Taking The Safe

Four men:
A combined age of 270-odd.
Where’s my medication?
I’m taking my dog.

Don’t fall asleep at the-
You just did. We’ll meet at the pub.
It’s gonna be big.

No messing-
Nowadays they’ve got CBTV.
Alright. Just listen to me.

In with a drill. The wires’ll trip.
Your hip up to this?
Ha ha.
Watch your lip.

No masks. No guns.
We’re taking the safe.
(I’ll scarf up, in case)
They won’t see your face.

It’ll be just like-
What did you say? Who’s that? A guard?
Let’s give him away.

Lovely. He’s gone.
Now get through the hole.
(Chuckle) Remember when-
Not now. Go.

Dunnit. Well played.
Now keep off the box.
Um. Channel 1. Have a look.

No comment
No comment
No questions. Don’t ask.
“Three men, with a combined age of-”
Guilty, as charged.



Waiting for notifications,
Like watching yourself ageing,
Is making a slow cage out of your own anticipation,
Avalanche awaiting,
Helicopter patient,
Hovering above while seasons change like radio stations.

Meanwhile, notifications from the world arrive in wailing klaxon sirens blinding lights revolving round like signs for fire,
Panic-soaked aural reminders of the burning skies behind you while your cage,
Immune to blazes,
Keeps you shielded from the flames

Oh yes

The famine and the tragedy,
The murder and the maiming and the fate of babies,
Children born a little way away in wars that tore through all the static but you haven’t heard the station cos you’re waiting
Waiting, watching, scaling ladders of anticipation,
Every incremental drip has washed away the seas of pain we should be drowning in.

You’re frowning aren’t you?

Well it’s far too late for that; your followers are crowning you as more important than the facts of death, we’re all infected by the virus to be viral:
Hope to screen and screen to hope to screen we’re in a spiral while the world we’re in continues to spin and tornado by you but –

– You are the eye and the eye is so rarely idle…

As it Watches for a notification – 
In the time I wrote this you’ve been steadily aging.
If I ever tweet this I’ll be patiently waiting,
For that little bell to have its dot on the pavement.

I’m igNoring all the notifications – 
In the time I wrote this I just hope they could save them.
One day I just hope that I’ll look up in amazement,
If I ever stop to solve this hopeless equation.


Four Stars

Frownable comparisons to people not like me,
Free market hyperbole – honest unlikely,
Quotation summaries, centred and shifted,
Roll-call celebrities, B to D listed.

Adjective careless and adversely sparing,
Sales boost concerning acquaintances caring,
Name recognition brand person at skimming,
Inverted commas ellipses phrase bridging.

Two-worder final endorsement star counted,
Minus the words constellation starts shouting,
Pile upon praise upon climb upon mounting,
Part with your glittering coins at the fountain.

Wishing well expectemptations get tested,
Testing the money spectators pre-bested,
Recommendation on poster back paging,
Poetry anti potential start raging.


Poetry: ‘The Eighth Man’

The first man tried, the first man died.
The second man tried, the second man died.
The third man tried, the third man died.
The fourth man tried, the fourth man died.
The fifth man tried, the fifth man died.
The sixth man tried, the sixth man died.
The seventh man watched,
The seventh man saw,
The seventh man ran,
The seventh man soared.
The seventh man flew
The seventh man leaped
The seventh man flew from the edge over depths
That kept as a bed where the first six had rested,
Darkened by shadows and precipice crests.
The seventh man jumped,
The seventh man stretched,
The seventh man flailed,
The seventh man reached,
The seventh man tried.
The seventh man wailed.
The seventh man died.
The seventh to fail.

The eighth man tried,


Poetry: ‘My People’

All these white people
Nice enough people
Just far enough removed from white people

Who decided people
Hued like my people
Didn’t deserve equal treatment by people

Living like people
Here with my people
Post-code ascending right to buy people

Sugar sweet people
Cuppa tea people
Coupla plantations overseas people

Owning slave people
Born and raised people
Making wage and get paid by trade people

Eye-to-eye people
Turn a blind people
Just like we out to shop and buy people

We exploit people
Got no choice people
Too far away to hear their voice people

Making things that we buy with cash people
Take away our discarded trash people
On the other side of charity drive people
Two pounds a month just to survive people

Often small people
Or recent old people
Nimble fingers that stitch and sew people

Clothes to clothe people
Far away people
Shopping mall shuffling window gaze people

Bargain bin people
Hidden sin people
Worship at the church of scratch and win people

Justified people
Much to buy people
Turn a blind eye from other side people

Turn a blind eye from other side people
Learn to get by with drier eyes people

These are my people
Make you sigh people
All alive until left to die people.


What I’ll Be Writing On That Starry Night, My Brothers

A poetic response to ‘A Clockwork Orange’ by Anthony Burgess, first read at 14, re-read at 33.

You know what?
Be ready to fight. Cos when Alex, Dim, Georgie and Pete, come in the night/ to ask questions of your wife and interrupt your write/ you’d better be ready for life/ -be a young man/– dumb, insensitive/ vocal and feeling plenty of/ power, rage and drive with rookers that fully clench/ and gullivers full of trouble, desire to see the red/ your swordpen cannot save you and neither can what you’ve read/– you’re either starry or not so I suggest you dispense with all the cutter and get yourself a cutter and dance among the gutter/ and shark up, my brothers/- dapper up your platties it won’t/– be very horrorshow if you act the man, he’s a boy/- you can’t reason with infancy/–he’s all he was meant to be – it isn’t indecency/– it isn’t unreasonable/ it’s entirely feasible/– the boy is unteachable but he’ll teach you a lesson/– I am suggesting that you enter the class – britva sharp – with a few ha ha haws (that’s laughs)/ -don’t be scared of a tolchock/– just go for the old rot, you’re human so use your fist to do what you know’s not impossible, just a bit unpalletable/– maybe slightly damaging but ultimately manageable/- and your devotchka? /-protect her like an animal/- all she is is groodies for glazzies to these malchicks.

What’s it going to be then eh?
A night where your DNA/ gets tested or wrested or fully bested? You be that way/– you sit and scribble your clever slovos/ – cos soon they won’t be good enough, you’ll have to use your goloss/– and when that isn’t loud enough you’ll have to use your rookers/– and if they aren’t – sharp enough a britva or a pooshka/– with which you might protect yourself at time of desperation/ the night is starry young, they’ll partly come in desperation/ the night is starry young, they’ll partly come in desperation/– for meaning/– the in and out’s obscene and/– the violence has no ceiling/– you’ll find your glazzies greeting/– until you start to steel them/ the noga to the floor/ you’re at war/ with the floor/ you’re at war/ with the idiot you were and the demons that you saw/ it’s real/– mechanical steel/- the human is peel/ so do what you feel/– just feel it for real/ like eyes glinting looking for the violence in the silent night.


‘Up in the Air’ (2009) – A poetic film review

A poetic review/ critique of the film ‘Up In The Air’ (2009), starring George Clooney.


With your sharkslick moves; dripping hubris as you cruise
With digital ease through analogue seas
Of people, places and unrecognised faces,
An indefinite trip outside of all time, high-flying
Straight by people with lives weighted down and laden
With people, places and recognised faces they’ve acquired.

Pack light: Move swift. Use-less
Energy on useless roots and routes that shoot and shout
Down through the fuselage of your ethos.
Crowds gather where clouds don’t matter and where clouds don’t matter the crowds have scattered –
Jettisoned ballast until your chosen solitude is so close
That you are immune
To your own calloused touch.

Moon bound.
Flying round.
Two hundred thousand miles in the air, getting nowhere
Nearer than closer to somewhere.
Targets thin like skin. Thin air,
Greying hair yet still; you don’t care
Because you care about not there, or there, but the ellipsis in between
Where you’ve been and where you’re going.
Never home, never slowing, sharkslick fin slicing
Through seas of barely recogniseable faces.

Ten million miles closer to that home of your imagination
That dream made real by corporate corroboration,
A scene that means as much to you as two recent teens saying I do,
One small step closer to the landing site called home.
Ten million miles flown,
Each first class seat a throne,
The Emperor’s New Throne in fact,
Weighing just as much as your emptying soul.

With no destination. Outward bound, outward facing,
What exactly is gestating in that sharkskin case
Of you-shaped templates and hollow replacements (of holiday luggage)
Permanently escaping the one place you came from
That is so far away that you finally cannot place it.

But yes, you feel it, for beneath the calloused skin and
(Now slightly dipping) fin and silent, chrome wing
Is him: that collection of people, places and changing, aging faces
That initially flew you in.