Delivered to us by an optimistic gentleman in a black Stetson cap
who spent his days waving village traffic down with an open hand,
it's been four years since you were sat on the bookshelf in Kath's house.

You stood proud, surveying the fine china made across the border
wrapped up in donated newspaper articles and pristine hand-me-downs,
while my inky fingers welcomed regulars who only ever looked around.

Each weekend we were greeted by bright smiles set in permanent shadow.
Sometimes I declined banknotes on the street for carrying dismantled tables.
I'm still searching for namesakes when perched on local stones above sea level.

Friends like Elvis were divisive figures due to their signature tobacco smells.
Under a green bus shelter, I laughed at his frown about a Midlands town.
Thinking about the rows of vacant church seats still leaves me cold

even now. As I watch needles drop onto rocks and a solitary shell,
your frame shrivels daily and bends you crooked like a question mark.
Oh, Eric - will I ever meet your father again to discuss your burial?

Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.

Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.

Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.

What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.

Goodbye kiss to the day I'll miss.
Put headphones on and select a song.
Down the cobblestones until further decision.
Division like the very fabric of football.
Could choose my normal route to The Square,
just four corners to take - a simple shape -
see proud flags made of organic thread,
all the colours I like will be on display. Although,
what if I head down Butcher Row instead?
Sure it's steeper down the shuts but
I fancy my luck out there today.

Before the leap, I see a wall
so opposite to my position, it's hostile.
How long have these concrete eyes watched on?
I'm terrified and contemplate calling in sick,
return to rich address and don't overthink.
Then in each direction, groups meet at the centre.
There's pointing and shouting and spit flying
into hair that's in flames and ignites more people
to march out deluxe doors left ajar
as kids peer through windows
above the obscenity.
Hesitate to whisper,
future back in that house,
until I see bricks change angle.

Thinking in pink.
Shout loud about my background.
Grab the handle of both sides.
Point my crooked nose at the stone:
'Let's climb this together.'
'Peace and love forever.'
Those at the back can't hear my speech.
But those really listening cheer and preach.
Reach for ladders or offer cupped palms.
Touch the top layer but get knocked off
by a flare thrown from out of nowhere.
Hunt the culprit while the victim burns.
Bodies clamber to sample some action
like a mound of sugar infested with ants.
Look back at my house in a peaceful daze.
Turn to the melee and see a knife in my face.

Someone send me fifty cigarettes.
Keep me awake far past sunset.
Get the football on immediately
And make it a fiery affair.
Drown out this mop and bucket mouth.
Find me a guitar string to silence a theatre.
Strum all the chords in unison.
Whisper powerfully into the crowd's ear
About the journey to solar eclipse bliss.
Ignore the scattered failures,
Stamps on lamp-posts,
Brash stickers of the past,
Cornered in all that success.
Distraction from the looming task ahead.
Let the teaming rain return to my brain,
Where pie survives in cement,
Jackdaws squawk and talk of walks
Across the kissing couple hills
Instead of pizza orders set for ten.
Counting stock with matching socks.
Clocks are the enemy these days.
But they may be my best friend.

During my lifetime, teachers have been kings.
Mr. Ellison, with his football obsession, dared
declare the Father worse than der Führer.
Across the hall, Mr. Summerhayes gave us life
lessons, like adults have first names too.

Paul was next in line. A stoker of fiery debate –
he painted landscapes on political wings,
propaganda and the bluebirds of South Wales.
He tried his best but Pete pulled me aside
when depression began to blacken my mind.

Bigger steps made things more complex.
But he welcomed me back to his class,
always asked how my mother was doing,
embraced my erratic emails and career plans,
until we lost contact after his retirement party.

Now I write this poem from a pit of shame –
a decade on and my destiny remains lost.
Sometimes I meet royalty again in the shops.
My head is hung and my words are cut short.
I’ll never stop trying to be what you thought.

Tried to explain my psyche via Charles Bukowski.
Penned a list that included being up all night,
plus the lack of humanity endured while working.
But concluded the result was mere petulance -
probably because my next mood sank deeper.

This country has a sickness that shackles
the joys of life. Felt its hands strangle me.
Fingerprints are still molded in my clay brain.
Words reach me from below Finnish lakes,
countryside estates and snapped smiling faces.

Can't explain the stories I've been told,
only share what it means to lose all hope.
Could disguise this inside a metaphor
but for what? In order to see the light,
we must shine it on every naked limb.

Hopelessness, then, is searching for that
very word on Google as your love sleeps.
Feeling your heart rejoice and concave
simultaneously when the text describes
everything you've kept inside for x days.

Sometimes in the lonely dead of night.
Sometimes noon stays by your side.
Energy burns that a good run can't fix.
After splitting living rooms, its the wrist.
Tough to admit but these thoughts exist.

Now you know all this, please forgive me
should I despair when hearing it repeated.
Or write this down when nothing is hinted.
If this triggers problems deeper-rooted...

I'll delete it.

Today, tiredness
has strapped itself
to my ankle bones.
I'm walking upstairs
with adult weight,
dragging eyelids open,
nudging consciousness
still lying in the road -
desperate to drive along
that towering bridge
and back into

last nite, the strokes
of three, four and five
passed me knowingly
like a former lover.
Grudges were embedded
long before the peak.
There were teeth marks
left in breeze blocks,
street signs stolen
as the town went under.
Down a park slide,
we deep-dived life.
Climbed theatre roofs
to discuss our plays.
Threw our shoes,
plus socks, in frost,
before settling on home.
American video calls.
Empty cereal bowls.
Maybe six or seven
goodnight smokes
with a slumped hug,
voicebox croaked
during the final tokes

and I'm under covers -
today, tomorrow.
There are crumbs
on a camera lens
and fingerprints
smudged on mirrors
hidden behind a face.
I'm not coherent,
feeling anything
but God, this Sunday.

Alfred Edward Housman wrote about this county from London,
we smoke pipes and drink pints to honour the scholar's story,
which can be checked out the library, former learning quarters
of an explorer named Charles Darwin, who sits in grey outside,
despite leaving town in adolescence, returning from Galapagos
to The Mount, where my parents met in mental health sickness,
gave life to an original species that theories would have hated,
like Robert Clive, who earned his knighthood by looting India,
cried in parliament, now we want his stage ousted, his house is
next to the cottage where I sleep restless because myself and
a few other Shropshire lads failed to escape, even after studying
centurion debates, athletic form and getting serenaded by greats,
where are the names of those who rose from minimum wage?

There's a spike housed
in this stomach lining

a hideous beast
cracking knuckles

a snake curling
in circles

flush them out
with cups of water

leave them starved
like mediocre starters

avoid all
sudden
movement

block each hole
that could let
a sense explode

and pray to God
the grenade
is just a dud.

Body clock set to Vienna day trips,
walks atop the white cliffs of Dover,
avoiding sunburn in Roman forums -

only here it's flexed bare chests,
belly buttons pierce snail trail hair,
while tattoos sweat through skin.

Discount ***** hangs on booming breath,
headache-inducing marijuana stench
crawls up nostrils from inside pockets

like a chef advertising to the streets
via an air vent. Craving cartoon fantasy -
empathy in the world, even for humidity,

as we wait for a break in proceedings,
I pray the thunderstorms bring fresh relief.

On the west cheek of a town's unpainted face,
a mole in the shape of an abandoned tower block
stands and surveys all the veins and dead skin
at its base, there's a cycle path system that never tires,
heels stuck in white, blue and gold Converse shoe
marched through, then flew down those tarmac miles,
every number on the clock face must have held a hand
for the times when I ran full pelt, after nights out,
to save cash, but also to stay alive, as the magic
would ***** out once my key found the jagged
and hollow black hole it was designed to enter,
so I danced with horses, sleepwalking all morning.

Punters only buy into words
if they believe there’s worth.
I’ve been begging for buyers
before premature birthdays.
Let earth spin unaware –
never questioned its axis.
Hid from the anxious parties,
continued chewing table cloths,
then choked on the spike of a train stub.

Not much value in a decade thrice lived –
standing on the coast in yesterday’s underwear,
a teenage busker sits between hip-hop legacy
as new marble faces arrive in constant rotation.
I’m waiting for my estranged brother dance,
who ran out on me despite his free diary entries.
Desperate for reunion. Bitter for the jives lost.

I’ve stepped further than I ever pictured
but I’ll never walk away from the stalking wolves.
Cubs are warned but continue to ignore all advice.
Lions that scrap with the pack tell me to enjoy the plains.
So I forget the bites and burn this poem in my future face.

I still think in-sync with the ceremonial intro.
Even though its reduced to unclaimed brick,
I visit naughty corridors and assembly halls
decorated in sports equipment.

After showing off my award,
I ***** out candles
and bolt that horse to a new port village
where clubs buried in earth
begin to dent
my naivity.

But tweed remained fashion.
A collage of uniform, green fields and tennis courts
resembled my life in the trench.
Words like 'posh' and 'snob' were the only examples of difference

until I became a witness.
Discovered homelessness
meant vagrants. They
became as common as a boxed sandwich.

Everybody has their own intoxication of choice.
Bargain of choice, newspaper
of choice, where Brookside
is a crossword answer
filled whilst feeding mallards
white bread in the park.

Writing that
makes me the biggest hypocrite of all.
I grew fond of plays. Began to write poetry.
What would they think of me?
A **** football match where the ref cost us the game
still pumps through my veins,

I assure thee.
That left ventricle breathes here too.
War has never been declared
but the battles have existed since
before Shakespeare wrote Hamlet.

It's estate versus estate.
As much as I'm up for a fight,
history won't change overnight -
especially in an election,
selfie posted
or status shared
with a handful of friends
who actually voted.

Living in the middle of Common-
wealth is a lonely place.
But there will be a hotel monopoly of vacancies
built on my mediocre grave
if I acknowledge the better
or lesser sort
themselves. After all,
I ate processed chicken breast
and ignored politics myself.

Perhaps now,
it's time
to act like the squirrel.
Barks become growls, become
quacks, become
the fool
again.

My theory was written on the other side of town.
Eyes that had only watched the world through
a single pane of glass, found reflections all round.
Where I used to see grey, crisp formations of cloud.
Even in the house, blocks of door painted one colour
were replaced with dreamlike figures cutting cake.

Anyway, yesterday a man wearing a Union Jack
flag on his waist and sleeve told me his worries.
Five or six cars parked, eight or nine bedrooms
lying cold and lonely while in the south of France.
To lose count of the windows in one's life, I thought,
as he asked me about the proletariat. Luxury indeed.

Let's take a dive through my home estate,
a place I've tried to escape since my first brainwave.
I'll show you flat roofs and wayward avenues,
shopping trolleys that become steeds at two in the morning
next to mowed down greenery lying abandoned due to overuse.
I used to deliver newspapers along this route.
This spot, right here, has a great Wrekin view.
Back in my youth, it reminded me of you -
new roads, new horizons, new people to meet.
Let's keep moving to the end of the street
where a house is sent letters from the wicked government,
asking a mother if she's recovered from her own ill head.
Like her bed is four-poster when she can barely pay rent.
Her pathway displays a name written in cement.
Our descent continues with the drop-offs at Maccies.
A clock towers over us while we're waiting for taxis
to take us out of this place and onto higher plains
with house party nights and endless summer days.
But our dreams remain chained like bicycle frames,
The keys are locked away, we pray
in cars under stars, they say
we can be anything we want to be.
Such as royalty, or prime minister of this great country,
if we work as hard as anyone who's born into money.
So we hunt for hidden weaponry, hoping they see our cannon fire
and where spirits only fade, there will one day be a parade.

Born 30 days apart in the early 90's,
musical fan and blue dragon holder,
you fought parental disapproval to
fulfill your dreams on the big-screen.

South Korea to renowned global acclaim,
Jessica's Jingle infected Western culture.
And yet your name remains underground
in towns and cities throughout this land.

Park So-dam. I write as my ink dries up and
the world scratches my head with a coin.
If I ever escape the fate of my own family,
I'll start a fan club for you in Chicago, Illinois.

I

In the garden with the cherry tree -
where daffodils curb the fence -
cats in long grass stalk the birds
and the rhubarb patch is bursting.

The back of next door's shed.
A white wall of pebbledash.
It's one almighty canvas,
the same size as a goal.

II

In the garden with a trampoline centre -
first love sits poised in morning air -
though we haven't shut our eyes all night,
we're more alive than ever here.

King of the burning woodpile.
Trimmed weeds in a mound.
Neighbours chirping out of view.
Sport scores over a blaring tune.

III

In the garden that's become a home -
close to my place of worship -
guests wave outside the temple,
years and years of well-wishers.

Looking out for hedgehogs.
Feeding a family of foxes.
Like a wave in my brain,
memories come flooding in.

IV

In the garden that was aforementioned -
long after daylight has drowned -
a friend of mine sits next to me
and we gaze through broken cloud.

We've seen everything here:
sun, rain, snow and hail.
This garden knows all my pain
and has helped me to heal.

dreams become routine
once rare rainbows
common as windows
like a tooth loose
inside the mouth
internal screams
echo loud

in a quarantined life
grinding whites
start migraines
muted response
hardens the heart
clanking bottles
sound like prison bars
the silence in between
really gets to you

in a quarantined life
frayed jeans drag along
a thousand-mile floor
back doing laps
on checkered tiles
down town centre aisles
trapped
confined
suffocated
undefined
chest tight
skull binding

fear the worst
speaking this verse
scratching thirty years
writing for the blind
passion resigns
a puzzle of likes
time with friends
feeling alive
only in the mind
county borders and timelines
have no end

in a quarantined life
there’s surprise
in a book spine
absorb the cover
with dry eyes
find the grey
between barcode lines
later yield
in a swirling field
birds of prey
define the day
finally
away

Ransom note in the post this morning.
Simile for me but reality to the savages.
Their class is ******* mixed in cannabis.
Knives loaded and explosives carried.
Mouths foaming at the thought of action.
A thousand threats spoke with conviction.
Horizontal weapons on the table dresser.
Since when did we mention the press here?

The kind of day that urges you to observe.
Learn what time-kissed Victorian bricks exist,
drink and reminisce above the high street.

Soar for a while, before hooked back to ground.
Our Member of Parliament is storming down
that beloved stretch of patterned cement.

Stand fully charged, a magnet waiting for contact.
Lenses in my sockets analyse wicked entourage,
while my options flick through a rolodex of responses.

An influx of questions, injustice and inquiries. Like
all those stories stuck in permanent sun dawn,
meaning there's always hope but never warmth.

Polished black shoes now by the ironic news-
agents. I contemplate resorting to expletives
but fear the irrelevance of a rampaging elephant.

Among the fantasy fireworks, my sparkler drowns.
A rebellious town resident repelled without glance.
Reduced to the blue rosette on that expensive lapel.

Rejection message drains my spirit level.
The bubble is only centered on the warm-
coloured and well-lit wall of a holiday. Or
during a rare weekend laugh with a friend.
This high-stress therapy is just temporary.
Surrounded by scraps of nostalgia and
paragraphs of a suicide note addressed
to the neglectful souls who left a wounded
badger to survive on his own in the wood.
That underground home has always been
burrowed close to the two apple trees that
grew enough to provide fruit and shelter
despite their roots suffering from rot and
the farmer concentrating on the hen house.
Like a fox raised in captivity, there's a high
mortality rate for those trying to escape the
life drawn on an oracle deck of hospital beds.
Making the most of temporary moments
is the only control we have. But taking a
gamble on a clear country road could turn
this fleece to ash. Until the next rat trap.

An army of square lights on the ceiling.
My destiny is sandwich with no filling.
Two thin slices. Side-by-side. Both white.
I've longed to taste tapas my whole life.
Even to dip my bread in egg would suffice.

Well, Christ, I'll take a trip to the bakery!
A crusty loaf would remain in the teeth
and granary could easily plant a seed.

En route in the street, I spot a biblical treat.
It's a mouthful from the Mahershalalhashbaz
company. They rebranded after a decade
selling acclaimed hand-made paintings.
In dense writing was their message to me...

Immerse my head in the still night air of June,
where the moonlight is hidden behind a tree.

Hear the weekend call out my name on a mixtape
    Beats the cursed kid of 2008 couldn't believe
Weakened by letters in envelopes and journals
    Every headline read like predictable junk mail
Stuffed into the pages of a life in solitude

    Punished himself for abandoning his youth
Cruelty continued and relegated progress
    The mess left built higher than a sugar rush
When the crash came, it was always Thursday

Smashed up faces of a watch, shoes split at the toes
Broken table legs, phones grazed from concrete
    The citizens continued, so he kept imploding

Each week came a late play-off final defeat
    Gifted a long-sleeve stained in grassy green
Our boy believed he grew into all of his spite
    But he had grime glued under them fingernails
As he typed bullet holes into a fledgling friendship

    There were times when he became addicted to life
Outside clubs dancing on the hands of the night
    Inside cabs singing with his underground band
Junkies will tell you all about hard landings

Infected with the sickness on his Isle of Bile    
   Mental health problems were an understatement
Like butcher's meat, he should have been sectioned

So in this bottled message to the day we're sailing out from
    Give thanks to the shipwrecks who touched sand
      Apologise for the storms and oceans left behind

like looking down
the throat of
a carrion crow
abandoned by
its mother and
left to eat
alone

the heat from
each brick under
the toes
radiates and
glows as much as
those on either
shoulder bone

superior eyes
in the room
cocked and pointed
at you

your shoes
your coat
wallet
or hotel reservation

footsteps follow
close behind and
grind the fear

though kind intention,
only ease when home is near.