Summer slow day

and smiles are hard

to give, where nothing

is said and done.

We cannot find new

ways to triumph,

where joy is staring at us

as if an alien.

Bloody England.

A belief in historical

fiction, where three boys

kicking balls are to blame.

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You can say the word, love,

until it loses all meaning.

‘I love you this

and I love you that.’

But, it is in the doing.

The action of the word.

Love must be felt in flight.

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I was telling Gareth
only last night about
the convenience
of having my weekly 
bus ticket on my phone.

He said that I had made
a sensible choice. 

He was also pleased
that I make myself 
a sandwich for my lunch. 
Although he suggested
the occasional Scotch Egg.

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Frank on Parole
after Tom Waits

Frank despairs at the untuned ukulele.  
The solitary instrument of desperate men. 

He’s up next with poems dipped in petrol. 
His ex-wife hasn’t shown up just yet. 

So, Frank reignites those old spirits –
all Halloween orange and chimney red.

That godammed heartbroken ukulele player –
still weeping for Tammy Wynette. 

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From one of those days

that you wouldn’t feed

to a mangy, starving dog.

                          To one of those nights

                          where that same little dog

                          gnaws dry on a skinny old bone.

Knowing all too well it's one

of those bones that you’ll

have to learn to walk without.

       ...

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If I ask you whilst our sun
drops – dripping its bleed
into a brown-loathed sea
what the worst words are.

You will perhaps shrug your
shoulders – look at your shoes.
It’s not, I don’t love you.
It’s not even, I hate you.

I will say the worst words –
when all is red and rusted –
when the tide retreats to reveal 
the shells of us will be, I don’t care.

Perhaps you’d tighten those l...

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From Dewsbury Moor to New Orleans,

Frosty Jack, Romanian Bourbon. 

Filleted skunk swooned upon a breeze,

all mustard lit in white urban.

We rage hard on tongue come toothless codes.

Offer kisses then ball up our fists.

Short odds between a frog and a toad.

You’re either torn or crossed off our list.

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The diggers at Black Cross
waiting for grief that climbs
its reason hilltop bound.

Sting of the hot funeral tear -
cold rain on wild-red curly hair.
Yes. She’d drink the cinema of this.

The waltz of born bluebells,
a stalled train before the tunnel.
Bending this season to her end.

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It’s early evening. I’m meeting
a man to discuss iambic.

He offers a drink and I refuse.
He asks why not, of course. 

I say one will lead to another.
Then to cocaine - then to crack.

Then to heroin. 
Then to black.

Let’s discuss iambic, I say.
My parameters are pentameter. 

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It all began so very well
on this blossomed Easter Day.
Which led to a misunderstanding - 
in a quietened, difficult way.   
 
Tiptoeing the Pacific shoreline,
Hannah gripped her black plastic locket.
Showed him all her sacred stories 
that were hidden within her pockets. 
 
A plastic six-legged spider,
a chewed Chewbacca pencil. 
A love letter from the tiny boy, 
her dreams of b...

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