One more swipe.
One more swipe across one more greasy face.
My finger slips, skips down the page.
My finger pauses at your gaze.
The taste of your smile as it wonders through
my maze.

Part I

When in doubt blame the black man.
Doubly so if it rhymes with that man,
the crack man. The cap man, the rack man. We got you on a lock man.
Shoot em, **** em, **** em up, all the way up!
Till he's nothing but black, man.

*** what could be worse than being black?
A half-man.
Ubiquitous; everywhere, but fits in with no man.
Woman? The last said there's something off about that man.

Part II

All I did was swipe right, and now it feels like a wrong turn.
"Maybe it's just not your turn yet."
Or maybe I'm trying too hard, with nothing but bad bets.
Feelings of desperation, manipulation is **** near perpetual.
**** it. I'm just tryna get another quotable, man.

It has become
a hallway for passersby
they enjoy the stories
I hung on its walls
and stroll off
to the next
exhibition

What baffles me
is that most of them
do not see
the "home sweet home" sign
that I hung
at the entrance
of
my
heart

Touring the cities of England and the UK
Back of a transit van, rocking up to anywhere that paid
The brothers Grimm and their trusty cohorts
Bonehead on rhythm, McCarroll on drums, Guigsy up to all sorts

That gig at the Wah Wah, King Tuts to be precise
Glasgow you beauty, **** the next show up in Fife
The man that found them, a mister Alan McGee
A Britpop revolution, all great memories

They came and most failed, that one gig on Top of The Pops
Menswear to Mansun and an array of rank haircuts where the seagulls did flock
We had the trendies in Camden all hanging around on their scooters with parka’s
Noel or Liam and that fella from Echobelly, anything to be famous and get on the telly

But then the times must end and it all turned a little sour
A few trudged on with an album or two, the Manics to Cast and the lyrics from John Power
Patsy and Liam had that cover on the front of Vanity Fair
Draped in Britannia, divorce on the cards, strange how no-one now cares

Good times they were without a worry in the world and a now gone era
Euro 96, Southgate’s miss and those goals from Teddy and Shearer
A time well remembered and days I’d love to see back
If not only for the music but for the not caring and the unforeseen great craic

Not to hate the now as times move on
But a day in the past, served at seventeen and to claim you were the one
Not to be asked I.D. and sneakily drink that Stella
laughing at the bar, king of the blaggers, not to be served again by that same fella

Before the phone and the apps, we used to meet face to face
Girl at the bar, a bit of blarney and a home number to suit, always up for the chase
Do you ring tomorrow and who’s going to answer
Her mum might be alright, but her dad could be a ******!

I couldn’t imagine doing it all again now
Swipe left to say no or right to give it a go
Seems inhuman to me not to spark up a chat
But maybe that’s just me, stuck in past, I’m just old hat.

JJB

There's no app
for job satisfaction.
No app for quicker
self-realisation.
No app for joy
and love of life.
No app to avoid
struggle or strife.
No app for meaningful
inter-relation,
for self-esteem
or bond formation

These each take time -
with patient dedication,
a repeated test
of your true determination.
These take quiet
contemplation
and louder considered
conversation.
A real-time flesh
interaction,
with authentic, humble
co-operation.
I'm meaning a dangerously
high contagion
with the risk of personal dissatisfaction.
These take sustained
concentration,
a firm hand on the neck
of your current situation.
These take more
than a one day binge;
you'll need to commit
to more than a fling.
More than a lazy
swipe to your right,
more than a stand
for just one night.
These take guts
and sweat and tears,
you might even find
that some take years.
But this is life
beyond the screen,
this is how
it's always been.
So lift your head
and take a breath,
we'll stand right here
and lend our strength.
All I can promise
are tears
and laughter
and friends who'll stand
closer thereafter.

Swipe in to enter
The machine said
And we did
we intend to do the same
on a daily basis,
Immerse ourselves into a fake promise called
Income, stability and a preconceived notion
called “life, the way it is”

For once the machine, couldn’t recognise
The faded lines on the thumb,

Walk away,
we walk away till we reach
the queen’s necklace
where it all began,
Dreams, hope and salvation.
The perfect place to revisit
Decisions, choices and the way forward
But we fail to look into any as we take a pause
From all that is normal.
To gaze at the surreal horizon
Ebbed in the promenade that is home to all of us.
“Swipe out to exit” Nobody says
As we dwell in the possibility of a better tomorrow