Screech
The screech of rubber
and he hit him like a bad boxer,
broken bumper and three-starred
GTA.
I was omnipresent
but I didn’t get
the numberplate.
It happened like a shipwreck –
they circled like a vulture
and took away the whiplashed
forever burning brake-pads,
no cops, no green, no
nothin’ but the gaslight.
It all happened in
the midsummer moribund
broken-carred regret
of Friday night
night-life.
Indefinitely
This is a real bad city
full of crazies
and between the drugs and the booze and the sex
there’s nothing to e-mail home about.
Mother turned 49 this year
and I’m living away from home
with a real job, this time.
And there’s a real bad place in this city
that I haven’t managed to find;
it’ll be out there somewhere,
like we all are.
I cut my hair short for the summer,
looked presentable at weddings,
prepared for a first and perfect pitch.
I sang songs along the motorway.
But it’s a real bad city
for my real bad posture,
slouching in the sunshine smoking cigarettes
‘til someone send me home.
I read the one true poet
and make a start on the Stella.
Natwest
Couldn’t peel a banana with their eyes open,
Couldn’t drink a glass of water.
Couldn’t manage money if he were a footballer.
Couldn’t make a hyena smile.
Tell you what though,
they’re pretty good at
stealing my money…
The House of Nations
Bobbie dressed to kill
Alex and Simon
who ran bars like rappers’
Christmas presence.
One girl,
with mismatched tits and spiderweb leggings
dropped a cigarette in to the road
and refused to pick it up again.
I know people
‘cause people are always the same
but I could talk about that
forever.
Meanwhile,
in the urinals,
I wonder why the hell
I piss so quickly;
I’ll be washing my hands
while you’re still shaking.
This is public relations.
A Child’s Drawing
In the gutter,
rolled in to a jet black cone
with two gold stars
peeling from the paper.
It’s raining
outside the pub,
the smokers smoke and cough
cradling death with one hand
and an iPhone 4 with the other –
a cassette tape case.
One woman smokes it like a pencil;
I’m on my way home.
The rain’s falling fast,
cars roll by and splash
me with
oil and dirt;
the drivers stare
at me and not the road,
whispering my memos.
They’re building new houses
Across the road –
I wonder who’ll move in.
Honey, I’m coming home.
The screech of rubber
and he hit him like a bad boxer,
broken bumper and three-starred
GTA.
I was omnipresent
but I didn’t get
the numberplate.
It happened like a shipwreck –
they circled like a vulture
and took away the whiplashed
forever burning brake-pads,
no cops, no green, no
nothin’ but the gaslight.
It all happened in
the midsummer moribund
broken-carred regret
of Friday night
night-life.
Indefinitely
This is a real bad city
full of crazies
and between the drugs and the booze and the sex
there’s nothing to e-mail home about.
Mother turned 49 this year
and I’m living away from home
with a real job, this time.
And there’s a real bad place in this city
that I haven’t managed to find;
it’ll be out there somewhere,
like we all are.
I cut my hair short for the summer,
looked presentable at weddings,
prepared for a first and perfect pitch.
I sang songs along the motorway.
But it’s a real bad city
for my real bad posture,
slouching in the sunshine smoking cigarettes
‘til someone send me home.
I read the one true poet
and make a start on the Stella.
Natwest
Couldn’t peel a banana with their eyes open,
Couldn’t drink a glass of water.
Couldn’t manage money if he were a footballer.
Couldn’t make a hyena smile.
Tell you what though,
they’re pretty good at
stealing my money…
The House of Nations
Bobbie dressed to kill
Alex and Simon
who ran bars like rappers’
Christmas presence.
One girl,
with mismatched tits and spiderweb leggings
dropped a cigarette in to the road
and refused to pick it up again.
I know people
‘cause people are always the same
but I could talk about that
forever.
Meanwhile,
in the urinals,
I wonder why the hell
I piss so quickly;
I’ll be washing my hands
while you’re still shaking.
This is public relations.
A Child’s Drawing
In the gutter,
rolled in to a jet black cone
with two gold stars
peeling from the paper.
It’s raining
outside the pub,
the smokers smoke and cough
cradling death with one hand
and an iPhone 4 with the other –
a cassette tape case.
One woman smokes it like a pencil;
I’m on my way home.
The rain’s falling fast,
cars roll by and splash
me with
oil and dirt;
the drivers stare
at me and not the road,
whispering my memos.
They’re building new houses
Across the road –
I wonder who’ll move in.
Honey, I’m coming home.
