Early doors paraffins, the usual thing.

Locals lower gaze

as old John shuffles in

with his arthritic hip, 

dribble down his chin.

He drops half a crown

in the Marie Curie tin,

decimal coinage never got to him

and he sups electric bitter


The landlord looks grim,

needs an ego trim,

thinks he's charismatic

but he's just plain dim.

Puts 10p on the ...

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All of our Fathers are dead



You've drunk too much,

don't have another.

You smoke too much,

don't swear at your Mother.

For a hand he raised a glass instead,

now all of our Fathers are dead.


Shave with the grain,

puff your cheeks out like this.

Don't ask what that machine is 

When we go for a piss

For a hand he raised his voice instead

Now all of our Fathers are dead



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Something that you said
'He can't come with us, he's dead'
Stuck with me for decades
It still does.

Your Sister hoiked you shoulder high
Slapped you on her back
We chattered to the local shop
Bought Number 6 for old time's sake.

You mocked my endless misery
And told me 'don't wear black'
In our retro table football game
Played Norman Wisdom at left back

Forced me to dance to...

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They jump from bridges round here,
Get blamed for delaying the traffic,
Tie blooms to the railings and leave them to wither,
to remind us we die if we need to remember.
Three days for the flowers to wilt
One less in the swelt of the summer
Deadheads bow brown in a semblance of grief
For the blood and bone bedlam that played out beneath.

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Deathbed Regrets


You think your legs are chunky,
that I'm a cheeky monkey
for wanting them wrapped round me night and day.
You never say Hail Marys
or thank God for the fairies,
your gait leaves me in awe of things
I'll never touch or hope to bring inside me,
or my house or home,
this thing leaves me sedate, alone
and thank fuck you are not insane,
at least I ...

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I just like art galleries and getting pissed

We have things to make and do, paths to blindly follow

DIY to botch and cock, won't wait until tomorrow

calculus continuum, algebraic formulae

wash the pots, darn your socks, make the fucking tea.

The ladder steps we've climbed the arses that we've kissed

regrets of books we've never read, epic films we've missed

faces never sculpted, the lack of lovers' trysts


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The Daily Mail's our Bible


The air hangs heavy as a Suffolk sow,

they’re Monday morning miserable

those office workers, tripped on time,

drag leaden feet through treacle steps

to tortoise to another desk,

peer over rims at tomb-toothed grins

to listen to the weekend’s sins

that hold no truth or interest.


Grey faces merge with grey on grey,

perspiration circles swirl on poor...

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Men Can't Dance

Men can't dance
But can tread on toes,
Wander pub to pub, whisper wise owl tones
About the latest football signing
And how the kids and a woman's whining
Brought them here to drink.

Men love their kids
But tend to boast
Name their first born son by the same first name
And urge the lad to lay the ghost
of their own poor luck when they came this close

to some meaningf...

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The Pessimist's Song


You’ve got Jonathan Edwards Eyes.

The ones he had when his sight

was blinded by the light,

before his soul was plunged

into eternal darkness.


Some men are at peace not to have in their head

a grandiose plan,

or believe, we’re not dead when we’re



that our wits will stay sharp,

hard work’s not a cage,

that love conquers all


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Song for an unborn child (I never)


I never

saw you come into the world,

or pee into the midwife's eye,

or have your arse smacked merrily

to bring your first breath on, or cry,

or dry your tears, or hide my own,

or feel protective rage come on

when careless strangers crossed your path

in infancy, in innocence;

I never felt the urge to kill, for you;


..saw if your life was colour...

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If I never lie with you

I will never lie to you,

to the casual observer I appear to look through you;

I wear bad luck as baggage

and drink as a badge

I curse every move of that bastard called time

that put beauty in his path

and duty

in mine.


No alabaster

comes close to your skin,

no imperfection can wrench anything

from the butterfly ...

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