watching her undress
at night I wonder
how the hell
did I get this so right

she says this relationship isn’t going
anywhere
yeah he says
I guess we’re stuck with it          ..

holds out his hand
and I take it
and he screams give it back
you were only meant to shake it!

well if they get me
don’t try to get them back

why the hell would I want
them back?

hi, I hope
I’m not

disturbing
you   ..

only in an authoritarian
state
could the word liberal be an
insult, mate ..

asked where I’d got those
bruises on my face
I said my face

just
        going
                    through
a don’t
                              want to
  write any
                     more
  of
        that
                     scotch
left?

easy to be amusing
that you think so
whilst I struggle in my head
with every ****** word

she said she needed to be
free
he said from what
she said from now on    ..











l

poetry’s alright
but I’d rather
have a bike     ..

she said you’ve never
understood
me? I didn’t know what she was
talking about    ..

want to break this lap
top and just pick up a pen
and start writing again
ah, those were the days  ..

the merseybeat poets
made me realise that poetry
is for everyone
whether they want it or not

discovered the penguin poetry of
the thirties
and then isherwood’s goodbye to
berlin and then
spender and mcneice and the rest
easy I was passionate
about betjeman    ..

in 1979 I watched vera brittain’s testament of
youth on the BBC and bought the book
and read wilfred owen
and discovered horror and beauty and poetry

first read about *** in orwell’s
keep the aspidistra flying
it didn’t sound any good     ..

to the house where samuel johnson
had lived, near the inns of court; leave your
bags down here if you’re going upstairs,
snapped the woman behind the
counter yeah, he’d have loved you       ..

you’re making it up
beatrice cried
and dante said
yeah, well this stuff
don’t write itself   ..

always wanted to make love
with you in the british library
although of course you have to be quiet
in the british library
and I simply can’t        ..

and the city
like an older
lover
gives one oh, so much
more
to discover     ..

and it’s been said my
social skills are appalling
but that’s pretty rude

says she found me a disappointing
lover
I’ll find my own, thanks

when she came to his flat
he said shyly
you’re the first

touched she said that’s nothing to
be embarrassed about

he quickly added
the others will be along
shortly

berwick street market
watching with my son
as a pigeon
pecked at and dropped a grape
on the kerb
over and over again

I called him
sisyphus
but my son said dad you’re so
****** pretentious   ..

wanted to write something upon
westminster bridge
but since wordsworth had already scuppered me
completely
I went back to the pub    ..

looking at st paul’s from
across the river I see
someone looking back   ..

always been timid
or not here I come!

my legs ache
it’s a
bit like heartache
although rather harder to
stand

she said it
was over between them
he said who?

but if nigel farage is a
national treasure I
think we should bury him

losing again went
to the pub they said sorry
we’re just closing he

said oh I’m the one
they always let in, in the
last minute or so

young men fail to
notice the old bloke in the café
reading his paper
too busy with their phones
you can’t hide behind them
he says

met my wife at work
said you forgot your sandwiches  ..

tattoos are like putting
ink on a  j m w turner
no one’s a blank canvas

in the pub, reading
someone says why would you read in
the pub
it beats talking

rushed to the late night shop
but too late
it was shut

asked the bloke in the
market
where his apples were from
he said trees
said I just wanted to
know if they’re local
he said
they’re trees, mate
they tend
not to travel

apparently the geese in russia
are bigger than the pyramids in egypt
now that’s proper gander

old woman holding up the queue
as she fumbles for her purse
was once more beautiful than you
and far more fitting for a verse

been together
for

so long

she says
I’m off   ..

accepting that I drink too much
is one thing,
but how about another?

your heart is just a pump, love
and if I broke that
you’d be dead, but you’re not      ..

write poems on beer mats in the pub
they’re not particularly good
but it passes an afternoon

could tell you were disappointed,
but then,
you tell it so much better   ..

used to hit the keys
on that old type writer
until it eventually gave in
and said what I wanted

it’s here
your
underwear
you left
it     ..

I want to hear your voice
above all else, so shout, my
love, shout my love !

you get that little puff
of air
as the tube train doors
open

it’s no wonder they
gasp
those ghosts who drag open
the doors

watching you pull up
your tights as I
lie beneath the quilt in the half
light of the morning