for once, think of somebody else
so he did
she didn’t like it

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  ..

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

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

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

see my poems as
just notes on the poems
I would like
to write but don’t

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

I’d willingly take you
into my confidence
if I had any

why do people dislike politics
so much that they
prefer mob rule over civilised debate
is better than hate

only writing because
like bukowski said
only if you have to
will it be any good

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

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

lived in lewisham for a while
it was alright  
but then she grew bored and I grew
bored with her growing bored
and staying out all night
and south east london ain’t the end of the
world

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

she says last night was a bad
    idea
well in that case thank goodness
   it’s over
he says
    and yet, she says, you’re still here      ..

if there’s a nuclear war
does it matter if I don’t
wash my hands before
I come down for lunch?

you were crying and shaking as you tried
to explain you’d spent the night
with somebody else
well, as long as he makes you happy    ..

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       ..

what do I want played
at my funeral?
charades

suggested a picnic
she said good idea
I’ll make the sandwiches
I said no, let them
decide for themselves

I think we may have met
in a previous life

oh but I couldn’t be this
unlucky twice  ..

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

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

she used to complain
that she never knew
what he was thinking

he said I hear what
you’re saying, but isn’t
that rather the point?

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

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

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

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  ..

we brush against each
other
than that there is
nothing  ..

the second hand bookshop has gone
and whilst I may have mislaid the odd
book or two, an whole shopful?

this was the very street
choc a bloc full of tightly pressed covers on
the shelves

wherein sad old men with aching feet
would often find ourselves

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

how long
has it
been
up to much
lately?

she knew it was over
he hadn’t been home for days
why don’t you go home
she says   ..

so what if I talk to myself
when I’m alone and
how the hell do you know  ..

I’m drunk
feel your

contempt
so not

quite drunk
enough     ..

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

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

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

quite like the calm appraisal
historians bring to the past
supplying a little distance
to that which is actually vast  ..

drizzle at the
bar grey
as muzzy
print

from your
morning paper
droplets of
ink

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  ..

the first time we met
I loved her face
but I fancied her legs
and I know that’s
sexist and objectification
but we’ve been
married for thirty two years
so who cares

my wife gets annoyed
I don’t know why
but best just apologise

people tend to comment on
the content or subject of a poem,
rather than the form or the style
it out, mate, style it out

city becomes us ill
and buildings rise and fall
in laboured breath

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

used to walk around
the city at night
with nothing on my feet
except myself

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

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

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