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

told as a boy if you cut a worm in half
half of it survives
but we’re not worms
boys just put down your knives

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

want to
play
by myself
today

wrote a poem on the train
got a fine
and they made me
wash it off

don’t like coffee much
prefer tea
       and yet people are always saying
          we should meet up for coffee
    and I profoundly disagree   ..

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

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

poured myself a drink
what about me?
you can pour me the
next one  ..

they used to love each
other things happened  ..

suppose if I ever came
up with a really
memorable poem I wouldn’t
have to write it down

they say a time machine wouldn’t
be possible
but that’s *******
I’ve got a clock

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

alright I’m the worst poet you’ve
ever read
I mean what do you want
me to say ?

can’t sleep
and so I write

doubly cursed
am I at night

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

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

don’t like restaurants
are full of people
who could have stayed
at home and cooked

opened a bottle of scotch
“how’s that going to help?”
ever tried drinking this stuff
with the lid on    ..

your underwears me down
with it’s expectation of
fulfilment, but I’m just not in the mood
right now I’m reading