a man of letters
who pens
upon
trivial matters in convivial inns
where his life is spent
almost invariably
in tatters       ..

aren’t as many second hand
bookshops on the charing cross road as
there were when I was younger
of course, so were they   ..

dressed to ****
and well yes there was
blood on her
skirt but I know
that’s not what
you meant

d h lawrence was writing
beat poetry circa 1929 with his collection
of poems called pansies, but man, they’re
something else

some days my legs work better
than others look at me oddly
as I clutch onto the railings, the wall
and you, you most of all  ..

this is where I live
I’d ask you in
but it’s a mess

“I’ve had enough,” you
said, pushing away your plate,
but looking at me     ..

frightfully british but
also roman catholic
ate no meat on a friday
was always fish and chips

old bloke in the pub says
buy me a pint and I’ll be grateful
for ever mate, neither of us
have got that long       ..

old bloke in the pub says
he’s drunk on the unfulfilled hopes
of his youth
but in truth it’s the scotch

if you haven’t read any of the
british library crime classics, then
what is there left to talk about, muttered
the old bloke down the pub

nigel farage is a joke
is it’s on his fans the lies that aren’t
quite so funny for the rest of us, either
said the old bloke  ..

can’t see a way out at all
     wherever one looks there’s just wall
    and yes, one solitary gate
      whereby they gather to await
    the old fool

light is the lilt
of a flute
at dusk
in a quiet square

let’s do lunch tomorrow
not sure if I can make it
I’m not asking you to cook

don’t get me wrong
I like trains;
it’s just getting on

just recently discovered
   christina rossetti on a second
hand book stall
  down the market there were
others shouting their wares so much louder,
   but who cares

hid a poem in a tree in
the woods
but they cut it down
to just a couple of words

stevie smith was the
greatest poet of her
age, but what’s her
age got to do with it

leaves him alone
in the wood
are all he has    ..

apparently relationships
have to be worked at, we laughed    ..

someone stops the road sweeper
and asks him the way;
he says, like this     ..

went into the second hand bookshop
I said hi, what’s new?

got a couple of tickets for
the theatre if you’d
like to go? yes I would, actually.
goodbye

old bloke in the café reads his
newspaper religiously
over breakfast every morning and
thanks God for letting him be
for now

he said I don’t know why
I ever went out with you ..
she said but you didn’t go out
with me, we just happened
to leave at the same time  ..

rather write detective fiction
than poetry but I wouldn’t
be any good at it, and what’s
the difference? she says

the angry knocking
and the insistence
I open the door

couldn’t help wondering
what was behind it

p g wodehouse and
john betjeman made
life seem worth living
just to read them    ..

just a glove, which everyone takes off
with well honed mimicry,
knuckles exposed, brittle *****
in their lack of symmetry, groaned
as they all have a hand in correctly mocking
all the above

o’hara should have
been a little more careful
on the road
perhaps wasn’t his thing

that you keep on giving me
your opinion suggests you don’t want
it, either

love museums full of stone age
artefacts, the odd roman sandal or two
and victorian pottery, and all
those insects skewered beneath glass cases
not solved by pulling faces
at what our ancestors got up to

what’s with this whole twenty
first century internet
thing about having followers,
I mean I feel like a stalker

we’re both getting old,
but she still has dignity and desirability
and a demure sensuality and
all I have is a cough

used to think I’d like
to get to know you,
but I don’t, anymore

this is all knew
I’d find it odd
my dear

the pub at lunchtime
is quiet, he says,
I’m eating

feel unsteady, seems windier than
it used to be -
don’t know if it’s a climate change thing,
or just me

how long
has it
been
up to much
lately?

use a stick since my stroke
approximately four years
ago it was when I last ran for a
bus, but I don’t miss it

ok so I’m alcohol dependent
you got a problem with that ?

ate our sandwiches sitting
on the steps leading up to
the art gallery
it’s a matter of taste, she says

love to walk alone
through the city
streets are not just for grown
ups a daisy!

last time I wrote a poem that
was
any good was on the late lamented
deep underground poetry site about an elderly woman on the
bus who offered me a boiled
sweet,
I thought,
but no, thanks     ..

people find me cold,
which is also
how they leave me

she says these poems are
****, but what if she’s right   ..

sitting in a pub writing
a poem but it
wasn’t very good and the
beer was awful

we rented a room
so cold we went to bed
with our clothes on,
but not for long

I’m drunk
feel your

contempt
so not

quite drunk
enough     ..