Shooting Hoops

For tomorrow, there will be
a thousand other things
that we will set free.
Looking towards the horizon
and letting go snakes
and other venomous creatures.
With people who feel something
more than a faint glimmer.
Who feel connected to:
A small house.
A well-kept backyard.
A basketball net.
A concrete floor.
A casual afternoon spent
with tall short haired boys,
shooting hoops.

St Valentine’s Eve

Till I come tomorrow
will you forgive,
absolve and pardon
my indirection.
My feet of clay,
a blundering about
and ruining most
of yesterday.
What poor timing
on the eve, of
St Valentine’s day.
Not quite a massacre,
more the bumbling
of an ineffective fool.


Driving into the sun.
Blinded by its shining light.
Coming to a complete stop.
With a scintilla of hope
that this short life
of trouble will go on.
There’s a cauldron of people.
A normal life.
A husband and wife.
A type of living,
the end of which
is a summer idyll.

The Broken Doll

A boozer within
hockling distance
From the Tyne.
Now taken-down
And made into
A roundabout, a
Road widening scheme.
Whatever happened
To Slalom D ?
That super strength.
That would have you
Spinning on your back.
Because that’s what
Happened to the Doll.
It was spun around
And taken-down,
Smashed to smithereens.

Must be the 26th

At night.
You stoke your own
Coke burning stove.
Pad to the bunker
With a coal scuttle
In your hand.
See me to the morn.
Make haste sleep
And good dreams.
Before I wake
To everlasting light.

Please Hold On

A big lady in pink shoes
Exchanges a kiss
Halfway between St Pancras
And Kings Cross.

On the 214 to Highgate Village
Past the Frame Emporium
And the ancient church
Past Royal College Street at 11.44.

People walking on by
Strapped to their phones
Past the Hopeless n Anchor
Boarded up, forever closed.

Now I’m almost there
At Camden High Street
So please hold on
The bus is about to move.

The Lit and Phil

In the basement
is the Loftus Room.
Where a grand piano
waits to be played.
There Swan demonstrated
the first electric light.
Forget about Edison
and all that shite.
This was the place
it happened first.
Where a Pet Shop Boy
sneaked down for a smoke.
Where upstairs is a library lined
with busts of marble men.
There’s a hush and a musty smell
of old books and floor polish.
A lady serving biscuits, coffee and tea,
and we sit round a large table reading.
On a Saturday morning at the Lit and Phil.