Happy Birthday.
You dont look
a day older
than when we first met,
on that Wood Green step.
Many happy returns !

At the Pineapple

A warm Kentish Town Wednesday.
Undertakers Drinking outside.
In shirtsleeves and open collars.
Having a pint after a long day.
La Vie en rose by Grace Jones is playing.
Breadsticks on a white tablecloth.
One of the men in black, takes a bite.
Now I realise it’s the wakes end.
Crumbs fleck the conservatory tables.
Mourners have consumed all the food.
Ready to go they pack their smart clothes.
Before the new crowd arrive.
My Jamaican Guy serenades an empty table.
Quickly taken by a teenage broncin buck.
Peace breaks when a troop 
of workmen arrive.
In Jackson Pollock paint
-flecked sweats.
Incongruously they sit next 
to two old gentlemen.
Renegades from a distant age.
Who swiftly manoeuvre to a quieter spot.
Later we go too, as day drinking drifts into night.


Talking about making
yourself a laughing stock.
You were a punk.
Now you’re an enabler.
Slug it out another day.
Let us circumnavigate.
Propel ones self
around the globe.
Make hay while
the sun shines.
A fascinating set
of strange beliefs.
Let us pray for
souls long forgotten.
Let us remember.
That small suburban shop,
packed full of rich kids.
Making involuntary.
That barely relate
to the common exchange.
There are answers
to the question.
Posed by an endless
cycle of words.
Barely intelligible.
Just rust attracting
holes in the snow.

A Fateful Firing

The sound comes
to you like a song.
A faded paragraph,
carefully rolled over.
Let it incubate.
That soft shoe stroller.
Tap dancing down the stairs.
Fate that’s all it is.
A fateful firing of neurons.
Experiments in free words.
Shadowboxing in the dark.
It will come to you.
Just give it time.
And room to breathe.
The sound comes
as a quickened step.
Keeping pace a steady.
A soft shoe shuffle.
Rapping on a theme.
Joining hands and giving
thanks to all those dancers.
The strollers.
The shufflers.
The magnetic gazers.
The choice is yours.

A Hole the Size of You

Mexico is inside the moon.
Down at home.
Hope at large.
Fly me to a thousand bedrooms.
Turn a key.
Enter the room.
Manchester is far from gone.
And the music ….
rises through the floor.
Theres a hole the size of you,
sinking in my heart.
A small sparkle hiding.
Hold me close like a treasured gift.
Take one small step back.
And breath.
Then tell me what you really think.

The Last Lap of the Losers

The saffron dangers.
The deadbeat rangers.
The last lap of the losers.
The cinema shark.
The time lag before.
The empty shell.
The ricochet down.
The seats reserved,
for someone else.
The last lap of the losers.


Power off.
Time for bed.
A likelihood of
cloud or showers.
Not quite April,
May or June.
Just the time
of the year –
its supposed
to sun shine.