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Born in Fleetwood, 1970. Began writing poetry way back in 1994 and had minor recognition in some small press magazines and local poetry events in Cumbria and Derby from 1995 – 1998. In 2000, helped run the University of Derby's Poetry Society, whilst taking an honours degree in English and Creative Writing. Currently, lives in the East Midlands, UK. Poetry is mostly themed around the 1990's . Inspirations: Ted Hughes, Phillip Larkin, Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage, ... Published the first collection of poetry titled: Poems From The International Launderette, in August 2020 on Amazon, to celebrate 25 years of writing. Continues to write and now working on a second collection which deals with how the modern world can make you feel estranged. This collection is about: nostalgia, childhood, and heavy rock music.


Girlfriend cine -drama (1999) (In response to workshop session on Carol Ann Duffy's poem 'Warming her pearls' A theme about love.) She phoned last night, three months worth of history down the line. Complimented me on a script I'd wrote, detailing love, it's oppositions and reversal of fate, well in the characters anyway. Her voice made me want to zoom exterior, cut to house interior, her insides, new exposition for old acquaintance sake. I still smell that perfume, I still taste that kiss, and dream of signing that birth mark, crane angled with my tongue - the one on her right cheek, up a way from her feet. Said she's going to counsel, I feel I need her words. She wants to come and visit, literally too. Bedroom antics were always her speciality. Then the phone fades, I go back to an empty page. *** International Launderette - a Foreign exchange (poem written before the Euro ) How Bold he seemed as he entered the launderette, in a kind of Daz Automatic flow. His eyes soaked up the atmosphere of the place, Conditioning comforts softly as he goes. Big, bad, washing bag swinging to and fro, bulging half swung over his shoulders, with a bounce or two. He pauses. Good! There is no queue. He selects his machine, in which he was to clean his meagre cotton belongings, Poured his powder into the tray above with ariel accuracy, Mixing up with the leftovers of half dissolved sediments, In the compartments from a wash not so long ago. But whose is the question? He exchanges his coins for smaller revenue in which to pursue, this weekly task of endurance on a split-shift afternoon. Then they noticed....and flocked like sheep from the hills. Coming forward for the kill. At first, he didn't mind explaining, but after three to four of em', he was getting sore with detailing the procedures, to all non - townies, locals, or just Brits on their hols. Foreigners and travellers from abroad, bringing their textiles, like on some old silk road: Americans, French, Dutch, and Australians, Germans, Japanese, and Czechoslovakians. All here on business of washing their dirty laundry in public. “How do I change my money?” “What is this space-age machine?” “A mangler for my wranglers?” “How do powder go in here?” “That looks as if it will break.” “How long it take?” All will have time to nip out for a break from the constant humming of the tumblers mumbling, bumbling, and rumbling on. With this he wheels and casually directs them into foreign exchange: Of dollars into soap suds, Yen into removing stains, Lira into permanent press, and Deutschmarkts into removing pains, from last night's puke over-borrowed shirts. Of Francs into bone crisp dryness, of Robles into sweet aroma highness, of pesetas into foamy conclusions, of all international currencies, in all revolving resolutions. After this, he sits absorbing fabric minutes, the passing of time in the wash house, while the seasons hold their sway, and the machines forever turn, as surely as the seasons, in an undetermined exchange. He thinks whilst waiting for the extractor to release its airlock hiss, and stop the damp tight kiss on his jeans. His philosophy is complete, folding up his clothes, packed nice and neat, of washing out his experiences. It makes no difference of who you are, where you're from, As all our dirty water runs together as ONE in the end.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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Vicki Ayers

Mon 18th Jan 2016 16:36

Hi! Thanks for your comment on my profile - I'm thrilled you like my words! I shall take some time to get to know yours! Yes have a trawl through FB obviously there's a lot of cross over - I've only got so much poetry in me ;-) thanks again - Vicki xx

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Stu Buck

Tue 10th Nov 2015 22:56

thanks dave! yes, north wales is bloody lovely. we've been here two years now and i dont thin k we will ever leave. glad you like some of the poetry i put up. i spend a lot of time trawling through the work on here (that makes it seem like hard work, it isnt!) and will now begin my journey into yours.

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