Tired beyond words at the end of another day
ruminating on a glass half empty, 
counting memories in faulted silence,
over exhausted waiting for dreams 
between memories of different lifetimes
of different jobs and roles 
before being starved of work
and having to fight for a new role
over and over and over
before finally finding something
after nothing but struggles, 
waiting for the s...

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My brother says he knows a tiger named Spike,
Who rides around town on a small, shiny bike.
Speeding past McDonald's with grace,
Spinning through the library's space,
With a smile that astonishes all creatures alike.

(For International Tigers Day yesterday)

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I still dream of their tiny, starved faces in Rio
huddled together in a frightened procession 
underneath white plastic sheets in dirt fled streets
and kicked wildly into the back of piss stained vans.

Bus journeys and hiding underneath seats
when bullets laced the bus whenever
it stopped for a few seconds longer
than it should have in the wrong neighbourhood.

Parties across the coas...

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(I can be like this sometimes minus Amanda, my wife with timekeeping)

***

Always late, but always arrives with a huge apology.

Not once or twice, he’s just made it a bad habit.

Dreams of being prompt, but always get delayed

Yet insists when he arrives, he will be better next time.

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Andy continues to fight with diabetes
while I wish he could stand in forests,
watching the tangerine glow from trees
carry across the sunset,
and throw sticks across the river,
watching the wind bounce them off the stones,
casting memories further back
then old age allows.

Andy continues to struggle with dyspraxia
while searching for a new day job,
while I wish he could laugh at life a...

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This poem should have not been written in the first place. 

This poem should being have something else.

This poem is different from its original meaning.

This poem is on fire when it should have been a spark. 

This poem should have been deleted or worded differently.

This poem should have been not collected or mistranslated. 

This poem should have been left as a sentence.

This...

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Unsure briefly whether it was Winter or Spring,
the rain comes down unexpectedly like a rhythmic song,
leaving Chorlton Bookshop, footsteps sing
running past Lloyds, across the road I rush along.

Glass on the Bus stop broke, no haven from the rain,
Other shops shut early, an blurry scene unfolds
No other places to hide what once did reign,
waiting for the bus, memories stir.

Ghostly qu...

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Face down in the water, she was found, unknown,

a mystery shrouded in the middle of Chorlton's grace,

No name breathed out, no story to call her own,

her life lost in a fleeting, haunted trace,

Lime-green top, drifting in endless sleep,

jeans covered in watery hue lay tragically still,

A tragic tale over the banks, sorrows deep

her mystery longers, pushing against our will.

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I'm on the Poetry Podcast 'Poetry Non-Stop' today, thanks to Patrick for featuring me which I of course do sneak in a reference to my novel 'Birth'

https://soundcloud.com/user-821268013/andy-n-poetry-in-all-places

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Last night you appeared in my dreams.

Back when we still spoke before you died.

And you were sat there at Cathy’s crying.

“Nobody cares, nobody cares.

If I dropped drop dead tomorrow”,

Blindfold at the edge of the water

Over and over absently to yourself

Carrying your washing to your ex’s

And a peddle in your tongue.

When I told you I thought you had Diabetes.

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Three years after we last spoke, 
Lost in Christmas gossip 
Whether your Nephew 
Would get into what you had got him
On the way home from the cinema,
You walked past us on the bus
Fumbling in the darkness 
For the change in your pockets.

Three years after we last spoke, 
Buried in the shadows of your coat,
You stared down unable to look up,
Until you got off at your ex-girlfriend's
A...

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