couldn’t imagine coming back
without you

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

read a biography of herrick
it was pretty dull
whereas his poetry was
pretty beautiful

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  ..

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

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

the silence
    creaks
  with barrows
and feet
   depositing crates
  on the pavement

dried mushrooms
   black beans
           and chinese tea
  
inside the shop
     
  I smile at
the attractive 
     assistant       ..

hi, I hope
I’m not

disturbing
you   ..

she said it
was over between them
he said who?

got you a lettuce
hope you like it
it’s as crisp and green
as an apple   ..

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

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

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

writing a poem on the bus
and the elderly woman sitting next to me
says oh, is it about us

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

the young to me woman in her forties
offers to lend me a hand
I say thank you but I have enough hands
it’s my legs, you understand   ..

want to
play
by myself
today

writing on the bus
woman sitting next to me
says how can you write
with all the noise and the traffic
I say but that’s what I write
about     ..

watched an old bloke on the train
struggle to open a packet
of sandwiches and offered him a hand
which he gratefully ate

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

there’s that tone of voice
that hard cold stare  
that says you’ve no choice
you’re a loser    ..

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

want to go for a drink?
yes, I do, rather,
so please excuse me   ..

tried reading kerouac
but I couldn’t
likewise ginsberg

but I liked reading
ferlinghetti, corso and o’hara
particularly     ..

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

perhaps we’re like fingerprints
unique
but without its effecting one’s everyday
existence we’re much the same
so to speak     ..

a little short of whisky
and the shop just up the road
but I’m feeling none too frisky
and my legs won’t do as they’re told      ..

racists hate to be called
racists like to be called patriotic
but they make me feel sick

they arranged to meet at the station
but this is london for f*ck’s sake,
which one ?!

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

a staff night out
her in a little black dress
you could have made a bit of an effort
I said

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  ..

the bryant and may novels by
christopher fowler were the best ever
portraits of london this century
would have ******* without him

of course, looking on
the bright side can
ruin your eyes  ..

sitting  on the bridge
overlooking the river
entirely immersed in
thoughts of each other

they used to love each
other things happened  ..

looking forward to the trees
once again dropping their
leaves me thinking why would you,
it’s getting  cold  ..

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

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

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

mate, I’d give you money
right now
if only you’d put that guitar down    ..

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

sent her a text trying to explain
but she said she didn’t get it
I said yeah, that’ll be the one

feeding the ducks in
the park
wherever you want
I hate cars