T2 will be an egocentric Deja-vu 

T2 will bring back an unfettered hullabaloo. 

T2 will be F.U.B.A.R. and the worst ever S.N.A.F.U. 

T2 will bring back the world's horribilis hairdo. 

T2 will be no ‘nice to be back, how-do-you-do’ 

T2 will guarantee more mis-cued chaos ensues. 

     A sequel will be medieval 

     A sequel will not go peaceful 

     A sequel ...

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This is a secure announcement. If  

you do not hold a valuable   

ticket, you may be issued   

with a Penalty Fare 

or face possible 

persecution. 

See it, slay  

it, sort  

it. 

Due to today's wet weather, please note  

that services may be slippery. 

We are experiencing  

some cankerous delays  

and luggage may be  

terminated.  

See it, slay 

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Each bacon sandwich

shortens life by a minute.

A bargain, perhaps!

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Once I was a pacifist, I was an objector. 

A campaigning reformer, I was a protester.  

Now I’m a radical extremist and snowflake moaner. 

Mob rule wokeist, another social-justice warrior. 

Someone who’s made their point but won’t shut up. 

Prepared to tear society apart, a loon, and a zealot. 

An agitator and disrupter, someone who must be reined in. 

A danger ...

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In the fanfare seasons when we get spoiled,

delight openly weeps.

A change from the usual stress attacks,

brought on by a lack of clean sheets.

Not a tin pot, or F.A. Cup,

or division won in years.

Disappointment sits, stares, and lingers

behind sunken red eyes and blue tears.

Elegantly euphoric promotions,

and grandiose upsets,

take centre stage with stella...

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Profligate words loose

on the door of the British Library Bookshop.

‘Shop Now Open’, 

a toxic affront to the pedantic poetic diaspora,

and mobiliser of minds to make the words clearer.

‘Shop Open’ or ‘Open Shop’,

an improvement, but still pointless to the picky,

who righteously say it’s stating the bleeding obvious.

‘Shop Now’ or worse, ‘Now Shop’,

are ...

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A.I. is a saviour and the new soccer sleuth,

here to solve online searches for footballing truth.

So, is the Golden Boot made of real gold?

Can a 47-year-old be trusted to play well in goal?

Did Hungary once feature Bela Lugosi?

Does just turning up get you a World Cup trophy?

How did Scotland qualify for the Euros?

Will there be more dancing in the streets of M...

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We’ve reached a tipping point, one destined to accelerate our demise.

These self-obsessed in-fights will bring obliteration to our kind.

We must rebel to stop extinction, demand courageous government action.

Only a reset and full intervention will save us from ecocide oblivion.

We face a mass wipeout, a countrywide loss of bio-strength.

Brought on by public disbelief, w...

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Why does he keep us? When will we ever be heard? What’s the point of filling these shelves? Packed, prominent but inert. 

We’ve become part of the furniture, when once we were front and centre. The most invested thing in the room, his entire world, his very epicentre.

He used to pour over our gatefolds, stare as we spiralled round, carefully replace us in our sleeves, introduce us to his new...

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Once I was an objector, I was a pacifist.

Once I was a protestor, I was an abolitionist.

Once I was a demonstrator, I was a militant.

Once I was an opposer, I was a dissident.

Once I was an activist, I was a picketer.

Once I was a nonconformist, I was a dissenter.

Now I’m a snowflake-worrier, an enemy-within extremist.

A social-justice warrior, must I be made a conformist.

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You dismiss us as the tofu eating wokerati,

the triple cooked, brioche bun, bake off obsessives,

and all-seeing blobby illuminati.

Make out we are the economic establishment glitterati,

who obstruct brave striver neo-conservatives,

the dangerous tofu eating wokerati.

But we the challenge; and alerted chatterati,

and the latte drinking buttermilk progressives

stand...

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Commuters pirouette,

and trade positions, in

dance off thousands

on London stations.

Tourists saunter in

markets and shops,

while busy workers

improv, move,

and never stop.

Mamils hygge

in Lycra clothes,

aim their bikes

to rumba

right over your toes

and samba,

swing, and jive, to

skim potholes and

the slow shuffle

of the c...

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The whiff of death,

party’s over, this

technicolour decline

needs a makeover.

Leaves gone acrid,

red, white and

blue blossoms

turned rancid brown.

Red and yellow

spots emerging,

a bloated assemblage

is rotting down.

Unkempt and

maggoty,

extremities

have putrefied.

And desperate

deadheads cling on,

won’t give up

on cal...

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We the people,

live on the edge

of knowledge

built by human endeavour.

Expertise

to embrace,

enrich,

not scorn.

You claim wisdom 

ignore experts,

you born again

alternative

converts.

I can’t believe 

I’m reduced 

to refuting 

your nonsense.

Just thought

I’d let you know,

fuckwits.

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Great Britain is being (choose one or more):

invaded / stormed / assisted / visited / colonised / seen as a safe haven

by another:

fleeing group / flood / hurricane / astronomical number / vulnerable gathering / economically motivated gang

of:

asylum seekers / Illegals / migrants / refugees / criminals & rapists / displaced people

hailing from:

Europe / Africa / Middle East /...

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I like to be in Afghanistan.

Okay for me in my own Sudan.

I like to be one team Iran.

I like to play in peace when I can.

I like to be safe, without war.

Bring it right on, early doors.

I like to play, win, and score.

I like to be welcome on your shore.

Bullets for me, not in Hertfordshire.

Jumpers for goalposts, yes in Yorkshire.

No penalty kicks in Shropsh...

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A tense game played out at top volume.

Weeds three feet high,

make tidy play almost impossible.

A pass back short, away from the defender.

A collective lunge,

the ball skids high over our keeper.

Next thing I know I’m flat on the floor, 

water flying, books, electronics, 

in upended uproar. 

My desperate kick to save one for the team, 

caused me to cras...

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I can go miles 

with someone believing in me.

So, speak into existence, 

those words I need.

I’m not kidding,

or play acting a pose,

this isn’t a hobby,

it’s me you see, exposed.

My time is here, and

I don’t want to stop.

Give me that shout,

dissolve my doubts.

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Writing for a friend here…

He knows early morning wake ups,

     measures life in coffee cups.

He knows brunch time habitats,

     gauges wealth in catch-up chats.

He knows evening drink delights,

     treasures life in plentiful pints. 

He knows routine late lock-ins,

     taxes his crumbling self-discipline.

He knows nighttime wide awake,

  ...

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Hear me out for one sec.

Limit is mine, 

I’ll keep it quick.

My hinterland’s given in,

given up, 

gone to the skip.

I’m sticking to three thoughts a day,

much less than you think.

And still, 

I vow to be,

more minimalist than succinct.

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My gouty foot

shouts doubt at night,

turns up the pain

if I don’t eat right. 

Warming comfort

isn’t enough, to amuse 

my grumbling

two-bit hoof.

My broken big toe

won’t let go.

Keeps telling me off

for its creaky woes. 

It’s my fault

for this sorry state,

should’ve skipped the tackle,

pulled out too late.

My gallbladder

was a c...

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Poem scribbled into my phone

   is my best and new number one.

Can’t believe I’m so in the zone,

   where in space did that come from?

Hit me with extraordinary pace,

   ideas strident, in avalanche flow,

   filling the bright white open space,

   the right words set up to glow.

Me witness to growing perfection,

   and conduit without choice.

Happens so rare...

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There was talk of train trips

     and long-distance walks.

There was talk of mountains

     and open water sports.

There was talk of eating wild

     with and without forks.

There was talk of the pub

     and stopping for shorts.

There was talk of diary strain

     and see after vacations.

There was talk of cash constrain

     and deferred decisions.

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   the 1950’s.

But I spent 

   4 months and,

   15 days,

   living in the 1950’s. 

At least I’m told I did.

My parents got me there,

   before moving

   to the 1960’s.

All I know

   of the 1950’s,

   is grainy,

   distant,

   and black and white.

Dad quiffed,

   Mum elegant,

   caught happy,

   in...

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We’ll eat well when one of us goes,

when Paul passes, when Dave no shows.

We’ll eat well when it's Tony’s turn,

chicken drumsticks, sausages nice and burnt.

Bring out the quiche,

bring out the pork pies,

cold rice salads and lots of fries.

We eat good when someone dies.

We’ll miss friends when the next time comes,

yearn for their company and gone wisdom.

We’...

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The Vauxhall Cavalier

parked in the gap,

but gently ticked over,

while police shifted people

nearer the attack,

an unintended blunder.

You wonder

if the troubles are done,

but men hurrying back

across fields

to a waiting vehicle,

aren’t two lovers on the run.

Peace gone again,

another letdown.

An unearthly bang,

an eeriness,

a darknes...

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You know what’s wrong

with NHS target times,

they need to take tips

from recipes online.

Where nothing’s

difficult or complex

to achieve.

Three ingredients

and ten minutes

is all you’ll need.

Ready in a flash,

easy to fling together.

A scalpel, a doctor

and hey presto,

the patient

gets better.

Easy as pie,

easy on the eye.

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I am sorry to announce, 

but my long awaited

HS2 poem 

has been branded

‘unachievable’,

and is at risk

of not coming out.

Successive

brutish reviews 

say it won't deliver

soon, and

a poetic replan

should cut the

quatrains to haikus.

My sonnets

run obsolete,

villanelles

don’t complete,

and the limerick (below)

is the only...

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We don’t talk much

beyond the weather,

but we can talk football 

forever and ever.

Drive into the box,

mark the man in space,

a shared language, we

can kick all over the place.

Your personal terms met. 

Time for a fresh dawn. 

Our commentary box quiet,

your armchair view gone.

Our home game ended, 

and there’s no time added on.

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Based on the words of Mick Lynch, leader of the Rail, Maritime, & Transport Workers Union. Also the words of one Richard Madeley. Written in rhyme royal format (ababbcc).

Mick Lynch, are you a Marxist,

   into revolution,

   and bringing down the capitalists?

No, I’m leading a dispute about working conditions,

   and opening an interview with that, is a nonsense position.

Ri...

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Take the second exit,

not the one which suits.

Did I not make it clear,

proceed to the route. 

I know which way’s best,

to complete a commute.

So, do what I ask you,

proceed to the route.

What is the point, when

we live in dispute.

This shouldn’t be so hard,

proceed to the route.

Or switch me off, 

this unwanted control.

Go on, I dare you.

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This is in response to JD Russell’s 'Naught Nonet' poem: Naughty Nonet | Write Out Loud

Pretty isn’t so principal,

more they gotta be practical,

made for a proper fit,

durable and comfortable.

Call them what you please,

underdaks, or even grundies.

Maybe pants or kecks,

or possibly plain old undies.

Trunks don’t excite,

lumpen, dull and slight.

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A friend took my football memorabilia 

to a better place, another the CDs I never play, 

and the charity shop have the books I’ve read, 

plus, the ones I hadn’t got to yet.

A decorator finished all my jobs, the garden’s

paved with a plastic lawn, the car's been

replaced with my Oyster account, and the

shopping arrives daily in small amounts.

I’ve digitalised every...

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Yes I did see the latest Indiana Jones...

  Indiana Jones and the never-ending franchise train,

  Indiana Jones and the nazis have come back again.

  Indiana Jones and the new de-ageing technologies, 

  Indiana Jones and the glowing commercial opportunities. 

  Indiana Jones and the implausible car chase scenes,

  Indiana Jones and the guns that never do anything. 

 ...

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I’ll catch you on the information super highway,

where the history of the future is written.

A world-wide wonder created for today,

they say our future is data driven.

If the history of the future is to be written,

this motor of modern society is the place.

Human destiny will be data driven,

in the digital networked cyberspace.

The motor of modern society is the ...

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Lack of quality in the final third,

is the one phrase I wish I’d never heard.

Trotted out by pundits lost for words,

the useful and useless so casually blurred.

Quality player, quality ball,

Peter please stop, we’ve heard them all.

When City don't score, they hardly ever win,

Michael, cheers for stating the bleeding obvious thing.

Why if a player hits the ball too...

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Thinking about the times

we spent chatting in the pub,

thinking I might have talked

just a bit too much,

and I'm thinking about

how I blew a chance forever.

Thinking about the time

you could have spent in my heart,

but we never got together

or made a real start,

thinking about the you

I never got to know better, and

even though we could

have...

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My cluttered chaos is full

of every obsession I’ve ever met,

filled up in every safe place

and angular dark recess.

Furnished with retired vinyl,

CD’s and used up books. Featuring

the songs and subjects

that grabbed me with their tender hooks.

Memorabilia revealing

my secret space of dreams

with no dividing walls

and awkward ceiling beams.

Diffi...

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