My fourth book of poems 'more bees bigger bonnets' came out early in 2015, and was positively reviewed on this website, on Louder Than War, and by Tax Research UK(!) among others. The title gives a massive clue about my interests (I write a lot of political poetry) and my attitude (presenting it with a sly sense of humour). I've been writing and performing for a long while, and have performed all over the country, in pubs, clubs, and at festivals. You can see the kind of thing I do by visiting the video page on my website. Caffè Nero and Starbucks are big fans of my work.... Honest. ;-) Finally, I'm always interested in standing up in front of a new audience, if anyone's offering. I'm passionate about the power of poetry to shape people's lives for the better. And I'm in no way a diva. cheers Steve
13th floor. And I remember him opening the door saying Come in, make yourself at home. Wanting to show it off, like you do with a new place. And walking into a big, bare lounge, not a stick of furniture in it, just a mustard-coloured carpet and a view out over Leeds. Thinking Shit, that’s depressing thank god I don’t live here. But knowing what it means to him. Him putting stuff away in the kitchen pulls 2 litres of martini, 12 cans of brew from the shopping bags, saying Well I cut a bit loose at the weekends. Pulls a can of glue from the bottom, sees my face, says Only a can a day now used to be six or seven. Me thinking jesusfuckingchrist. And no smack at all, he says, rolling his sleeves way up past home-made tattoos that spell glasgow. See? No tracks. And him asking What’ll it be? Brew? Glue? Martini? Me saying No, really. Him thinking I was trying to be polite and me thinking It’s a quarter to ten in the fucking morning. Showing me round: bathroom, bedroom, toilet, look! I’ve got a cupboard. Me saying Yeah. That’s great. And back in the lounge him handing me a letter. Saying I wrote to the blood people see if I could give. Told them no more needles just a little bit of glue, nothing like I used to do. and me seeing someone’s written to him personally, saying Sorry. No we can’t but thanks for the offer, all the best and good luck. And I look up and he’s grinning and scratching his head, happy and embarrassed and full of hope, and after everything he’s been through still so innocent, which you don’t really think of with junkies. And me knowing the odds are stacked way, way against him, that the walls will close in or the DSS will forget to treat him like a human being, and wanting to give him a huge great hug and tell him Steve, I am so fucking proud of you So he might remember when the time comes. And him unscrewing the martini, levering the lid off the can of glue. The moment gone. And me going back down in the lift, out to the dogshit and the broken glass, hoping against hope he has a chance. Him gazing out the window over Leeds, watching the lights dance.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Haiku for the Tory voter (a lament) (24/05/2020)
Going Viral (with Teflon Dom) (24/05/2020)
the punch that never was (10/12/2019)
The Royal Mint rides again! (31/10/2018)
Complex mathematics, Oldbury (09/02/2018)
these winter days (12/12/2016)
A Poem In Which The Author Considers The Public Pronouncements Of Theresa May’s Conservative Govt On The Vexed Issue Of Europe From Her Accession In July 2016 Through To October Of The Same Year. (11/10/2016)
In the spirit of Leona... (04/04/2016)
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