer deny that

the anaconda was squeezing me at

regular intervals,

every five minutes.

It pressed on whilst doctors talked,

midwives hushed

and ten trainee doctors gawped.

The anaconda bit away rational thought

as it prepared its finally assault.

In a final bid to dull the beast,

I breathed in gas and air

the beast struck back by

ejecting the contents of my stomach

wrapping itself around my body

squeezing ever harder until

my body violently twitched

arms striking out,

mouth,shouting profanities.

The snake then shot through my body like

lightening and exited

and left my body with the nose of a wolf,

the cunning of a fox

and the strength of a bear.

My hands shake with adrenaline

as I wash off the blood.

my breasts contract and leak out milk

when I hear primal battle cries from the rooms.

The nurse urges me to take the brown pills

but the drug is no match for my body.

A tattoo begins to hum through me;

Where’s the baby? Where’s the baby?’.

The nurse relents and points the way

to a special room full of

babies that look like wizened old men

hooked up to machines.

My new wolf nose sniffs her out.

My cunning heart tells me

not to love her yet.

My body moves of its own accord

every day up the hill

brain is frozen

bland smile for the nurses

breasts squeezed and pumped

by an old fashioned machine.

The baby is in a glass case.

Fingers itch to touch her

but brain says no, not yet.

Other Mums cry

but the tears won’t come until

the end

of this ordeal.

Brain orders these visits

into four hour shifts of

climb,

pump,

sit.

Stomach has shrunk back to size

no-one can tell of the ordeal.

A blur of time passes.

and then then it’s time

to sync body to brain

and take the baby home

and start to love it.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Remember, Remember,

The filth of November,

cheap deals on fireworks at Asda

and telling your kids,

no, we can’t go to the fireworks,

cos it costs to much.

Gunpowder paid for by you,

thanks to corporate welfare.

Your time is worth nothing

and the revolution has been

euthanized .

Sanitized,

so we all look the same,

a  white bloke with a moustache.

A mask they manufacture

in suicide dormitories in China.

But we’re united they say,

and pull up on reddit threds.

They fail to see what masks are for.

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment