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.


its payday on Friday.


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Three Little Words

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
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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


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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,


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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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