We used to play billiards
and fight all the fire.
We'd drink tea
from cheap mugs,

read The Economist
or newspaper,
chat about boyfriends,
girlfriends,

what was and wasn't a rumour?
The printer munched on paper,
lounge about on scratchy chairs.
50% revision, 50% laughter.

Psychology was me
with a group of girls.
How many people, where, when,
and what was it Freud said again?

Spanish was the same,
me, L, C and E.
Picasso's view of war, a bull and a flower,
grammar overload in the afternoon.

And then there was English.
Can you hear me Fitzgerald?
On a row of females (not just one),
roses, four stories and a single trumpet.

On the garish bus
to see the Manor or the specialists,
to walk up and down aisles in Asda,
talking music with baguettes and meatballs.

Two years came, two years went.
Exams, goodbyes, brown envelopes arrived.
After tapas and a holiday
came sly September.

Here I was with fresh men,
different faces from different places.
So I walked up the steps
into the next avenue.

Wake up girl, rise and shine,
chances are you're not feeling fine.
Who's fault is that? Well, guess who?
Yet again it's the one and only you.

6am and not a clue
where you're going or what to do.
To me my darling that is a sign,
you're a little different now and you're crossing that line.

I sit in a bar
drinking a cold beer,
my vision’s not clear,
I shouldn’t be here.

I turn to you, speak,
‘Our lives are unfair,
no one seems to care,
they so wouldn’t dare

try and help us eh?’
I am going mad,
I guess like my dad,
it is rather sad

how my life has gone.
Supping beer with you,
I don’t have a clue,
maybe I should do

something else tonight.
I’m gonna be sick,
don’t throw up you ****,
and not over ****,

he’ll **** you you know.
Look at me, a prat
with his beer and hat.
Ah well now. That’s that.

And if we were to see each other soon
before you head off to the big city,
I know I'd later return to my gloom
because I'd have to leave you. Such a pity.

I would be really thrilled to say hi too,
not so bothered what time or what place,
my hand, it would be stuck to yours like glue,
I'd really hate to say goodbye to that face.

Until that day I shall stay here some more
and wait for a message to let me know
you want to meet up, knock on my door,
say "Hey, how's it going, come on then". Even though

the good feeling won't last long, I can't wait
to see you Alexandra. It'll be great.

She longs for home.
Stuck in this town
is taking its toll
on her.

Her flatmates
just don't give a ****
and students shout
outside her window

after a few.
She can't tell
if that boy likes her
or that guy

isn't interested.
All this hearsay
burns her ears.
Needs to get away,

relax in a more familiar
place with more familiar
people, pretend
that things aren't different.

She can remember
the good times,
outside the English room
on a warm June day

even though
she was revising for Science.
It'll be OK again soon.
Soon it will be back to normal.

It lollops along
the soggy sand
in the sun,

all for a ball
its owner has thrown
towards the water,

rolling past tourists
in shorts, sandels,
sunglasses.

Its tongue *****
lackadaisically
out his mouth,

not a care in the world
on this August day
on the north-east coast.

I saw a scarf wound
too tight round
a young girl's neck,
tighter with each breath,

tighter with each tear
from her eyes, sliding
like her life down her
pallid cheeks.

I saw a cardigan
on the floor,
the one she wore
on that date

three weeks ago
when the boy said
'why not?' The zip
broke that night.

I saw a shoe
under her bed,
just one,
coloured blue,

worn just yesterday
when she was at school,
in English, Math, History
bored, exhausted, fed up.

I saw a belt
hung over the chair
vivid pink,
the one I think

her boyfriend bought
last year before
he went away
to purgatory.

I saw a hat,
it sat on her shelf,
I believe she had it on
the other day

when we went to the cinema,
me, her and the gang
to watch a film
she recommended for us all.

I saw these things
as I entered her room,
where the scarf I unwound
and we made not a sound.

Standing.
Windmill blades
turn in the sun

shredding air with ease.
The man
looks out

of the window
at the land ahead,
full of aspirations

he hopes to reach.
His wife nearby
sees the same view.

Wishes on display on
this balmy July morn.
London, far away

ticks along swathed in grey
as it did decades before.
The man hopes to return,

sit in cafés, chuckle
as men with briefcases
scuttle around like cockroaches.

Some things never change.
That's OK though
isn't it?

Here with his partner
looking out, content,
a smile appears on his wise face.

Thirty years in the past
he thinks of future times.
Still the same.
Still standing.

This clock of ours
                                                            ­                               is hidden under ice,
                                      its hands frozen at 2.45.

                     We can hack away at the surface
    to get to him, but he might never
                                                           ­      work again.

                                                         ­                                                        Can you remember how he got there?
                                                      Some­one must have lost track of time
                                                            ­           and dropped him down.

    We can see its large black face
                                                           blurry from where we stand on
                                                              ­                                                                 fragile sheets of aqua ice.

                                                           ­     Maybe when it melts we can save him,
                       move the hands to the right time
                                 but by the time we've done that

                                                           ­                              it'll be the wrong time again,
                                       our hands will have to keep moving
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                    the hands of time

   and the clock won't like that,
                                                           ­            we'll be taking over its job.

He'll become angry and make time
                                                            ­                            go faster until we realise
it's all gone.

It's a new morning
so get up out of bed
and wipe the dust
from your eyes,
let the sun filter through
the curtains, let your mind
become adjusted to where you are,
what time it is, where your handkerchief
is and what you are doing here
in this bedroom that looks
oh-so unfamiliar, unpleasant
with tissues everywhere
and a broken lampshade
dangling dangerously
from the ceiling, my God
what a dump you think
but who gives a ****,
you'll stay a bit longer
and then consider what you've done,
what you didn't do,
what you should've done
and how many missed calls you have
on your phone from friends
asking where the devil you are
because you left early
and didn't let them know,
it really bugs them when you do that,
they must've been a bit worried,
but they needn't be now
because you're in bed,
not the comfiest, not the cleanest
but in a bed with blood on the pillow
and a can of Dr. Pepper on the windowsill
in a room that looks like hell,
you feel like hell
but what the hell.

She is there.
The return of the one, the irrefutable girl.
Butterscotch hair flows, water down her back,
eyes perforate the darkness of my days.
Bang! An explosion in the mind. The brain screams ‘again’.
Do not run. Wait. Take it in, a trapped moment in time.

Thoughts collide then disperse.
Colours writhe rapidly, a kaleidoscope
as she moves closer. I can see her face.
Sweet taste, smile so intoxicating,
nothing can be said to change this smitten fool.

Too precious to touch, she is the glass, me the reflection.
Not mine, not yet, not a chance?
This is it, that moment when.
**** that thought, curse you to hell and beyond.
Doubt, the enemy, the old antagonist, can’t you drown
in the ocean of loathed emotions?

A step closer, God help me now,
every breath, heartbeat, blink, heartbeat.
Her splendour is too much, this drug too powerful.
I don’t like this anymore mother,
can I go back inside now?

Too late, her hand is in mine.
Now I am lost, she will not save me from this tsunami
but **** me in, deeper so I cannot see, hear, think or believe.
It cannot be right, it so cannot be true,
but…but…it is.
It is.
It is.

“Are you coming then or what?”

Audrey, look out the window and see your dreams.
Brydie, lay on the carpet and think of home.
Charlie, stand in the garden and let the rain wash the pain away.
Danielle, shout at the skies for this awful weather.
Ellen, smile as you see a rainbow in the distance.
Fiona, stick out your tongue to soften their fall.
Gemma, pretend there's nothing falling from the sky.
Hannah, dance in the rain in that favourite dress of yours.
Imogen, jump into puddles, one after the other.
Jade, wave to the people going past in their cars.
Keri, open your hands to cup the cold water.
Laura, laugh as the neighbour's umbrella turns inside out.
Molly, hope the grass is better for football tomorrow.
Natasha, sigh as you drive through it all.
Olivia, read a book by the nice warm fire.
Paige, sleep through the hammering of the droplets.
Queenie, scream as you dash through the storm.
Rhianne, fall back onto that squishy armchair inside.
Steph, pray for the sun to come out soon.
Tuula, watch the leaves huddle against the kerb.
Una, listen as they patter patter on the rooftop.
Victoria, take off those sodden shoes.
Whitney, snap another photograph or two.
Xandra, run to get back home to your family.
Yasmeen, follow the trail of the water on the window.
Zara, give up waiting for the rain to stop.

I wait
outside the classroom
just before one.
The sun

shines down on this
Thursday afternoon.
Minute to go.
The bus will turn

the corner
and arrive. You’ll be the third
to step off.
I’ll see brown bag,

brown hair,
glasses from afar. A smile
will slowly appear
on my face

just like that.
Waiting.
Others are in class. Hurry up
please, return, it’s been too long.

Far too long.
I expect I’ll sit, swing
on my chair to look at you,
as always.

As always, I wait.
The bus pulls up,
you step off, wander towards me.
There’s that smile.

There you are.
Here we go again.
I say hello.
You say hi.

She’s not here.
She’s not with us.
She’s in another world
full of desperate humans

and disorderly sights.
Her eyes, wide,
stare at the screen.
She falls

deeper into a trance.
Clap your hands,
she won’t even know
you are there

because she’s on another planet,
addicted like a man on forty a day
and she can’t break the habit.
I wish I could help her

but I’ve a bus to catch.
She sits alone with her phone,
in a complete trance.
She’s not with us.

This is the new world.
A virtual Vegas crammed with bright lights,
stimulating colours. Sensory overkill
for the new generation.

The mice scurry. A click. Words
and pictures fill up the sad, vacant space.
Information pours into our heads and trickles
out our ears in a few seconds.

No wallet, no coins, no notes.
Objects become ours with no money
in sight. No handshake, no hello,
but a deal has been done.

We are obsessed with the here and now.
A need to know what he’s doing, she’s doing,
surely they want to know what we’re doing too?
A second later, the world can know.

Are you feeling lucky punk?
Plunge into an ADHD mess of those who wish
to be loved by the unseen, unknown.
We are alone, unloved. We need you.

Television without a remote.
Films, music without a disc.
An online Orwellian world.
What was ‘hot’ last week

is recycled into a new fad.
A constant tinker of
layouts, images, ideas,
designed to bind us in chains.

Look at me! Look at me!
Play me, **** the clocks.
Once you’re in, like hell
you’ll get out.

The new world trapped in wires.
Why talk when we don’t need to?
Troops are growing in numbers.
Sign up. It’s free and always will be.

Maybe God created the world as we knew it.
Everything we knew and didn’t stuffed
into a space that grew each day.
The new world is no different.

We stare and sit at reality number two.
There are our ‘friends’, then everyone else.
We are not alone. Anyone, anywhere can find anything.
The life we live scrolls before besieged eyes.

It can go slow, it can go fast.
It can crash when it gets too much.
Maybe it is just like us.
Refresh the page.

Now, what’s on your mind?

They sit on the side,
discarded like a football
after a PE lesson.

A slight scratch
on one lens,
long and white.

They’re old and weak,
more fragile,
more bleak.

More flaws.
The rose pattern on them
is fading. Almost gone.

They should be replaced,
but we know that won't happen.
They’re still beautiful somehow.

As time passes,
they are more of a spectacle.
With or without that scratch.

But your glasses, a familiar sight
on the side in the sunlight.
Alone again.

A powercut.
Lights go out.
  Fetch some candles.
   Fill the blankness.

    Minutes pass.
     Eerie solitude.
      See that flame?
       It flickers.

        It flickers like us.
         Uncertain, unsure.
          Left, right.
           Sometimes neither.

            Rain outside.
             Wet windowpanes.
              Sad little droplets.
               The sky is crying.

                Wax burns.
                 Time burns.
                  It drips away.
                   Like the rain.

                    Like our lives.
                     Unless we change.
                      Be positive, fresh.
                       A new outlook.

Illuminated room.
A dazzling new glow.
  The lights tripped.
   Now back on. Fantastic.

A month or two ago I read a book.
It wasn’t bad but I’ve read better
stories with more interesting characters in my life.
I sat as I usually did with a cup of tea
but I think my wife forgot the sugar in it
as usual. She always did this.

Halfway through I thought to myself, “This
is getting boring. I’ll put this particular book
back where it belongs, let it
gather dust. I’m sure there is a better
read somewhere on these shelves, littered with tea
stains, stains from my younger self, my younger life.”

And yes, it has been a long life
indeed. Now would you just look at this!
Surrounded by novels, lukewarm tea.
I mean, see my book
over there on my desk? Yes, that could be better
too, but when I had finished writing it

I was so chuffed. Sadly though, it
didn’t make me feel more jovial about life.
Didn’t get much praise at all. My wife said, “Better
go to bed, wake up ready to start again, a new book.
Whatever happens, don’t let this
get to you, like last time when you downed cup after cup of tea

every day.” Yeah, she got it right, down to a T.
Again and again, I always ended up doing it.
Then I’d sit by myself, plan to book
a holiday and think “It’s time my life
took a different path, writing garbage like this
is not going to make things any better.”

I needed to start afresh, anew. I’d thought I’d better
stop with my unhealthy habit of supping tea
and after months of misery put a stop to this
nonsense. The stuff in the past? Just forget about it,
move on, focus on the more exciting projects in life.
Get ready to stun the world with a brilliant new book.

I presume you have read this. What do you think of it?
I turned to poetry. Better than the mush I wrote before when tea
played a part in my life? Who knows? One day, you might read it in that book.

I don’t mind, not at all,
just place your head on me,
let yourself become
immersed in my comfy haven.

Every night I am yours
you are mine, a relationship
that has lasted many years.
Many more to follow.

We never talk, we just lie
enveloped in darkness.
I care more than you can know.
I will never leave,

cheat on you when I have had enough.
Do with me what you like, turn me over,
drool over me, move me into
whatever position you fancy.

But then you leave me. I become
cold and alone once again.
Not to worry though, because I know
you'll return when you need me.

It began to snow at midnight, and
we made our way home after a night down the pub.

We ambled past a torrent of drunks
but slowly continued on into the  kaleidoscopic blur.

We hope the New Year will bring joy,
instead of wishing the calendar disintegrates in front of us.

We have suffered more so than most
and our misery is intensified by the ***, the gin.

We know our lives are jagged, confused
and with little money, I certainly can’t treat you well.

We finally arrived home and flumped onto
the sofa, our eyes avoiding that blasted calendar on the wall.

We went into the kitchen soon after,
where it was warm, we swigged a glass of wine or three.

We saw the flakes continue to fall,
the clicking of the clock penetrating our minds.

We discussed the future, where we will be
in years to come. Eternity, won’t you lend us a hand?

For it is this eternity that is so uncertain,
unclear, buried deep under the crisp, white snow.

I evoke that day in the park when
when you finally noticed my existence after months
of hoping.

Waiting. There you were, on the bench as
the snow began to fall, sipping that can of Coke
clenched in your hands.  

You looked glum; mind you, I was too.
That navy coat you wore, your ginger hair stood out like
streams of fire.

It was just me and you, you and I. My phone
rang but I ignored it, prepared to walk
towards you.

I’d say hello if I could but for some reason
(I should ask you why) you stood up, my breath
hung in anticipation.

The scrunch scrunch scrunch of
fallen snow, I looked up, there you were, falling paper
surrounding the two of us.

An invisible straitjacket
tightened around me, my voice box left on vacation
and you said…

There is no longer a light,                                                      
for a long time, well, it’s been hard to cope.                                      
April will see that girl’s flight.                                            

My, I remember that June night                                          
long ago when I wished to elope.                                                  
There is no longer a light.                                                      

How­ I'd like to end this plight,                                  
all I do is sit and mope.                                                      
April­ will see that girl’s flight.                                            

I’m weighed down by this paperweight,                                                     ­ 
pain throbs inside, so fierce, no hope.                                          
There is no longer a light.                                                    

If only she came back into sight
instead of hidden under the microscope.                      
April will see that girl’s flight.                                            

Unless the torch again shines bright
and halts me as I fall down the *****,                                                  
There is no longer a light.                                                  
April will see that girl’s flight.

You are the sunrise
that illuminates the twisted roads ahead.

The photocopier
that seems to do what you didn’t want it to.

The branch
that sways precariously in the wind.

The clock
that stops, starts, stops, starts.

The froth
that dangles a little too far over the side of my cup.

The peach
that contains a solid stone under the façade.

The book
that always ends with unanswered questions.

The confetti
that looks glorious but doesn't stay for long.

The nosebleed
that stains my pillow at night.

The boomerang
that flew off in the distance, yet to return.

He stands up, moves towards
me. I anticipate the
hug I’m about to receive.

It doesn’t come and instead                                                          ­      
he picks up the remote. His huge                                      
body leans over me.                                                              ­        

He then goes                                                       
and sits back down. I stretch my legs,                                              
look up.                                                              ­              

All I get is a                                                      
quick glimpse. I’ve had enough
of this now.                                                             ­             

I move, rest my head on top                                                              ­
of his knee. He glances down                                                      
at my face.                                                            ­            

He pats my head                                                        
and I realise. His affection for me
remains after all.