Category Archives: Poetry

alley rats

smoking by the biffa bins;
piss wet through
us and the rats
down the alley behind boots

the curls of blue smoke
bury themselves in our clothes
and your hair bedraggled
burns a graven image

never it remains
now too long ago
you stay in our smoky alley
out of reach forever
as present as weather



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Hay Fever

concentrating hard on nothing
sweaty flesh      aching muscles

no memory of words
only basic landforms

corn field       barbed wire fence
trees           distant a desire path

follow it out               grassy blur

city boy more than ever
in pungent country air

folding tissues this way     that
longing to be back in the natal

heart of red brick    grey concrete
wandering wet tarmac streets

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We are all damaged goods

Find beauty in damaged things;
watch a bird with broken wings
that in a sad tone loudly sings
and to you its soul it brings.

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Grey Box

A grey box on the edge of town,
Some corners straight up and down,
Inside there could be anything,
The facade is faceless and unrevealing.

It could house a house for a mouse,
A rat for a cat or some tat for a twat,
Most likely the latter the cat is not fatter,
Sat beside a lorry guarding some matter.

Over time the grey box multiplied,
A blue one a yellow one loads I spied,
While all the shops on the street closed
And the candlestick maker cried.

One day I saw inside the grey box,
When I crept as cunningly as a fox,
What I saw to this day still shocks,
A box sat on top of a box,
Sat beside a box…

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Some Horses

Some horses wandered
back and forth unhindered,
across a farmers field
under pylons chained.

Nothing much else happened
when the train stopped
on the outskirts of Minehead,
bar the horses being intrigued
by the presence of a weed
beside their lush field.

Most passengers just read
while the horses advanced,
the chance to see them spurned,
the printed word prefered
to the real world,
visible if they turned.

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Lonely Cow

Beyond the pane
of a packed train,
a lonely cow
sat in solitude
in a field.

Separated from the other
slack-jawed fat cattle,
crowded around the gate,
mindlessly grouped to wait,
discussing the latest trait,
hoping not to be late.

Making a break for it
the lonely cow stood up,
came over to the train
and stared in for a while
at the herd in their pen,
munching away, groaning.

I gorped at the cow
now sat back down
content having a think,
while the train remained
delaying our slaughter;
murder me now
lucky cow.

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Rubbing hard on crusty eyes
footsteps and voices nearby,
the sun already streaming in and
the smell of bacon wafting over,
piecing things together slowly;
in my grimy clothes I lay
with a chronic lack of saliva.

A sleeping bag covering a girl,
bar the head and pale bare shoulder,
open mouthed, hair curled across her,
fresh faced and serene beside,
in the light now dropping through,
not stirred from her sleep but sweaty,
I left her to her dreams exiting quietly,
wanting to stay but unable to,
stumbling over debauchery;

fag ends, baggies, vomit, empties,
a cup of rancid ash on burnt grass,
playing cards strewn with shit scraps
in splayed polystyrene takeaway trays,
screaming kids with pushy parents,
communal bogs and a hose ten feet off
to sear away the sheen of gear my eyes amass
when days elapse between sleep and wake –
the remnants of my decrepit life,
bits and pieces and loose ends,
increment by increment,
since the day I woke in that tent.

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