Monthly Archives: January 2013

There are some things I see everyday

Which never get old.

There’s a smoking bus driver who hasn’t learned the year we’re in.

Moustache of steady.

Bald men of shadows, who I have to call human

And the woman in my office, who insists on

Using euphemisms, ‘dirty’, ‘loon’ and ‘passed on’.

I could never imagine her having a conversation

With the 38 year old goth assistant in the shopping centre,

One with the purple hair.

Depressed. I hope not. Born in 1974, she’s had the chance to get out,

And her mummy had already gone

By the time I came along in ’91.

I think she saw my eyes through the glass wall,

Customer and stranger.


There’s a lady I know, she ever gets old

Probably has a depth I can’t access

But she studies to be a professor in gender

And gives her daughter fairy boots and braids

The eyeliner of separation.

She can’t disguise the shape of her face

Anymore than the tree needs a haircut

Dampening the world with chemicals.


I don’t need anyone to tell me

That the smell of god is the must of empty halls,

And the hormones of the minister

Who is sexy for my soul.

It might’ve taken a while

But such things don’t surprise me


And stranger.


A brush of mortality

Visited me in the dead of night.

What if this place were to catch fire?

Which hastened window would I disturb?

Surveying my final scene, I was warmed

By the glow of the city lights,

Resting on the ground as electric plankton on a seabed

And the warm below

Rising, rising

As though the world is a constant marionette

For an indifferent god.


No, no, what may I do to stop this place catching alight?

Helplessness burns

Almost as much as the triviality of our last

Conversation. In the heat of the moment

Deciding our direction, we kissed a passive kiss.

I’ll see you by the rosebuds,

And in your most wistful thoughts…

Cotton consumes,

As I laugh at the ambulance siren in the distance.


Laughter. This was because the last time I saw it,

A German was choking on the street.

He was one of those god made in the image of the


And he and his wife are looking beaming

As tourists feeding off the sweat of the market seller

Thinking words are expendable,

Whilst I’m sitting here accepting the truth.

I am born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.


Let me be reborn a Kaiser

I’ll set the world alight.

Going past the primitive Methodists,

Hair gel smell church when I was young

I talked about how the monks would

Get drunk on the well of ignorance

And the communion wine.

We’d conceded all the lies of religion

And seen what it has done to this place

You said this is where women come to lose their femininity

Post-industrial Northern town

The building contractors nick their essence.

And you also said

You so admired the woman who said ‘the flowers smell sweeter the closer you are to the grave’

And together we worked out the right thing to say after sex.


Agreeing the Swedes would soon reach their full height,

Our brains were molded at the same time

And the order of growing up

Was with you.


Taming ourselves with the indie gigs

The smell of spilt lager

What would we have done if we had to write letters to each other? We have progressed,

So we can muddle through our all-too easy lives

To meet at the pub now and then

Take buses in the name of the environment

And see our friends who work at the Council

And eventually, stop wondering why the church tower looms

So great over our slated roofs.

It’s the building contractors who nick their essence

They could nick yours.

The ease in is smooth, a death of sorts

Joining the rest of the world

Nicked, like the others.

“In reality, we live in a redbrick

But the betting shops are nearby

And the people round here.

It doesn’t make sense with

The Blair Witch Project video

Which I’ve watched too many times

As I keep seeing those girls in town

With the dream-catcher, hand holding, herbal tea

Ways to fool me into thinking that this world is split,

Even if just for a while.

I’m not sure I should be saying this,

But my heart is beating so much at my joy

And my two earlier spliffs,

Or some love that you’ll never quite give

Which makes me sweat.

Sweat in my jumpers, my blazer, short-sleeve shirts

To which I challenge any brave history teacher.

Another winter in Hull.


I walked past the rich houses earlier.

I looked in, saw a man with his feet up,

And wondered if he felt immediate shame

At my hooded cower. It was cold, after all

And then that woman looked into me in that dark bit of the street,

She probably felt threatened.

And then I wanted to pick her up and say how wonderful this night is,

And the true love I have for strangers, because…

Strangers are where love lies. Strangers is the only future.

And I don’t even know if it’s a good idea I’m saying this

But write back soon.”


The man impressed people with correspondence he’d had with the greats.

He had some good years abroad and could be overheard at parties commenting that he

‘Didn’t trust anyone who’d never had some same-sex attraction’, and quips of the like.

He became an English teacher at some point,

And didn’t even realise till he was 50.


The streets look alive


Makes us survive


Happiness won’t end


My secret friend


I’m so happy, I’m so happy

You might’ve had it in your nappy

Constant caffeine made me a man

If you see me wearing fake tan

Click. Bang. Click. Bang.


Serotonin, serotonin

I know I’m nothing new

Serotonin, serotonin

You be happy too,

But how many think of your skeleton bones,

Lying in sleep with pleasurable moans



Creates the moaning

While your body turns to rust

My chemical baby,

Alive dinner lady

The hair-net of lust


Serotonin, serotonin

The ball pit of my day

Serotonin, serotonin

Please don’t go away

Let me have some victory gin

And wrap myself up in your skin

I’m thinking of your skeleton, thin

Happy forever, serotonin.

‘Why do you like her so much?’

‘She’s cool’, I replied.

‘What are we going to do with you’ said the man about thirty years older.

‘I never need to clean the dirt under my nails anymore

When I’m with her I don’t notice pylons

She can sometimes pull off wearing a leather jacket’.

Welcome to Lancashire. Please drive carefully.

I said there exists other worlds out there of daughters wearing their father’s beads, and boys who copy other boys writing and white middle class people who make friends in the Sri Lankan district.

‘’Do you remember when you were four and we found you lying down with the swans at Great Oak Hall lake?” asked thee.

‘She has that memory too’.

She remembers the bright orange lights of the night, and that confusing sadness around your first memory.

I wake up in the morning and I wonder why everything’s the same as it was…

Skeleton flashing.

‘You need to focus on your life really’. Fourth Gear.

When I met her dad, he taught me about the constellations of stars. He doesn’t mind if the door is a little open. He was executive producer once for some band session at Abbey Road.

We think of our childhoods.


When I first saw her, it was a Pret-A-Manger, Lucy Rose, love not lust acquaintance. But she almost cries at ‘Downtown’.

One hour outside of the city. We’ll be happy to live here.

Probably get a small, modern house and I’ll get a job at the power plant, pretend I’m Victorian.

She’s a friend. And we can have cinema outings with others. At the moment, we really like dancing together.


I would never find the words to explain all of what you’re doing wrong. It’s so fundamental, like your gene imprint. The sexual revolution wasn’t set up for just us.

I hope this is what it feels like it is.

We can go and watch pandas together.

Come visit you at Christmas time.

The clocks are spinning backwards now…

We’re just sleeping. The purest art form.

A-romantic, we listen to Pere Ubu

Three quarters of an hour for small talk, patient

Another cup of black coffee, it’s a bit of a false pleasure

As we tiptoe round each other’s verbs

Why do I forget most of what I’ve learnt?

I could stroll the aisle with you in arms, I forget why not


I was the man you liked to call Cash

And I said that I would not crash

And burn, as the heat of our hearts

Yielded something, a rapport worth melding

But I forget most of what I’ve learnt

Whilst you fumble the alarm button, fourth time now

And they finally knock down the plastic works

For the new season


Probably, I like it best when you’re stoned,

We can think of ourselves like children

Playing side guitar in an occasional reggae band,

And not look forward to my driving lessons

Where the teacher is so a-romantic, listening to U2

Marooned from a cocoon, we’ll have to meet new people now

And statements, statements


Of you refusing to buy into the concept of marriage until gay people can get married too

Or your green revolution, half-cute conspiracy theory

Meanwhile I’ve seen the make-up you wear and where it’s from

And I don’t need it.

When our acquaintance comes round, don’t clean the sheets

We’ll have three quarters of an hour small talk

We’re British, after all

Marooned from a cocoon, hurling around the moon

Forgetting again what I’ve learnt.