I heart Blackpool, engraved tankards
Little old men & full kit wankers.
Bracing wind with rain & sleet
******* blowing in the street.
In Blackpool.

Kiss me quick & squeeze me slow.
Madame Tussauds, pier-end show
Grubby track-suits, baseball caps
Homeless people search for scraps.
In Blackpool.

Sun and rain, blue & grey.
All four seasons in one day.
Drug ravaged transients dressed in rags.
Haggard old women smoke their ****.
In Blackpool.

Flashing lights & lots of noise
Flirty girls & drunken boys
Abba tributes, yesterday’s stars,
Rattling trams & clapped out cars.
In Blackpool.

Penny arcades & bingo halls.
Amusement rides & market stalls.
Drag Queens flaunt with macho men.
Stripper seduces drunken hen.
In Blackpool.

Rooms by the hour, rooms by the night.
A £1 burger & a £2 pint
Rolling sea & golden sand.
Lowest life expectancy in the land.
In Blackpool.

Please don’t move to Blackpool
You’ll only waste your time
These are things that I’ve found
To make you change your mind

I spent a year one day in Morecambe
A dreary night in Rhyl
But there’s nowhere worse than Blackpool
And I believe that still

A bunker out in Baghdad
A tent at Calais port
But there’s nowhere worse than Blackpool
The Fylde coasts ugly wart

A cruise ship full of Covid
A plane about to crash
But there’s nowhere worse than Blackpool
It’s ugly & it’s brash.

A cell in Bangkok’s Hilton
Chernobyl’s poisoned land
But there’s nowhere worse than Blackpool
This place I cannot stand

There's a postcard on the mantle.
Where did they get to this time?
Egypt - They're cruising the Nile,
touring temples, pyramids, tombs.

They've come a long way from Blackpool.
They won't see the tower.

Will the pharoahs mind?
There treasures picked millenia ago,
deprived of their worldly needs
for a market in plunder.

Still there won't be a space for my charriot.
I don't expect to cross the Styx
or see Akenaton's face.

Postcards don't give you the smells and sounds,
the moments effect of light and dark,
the lift in spirits as you gaze on each new view,
the urge to closely observe.

Why go to this broken landscape
  to claim you've been there you've lived
  to add the graffiti of your presence to these precise hieroglyphs
  to see an unusual land that's been usual for centuries past?

It's Blackpool by the sea for me.

puff the magic dragon he lived by the sea
in his home in blackpool he just long to be
he liked the golden mile and the golden sand
with his bag of popcorn and an icecream in his hand

he would play with children they all loved him so
building castles in the sand gave there hearts a glow
he did magic tricks to entertain the crowd
when the crowd applauded it mean him very proud

everybody loved him and a mascot he became
then they made a song in honour of his name
puff the magic dragon is what they called the song
when the people heard it they would sing along

this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.

Fleetwood was good
but not as good as
Blackpool and her golden mile
Blackpool made us children smile
Fleetwood gave us fish but
Blackpool made us wish the
day would never end.

The Yorkshire Rose, elegantly perched on the bridge
This was not London, or the palace
nor Manchester, where Mancurians are free
nor Blackpool, where the beach swallows
Glasses, towels, mussels clinging to rocks
The Yorkshire rose, drawn upon the bridge
Bullet trains, leading distances
Almost unfathomable in this very spot
Harrogate, bath water
Spilling onto the street in natural sulphuric geysers
Burning
The Yorkshire Rose, fleeting in memory
In ghosts of the abbey nearby

Three artists for effect
a tower to direct the Sun
to paint the mornings when my mum
made breakfast,

now dear mum has gone
the paint has faded
the art struck dumb
the towers crumble one by one
and on and on
we go.

Slice me and running through me you'll find,
printed in italics
the words,

'are we there yet'

and I bet
I'm not the only one that's got this going on or through them.

In the chapel of the glitter ball
in the hall of the dance machine
I am the suburbanite alone, a
dream on a white
horse.

On the steps to the crypt where many
angels have slipped on the wrappings
of condoms,
the silent ****** plays.

The vicars in hobnails prey on those
who travel high trails,
like vultures from the mission and
there's a ****** of churches all flocking
as one to ****** the kindness that once
flashed in the eyes
of his son.

**** them with kindness his Highness demands
but his blindness defeats him and the white horse
will only meet him
half way.

In the chapel of the glitter ball where we
see nothing but the diamonds fall and in
the hall of the dance machine his Highness
becomes the Queen.

It's all alter it now and we'll take refuge somehow
in the flower of the sixties
where 'please please me'
was an anthem for young men.

I can't see, but I think that suburbia's a skating rink
and we are the skaters darting away from the sharks
to be eaten by alligators, or
to be saved at some cost by the one on the cross where each point that he points to
is a station that I've been to.

So I shuffle the view and turn the glitter ball on
and everything's gone
like it used to be
except for me.

.

I survived Cameron and his band of hatchet men

remember when Thatcher took the axe to school milk?

but you ******* voted her in
as smooth as silk
but we see her now as the sows ear she was.

I won't vote for Corbyn
he never went and yet he's already a has been,
never seen that before excepting Jeremy and they named a park after him.

Thorpe.

Once
when I drew a breath in Toxteth
and the carnival was the riot
I got a bit
but that's censored.

Anyway
in Lancaster it's raining although it was cool down in Blackpool with the Duchess and only a slight breeze and a sneeze or two passing by Blackpool zoo.

Goodnight y'all
don't fall asleep
before you've said
your prayers.

Nothing beats being beside the sea
With a stick of Blackpool rock
My only company.

This crock is old
Can hardly unfold the deckchair
"Hey you there..
..young chap..give me a hand" "

"Alright grandad..keep your hair on",
..he replied.

The tide is still out but it's on the turn
I want to sit in the sun
And I still want to burn
Never learn.
I know that it's wrong..
but at my age..anything that lasts for long is a treat.

No.
Nothing beats being beside the sea
Just me on my own
Where the sand is becoming my second home..
..and the seagulls all know me by name.
But still krap on me all the same.
I think it is part of the game that we play.
Sitting and wasting what's left of my life away.

I stay for a while..looking up..looking down the old golden mile
Can't see any gold
Another tale I was told that just wasn't true.
But the sky is real blue and that's worth its weight..
..in diamonds..but I'll stick to my stick of Blackpool rock.
Should have got a sun block..my head's burnt red
Never..never learn
Time for bed.

This contains swearwords!!!!


Do you know what it’s like to be on the dole?
The giro, the social, the rock and roll,
Well I’m tellin you now, that it’s no laff,
No heat or food, round at my gaff,

I can’t pay the bills on fifty three quid,
This is how I live; I’m tellin ye kid,
No Lecky, or water, or comfy bed,
Nowhere to lay my educated head,

You’s think I’m brewsted on state benefit,
Well I’m tellin ye now, life is ****,
No jobs are goin in my town,
This whole ****** country is goin down,

I look every day for a job to do,
Over qualified under qualified, scew you,
I’d brush your path, deliver your dinner,
My options for work get thinner and thinner,

But we get the blame for the country’s debt,
And seen in your eyes as a useless get,
We are not scroungers and living like kings,
We can’t afford the simple things,

We can’t take our kids to Blackpool pier,
Or to the fair, it’s just too dear,
It’s not our fault the system let us down,
Schooling was crap, but I got a cap and gown,

So don’t look at me, like I’m ****,
I’ve bettered meself to get out of this pit,
I’m clever and proud and I stand tall,
I make something out of nothing, coz I’ve got **** all,

You won’t tread us down, yeah that’s right,
We got fire in our bellies and where ready to fight,
We’re not greedy for a fancy lifestyle.
The simple things make us smile,

So quit avin a go, at our worlds apart,
I’m scouse and proud, with a lions heart,
So live well in your mansion, apartment, or detached,
Coz were the generation that Maggie hatched,

Yeah that’s right were Maggie’s crew,
The under privileged, not like you,
Time to step up the Cameron’s and Clegg’s,
Coz you’ve sat long enough on Thatcher’s eggs.

Tina Ford

i never understood why poetry books were and are so expensive, there's Darwin lounging smoking a cigarette listening to some Victorian erich segal, e. l. james, diana gabaldon or a loretta chase - while imaging, well, you know, why the the Bayeux tapestry represents the Normans invasion with humanoids, hence the pressure on artists to follow-up with self-portraits, otherwise it ended up with two monkeys ******* in his head... but such writers are equivalent to manual labourers, they don't care if their books aren't finished, they are equivalent of bricklayers, ploughing the fields of blanks unearthing potatoes and more potatoes (words)... some Chinese poet-drunkard trying to escape Tibetan meditation writes a haiku... and that's about it, he says laughing at the moon: 'this is bothersome! for one thing our ancestors chose a ****** difficult phonetic encoding, maybe this was xenophobia in disguise, but the Ming dynasty project is nothing compared to how we write she and shin, no amount of labour will be as effective as our pictographs, some say this is a defence against invaders, and i believe them, they got as far as ***** trading with us, now we have cheap steel and Russian allies... forget the great wall, the real defence against invaders and accusations of xenophobia is in the encoding, which also means we can **** the mathematical encoding like an elephant ******* a chicken, with its trunk, blowing air into it so the chicken ends up flying, along with the ostrich'.

when i write crude i know i'm exhausting a poem,
or at least the introduction, to a poem,
but such are crude comparisons, they tell you when
to stop the flux of the unintended direction -
but i agree with him, western powers abuse
the haiku mechanism, back in the east the haiku
appears from blank, partly due to that Tibetan
baldy blubber in later age in India -
in the west we have the crown of myrrh, and due
to the overload of sensual stimulation with that,
and the lashing prior to the crucifixion,
an over-exited state of sensuality, meaning more
cognitive outpourings, hence not one haiku
in a year about some freckled salmon jumping
over the moon with a momentary diamond of snow
on its tail... but a whole list of them...
without any verbal tradition to remember either...
take the Tibetan lounging and the Hebrai hanging,
why did we ever take the latter up?
well, question answered, the west is quietly shunning
the church's influence, all you need is a Buddha
head in your living room and it's primo aprilis -
well, not it's Prima Aprilis, *Prima dies Aprilis,
it's a jokers day in Poland, i experienced one myself,
you run around the town drenching each other in water,
or as i call it, baptising each other, for jokes,
buckets of water... in the west it's just a toys 'r' us
advert owning a water-gun, but you hardly see
children in western society, esp. in England,
they're exposed to overt-sexuality prematurely,
they're stiff on the monkey bars, stiff on bicycles,
stiff playing football, stiff climbing trees (if ever),
stiff or coffin like only ready to play the one game they
know best: bullying and make-up, and short-skirts,
and karaoke dreaming all the leaves are brown,
and the sky is grey, i've been for a walk, on a winter's day,
i'd be safe from walking, if i wasn't in L.A., california
dreaming, on such a winter's day, it's only
outdoors if there's a prize involved, not the smell of grass
or cow ****... strap me up Scott'e, i'm about to venture
into the grand world wearing a ******... anyway,
you never write more than one haiku a year...
but before i do a Robert Frost as cited by Jack Spicer
"any ****** fool can get into a poem but it takes
a poet to get out of one", citation? helen: a revision
part of the San Francisco Renaissance mini movement.
but today's panorama show, about the exit vote,
Hilarious **** being investigated by the F.B.I., Trump
turned into a T-Rex in a children's book - tiny hands,
big quiff - and in a global community where slavery
is frowned at, piracy is not really, the vain hopes
of former glories, listening to old farts reminiscent of
the empire esp. in the north is like listening to a fake ******,
my grandparents could say the same ******* in Poland,
the loss of the steel industry, much due to the extinction
of communism in Europe, feminism and the soft-industry
jobs of primarily advertisements, the manly jobs?
they're all Chinese... why blame eastern europeans?
you like your ******* chicken chow mein you little *****?
well i'm certainly liking my korma chicken curry, eat it!
an economy that prizes only profit and not continuity
exporting everything to King Kong Mao will look for
scapegoats anywhere, i'm surprised it's not the Jews this
time, and it's so funny, i mean, born & prop'ah bred
Anglo, imported from Pakistan, oh yeah, "prop'ah",
now they're the best mates, once master and the slave,
now two masters, hand in hand, should be a joke
poster like the socialist fraternal kiss (the capitalist
fraternal kiss is - you guessed it! mouth kissing an ****!),
so you have to really trim the curtains of the ethnic
dress of King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud to get
a selfie with Tony Blair and Bush Jr. getting stuck in -
at a time when no Londoner feels safe outside
of England, esp. in the north, perhaps in Scoot-land
(three years up there, i built up an affinity with
them against Jacky Uno and the flag,
right now i'm burning it in my head, ah, for scrap jokes);
and then they box in the idea that whoever earns money
can't do what the hell he wants with it... listen...
after not being given the Marshall Plan option, and instead
given an ideal like communism i think it's best some
of the money heads east to fund the post-Gorbachev plan
(why was Sweden included in the plan? Sweden
was neutral! they were the myth-machine generators
of ******'s late discovery of the ability to bleach your hair!),
and why would i spend my money in Southend anyway?
or Blackpool on candyfloss? community?
you want a community? how the hell is community going
to work... this ain't a village, this a globalised world...
plus, why associate yourself with vermin?
and all this is going around while the rats from
respective parties jump the boat and leave the public
to blame themselves... but that's how it is, in this
schizoid metaphor, bilingualism is extreme as much as
mono-lingual psychology, but less rooted and historic
and continuity biased... happy those who know only
one tongue or three and more... with bilingualism
you become a psychological mongrel, while others are mongrels
of the flesh, soul-mongrel breeding is harsh,
you're neither here, nor there, and your idea of heaven
becomes something like: wake me up again speaking
Norwegian, because at least i can identify in that region
something that isn't here or there - but being first
generation and remembering to speak the mother,
i wasn't going to do the solo ethnic cleansing and speak
only one tongue... if i did... you think i'd be speaking with
my father and his broken English? ha! *nie!

We flew through
puberty and left a Concorde trail.
A signature of heat,
feats to fete the wonder in and the wondering
of where to begin.

But the Concorde trail tails off
eventually,
and after the screaming noise, of us,
the boys
when silence returns to the body, and it's
only the chimes of the clock that rocks us to sleep,
there is, I find a tiny piece of my mind, where
puberty keeps a notebook

I look at it, cringe,
squeak like the hinge of an old door,
look some more,
it fascinates me
consternates me
makes me laugh and cry,
the trying of and wanting to
and the wonder of wondering who.


The memory of most memorable events are
scorched into and run right through me,like
a stick of Blackpool rock,each name I've known
are written and imprinted on me.

Puberty and what comes next,will in the future,
I am sure be sent in hurried texts by
hurried men,who hurry on to marry wives,
have hurried *** in hurried lives
and after that,
who knows.

Some tell me Blackpool's cool,
so I sit in the cool,
watching a darkening sky,
wrapped against the onshore breeze,
stifling a day's end sigh.

Starlings do maths in the sky,
imaginary numbers,
imaginative paths,
sweeping, forming swarming,
hereditary helix,
genetic genuflection.

Thomas came from the school of hard facts
No Gradgrind, yet, had slipped through its cracks
A Bounderby born saw light in this day
Believing flowers belong outside with the hay

In Louisa G,
Thoughts would flee
It was clear to see
Just not on bended knee

The girl would gaze towards a flame
Far too majestic to tame
And there hours would disappear
As “Fancy” hesitantly slipped near

A circus of thought
Nine oils bought
*****’s distraught
Isolation caught

Her father left home
A sad clown made to roam
Metaphor in a poem
Lost, no need to atone

A foster child of Logic
There’s no need to frolic
Study enveloped her life
While Louisa became a wife

Married and bound to an age differential
That made her hubby seem quite parental

Thomas had begun new work
Money earned, quite the perk
Then it vanished with great haste
Gambled away like simple waste

His sister, Loo, called to bail
Thomas, who had found life stale
Her few possessions drift away
On donations to her brother’s dismay

Time moves on with little give
Debts build like the weight of a fib
Soon Thomas pleads for far too much,
100 dollars, please rush

Louisa, was completely tapped out
Her brother had broken an ever-flowing spout
He used every penny of the girl’s love
Then drifted, like a fleeting dove.

Her husband, Josiah, sat none the wiser,
Cuddled by the facts of a rude little miser
Then came a parliamentary heart of house,
James snuck in quiet as a mouse.

Mr. Harthouse was a man of great esteem
He came to Coketown on track-lines powered by steam
There he met the wife of a cold little man
And his pursuit of affection began

Lousia had no need for affection
Or for that matter unwanted attention
Yet, as Thomas fell
She thought the notion seemed quite swell

Conversations began with ease
Mr. Harthouse was certainly no ******
Operated amongst the ideas of her school
And even sat earnestly while listening to Stephen Blackpool

…

A servant to no deviant will
And master of a mere peasant’s skill
Stephan spoke in broken phrase
Sentences flowed like a tainted maze

A public speaker the man was not
Still, in front of many, he unraveled a plot
The man spoke with flagrant passion
But, it drifted off in latent fashion

The entirety a man stood casting doubt
Blockading the meager man’s route
Stephan carried on until all was lost
His employment in fact the first major cost.


...unfinished :(

You. You engulfe me. Over and over and over.

Relentless. Little weapon. Poxy.

Maureen of Blackpool. Readers' Wife of the Year 1988. Wife of the Year. 100% correct.

Goodbye sweet princess. The 4 in 1 will no longer taste of pure Korma. But

Jalfrezi

Here they come to seek a symbol
of seaside sun - a cruise ship
castaway, beached,rain stained,
landlubbers hamock and griddle.

But first they collapse me and curse me.
Doing it properly should be
part of their curriculum vitae,
a test of nationality.

Then I'm candy flossed, ice creamed, Blackpool
rocked, salted and crisped, generally stuffed,
while they lie back, roast and relax.
Good job it's not a nudist beach.

a cult novilist in Blackpool
watches Martina Navratilova
throw sugar lumps
at passers by
as captured teardrops
in a teaspoon
call, plead, for understanding
perhaps release
for they’re not the
obsessive prize
once hailed as trophy
but simply words in the air
that execute that which never comes
causing a retreat from an ordinance
of nothing
where time defiles itself
a red speckled jersey
whose arms, once occupied
are too small, limited
like abandoned prosthetics
leaving rotting flesh
to slowly scald the earth
with a vaporous experience
of emotional contrasts
like that of mesmerising serpents
whose visional embrace
stares deeply with such a charge
of ****** energy
that causes the air to weep
and poses the question
who shall give me leave

In a Ford escort you can get on the motorway and let your self free
In a Ford escort you can paint it black or red or even blue like the sea
In a Ford escort travelling to Wales is a whole different country
In a Ford escort my dad drives it like it's a Capri
In a Ford escort it's easy to get parts for you and for me
In a Ford escort you can fit a big stereo and wake up the street
In a Ford escort you can go to Blackpool and drive on the beach
In a Ford escort you can smoke a cigarette because we have a smelly that looks like a tree
In a Ford escort when you've had enough of the mark 2 you can save up and get the mark 3.

Sick as hell I check my phone, messaging into school,
I sigh inside and notice the time, deciding to message you.
The pain falls deep in my body, I type to you in glee,
Crushed, squished, I sit up waiting, stuck in a morning daydream.
Sharp stabs and bubbling insides, lead my fragile mind,
despite the feeling, a childish grin came at your reply.

Your golden personality dripping on me, after whimpering a battle cry,
Ballrooms fill with dancing literature, written in the night by a fool.
Words, movements, gentle touches, make my heartstrings unwind,
Music, intimacy, gifts for you, under a sky of blue.
Child-like fantasies feel trapped inside a tub of Neapolitan ice cream,
My confidence felt numb under a heavy lock until I saw your key.

Cheek caresses and dark chocolate eyes are all I want to see,
Our anxieties scare me, but we’ll overcome it like a butterfly.
Despite it all, it feels wonderful, to meet someone who sees esteem,
Blind ourselves, of achievements we hold, to me you are a jewel.
Your impact, care and self dedication is the reason why my smile grew,
Joyful tears, the pain we’ve known, I know we can finally leave behind.

Gazing downwards, I feel at ease, seeing your name signed,
Touching your handwriting, a piece of you, here beyond the sea.
Ambitions are goals made from our souls, we dream of making come true,
if feeling love is what I feel, I want you to prolong this high.
Colours are bright within our lives and I feel like we could rule,
We spoke in harmony, we spoke in warmth, we watch the pouring stream.

Hardships will fall, sometimes we will but I know we are a team,
We push onwards through the force like a blistering wind.
I promise you, I’ll hold on to you, during this whirlpool,
Life is fun with someone and you mean everything to me.
I’ll dream of you thinking of when I’ll see you come by,
The scent of tea over me, over you, awaiting our breakthrough.

Crying, singing and feeling, It’s all I wish to do,
Learning what’s wrong, doing what’s right, mild to extreme.
We cheer, we laugh and hold hands under this moonbeam,
For your attitude of faith, reminded me that day, to never feel resigned.
Carve your name into mine on the bark of a tree,
Celebrate every moment, kiss me in time, the rush of a joule.

I want your days to be as shiny as the lights, glistening near Blackpool,
It amazes me, that this sheltered dream, could become our reality,
You coat me in romance, I will pay back in kind.

David was born in a dreary wee spot
By the side of the mill in the dabbler's lot
His dad was a dabbler, all his long life
And his mother excelled as a dabbler's wife
When he grew to adulthood they 'prenticed him quick
Til he earned his diploma and dabbling stick

All day he would labour, at this and at that
In the tinkerer's workshop, upright or out flat
But his sunny demeanor was waxing and cracked
As in secret, he yearned for a thing which he lacked
For a life with out borders, impulsive and free
Where he'd live as a dolphin and leap through the sea

His mother had cried when he told of his dream
And his father was dead set against the whole scheme
There were tantrums, rebuttals and guilt trips galore
But young David was stubborn and made for the door
For the safety and warmth of the bus out of town
With a confident furrow entrenched in his frown

He tarried in places with odd sounding names
And confounded the groom of a good many dames
There were taverns and zoos where they'd shoot him on sight
So he took to decamping by cover of night
The journey was arduous, torrid and bleak
But he made it to Blackpool just shy of a week

The pier was bustling, jammed to the brink
But our David was not one to buckle or blink
He charged at the crowd with a deafening wail
They scattered, retreated and showed him their tail
When stood on the edge and admiring the weather
He casually cling-filmed his ankles together

Now hopping along like a fish out of water
He dived to his dream like a lamb to the slaughter
The moral should not be too taxing to spot
Be content with whatever you've currently got
Because sometimes a cloud is just low flying steam
And the universe gives not a crap for your dream

Washed up on the beach with a terminal chill
Lies Delusional David of Dabbler's Hill

I love the British weather especially the sun
But I really can't stand the rain
And I love the smell of fish and chips
It just meddles with my brain

I love the coasts that we possess
Even the Blackpool shore
And to see the way my children play
Makes me love them even more

I love the nitty gritty of politics
Although I'm not to keen on the tories
Their quite happy to cut this and that
Amongst their sordid stories

I love our sporting culture
But I can take or leave the glamorous WAGS
All bling and silly makeup
And the nice Gucci bags

I love our capital London
Especially Leicester Square
Don't understand our Queen though
With her funny little stare

And finally I love the nature
From the Hebrides to John O groats
Where the people are very rural
As they tend to their pigs and goats

I blew it twice and twice they flew,leaving few upon the stalk to talk to friends,I thought those dandelion days would never end,but the dandelion knew the time,though I did not,and now I have the time my friends are gone,blown along the Summer breezes and as winter freezes man and beast,at least I have the pictures in my mind.

February finds me back there,older now and minus hair which once was long and flowing,I guess I'm showing my age when I speak of daisy chains and sticks of sticky Blackpool rock and yet I look for but cannot find the dandelion clock,perhaps it's locked away in preparation for some other Summers day.

Weary eyed shop workers curse the sight of dawn,
A drunken Hen stumbles and her tutu gets torn,
The smell of burning chip fat invades my nose,
‘Chips for breakfast?!’ I cry, chewing marshmallows,
I venture towards the tower feeling free as a bird,
When SPLAT on my shoe lands a seagull ****.
Rough with the smooth - that’s what this town’s all about,
I think as a man pulls his Jokebooks out,
‘It’s for charity!’ he lies. ‘I live here mate..’
‘Oh right, soz love, fancy a date?’’
I ignore the geezer and gaze out to the sea,
Wondering where the Lochness Monster might be..
Soaking up the sights as 2 drunks start to fight,
‘OI’ I shout, as a kid sets a bin alight.
Skaters jump like kangaroos on the bandstand,
As health freaks tut, running rapid on the sand.
Children charge like apes in supersensory mazes,
While parents eye arcades with terror on their faces,
Suddenly crisp packets dance in the air,
As the wind picks up and whips at my hair.
‘It’s hometime for me!’ A hailstone hits my eyeball,
And the blue sky runs behind some grey clouds of storm,
There’s not many places with 4 seasons in a day!
So don’t let the weather throw you into disarray.
‘Blackpool’ I say, ‘a town of stark contrast…’
As a horse driven carriage then a rat stroll past.
A town to make memories no matter how worn,
That time never erases as new ones get born.

Back in Bispham, where the prom’s a bit safer,
The oldies don’t buy 3 Hammers, just pies and papers,
I step off the number 11 bus and shout ‘Thanks!’
The bus driver grunts, takes his hand out his pants,
Then speeds down our beautiful, glistening prom,
Full of lights that probably shouldn’t still be on.

I've got a lot on my mind so can I say my piece?
then I can just kiss my teeth
now I've made my peace
I've got a job, I'm the police;
self righteous justice
If killing time ain't good enough
then well, just **** this

I'm ******* now,
I cook a hand grenade
throw it to a crowd, explosive;
that's my sound
my life is darkness;
like in a shroud
am I too loud for your ears to handle?
Well then lets take a gamble
get the ******* my cloud
I'm shoutin' proud from here to Blackpool

Let's have a party
yeah that's cool, so where's the pedestal?
I'm like a statue frozen in motion
action shot, I'm not posin'
but I'm proposin' if we cut the ****
and get them flows in
and everyone is bouncin'
then we can turn this house in
Inside out,
it's about,
the beat,
the love,
the flow,
that steals,
the show,
if you don't know what I've been told
then I suggest you let it go

"Where is my invite? I think i missed it"
well despite the fright
you may have given yourself
I didn't send one girl, just look at yourself
In this life it's all about perfection
****** protection
affection and nation wide elections

I like to fly so high
in the sky and I do it with pride
I'm not a drugs kind of guy but
happiness is synthesized and if that's a crime
then I guess I'm crooked!
but I'm always lookin' for a way out
so if you won't let me in then I stay out
I feel I'm down and I'm definitely out,
so I guess I should pray now

Then god tells me
life is predicaments and resolutions
promoting solutions and twisting
the truth in constitutions
changing pace in relations
and pretending we never took welfare
out of the equation

i keep, and keep, and keep trying
to put on the most sane face... **** me...
   listening to abba's super trouper?
this ***** isn't strong enough...
are these people really
the capitalists they deem themselves
to be?
   they're not reading into
the nah hammadi jesus crap,
are they?
   they must be! so much money in
that flesh, beginning with judas!
            now it feels like another whiskey
short, a mixer withou ice-cubes' worth
of a mixer...
             who the silly billy?
    last time i checked i wasn't named
the billio the reminder.
cares for the bored 'uns...
                     so too, minutes
later: with the scandinavian spandex...
          strut strut or so do the magic dance
invoking the fly-by of a yellow
submarine?!
           talk to me! come one!
   tell me whether there's an eye
                                in an oyster shell!
              glasgow? you live 3 years
in edinburgh,
is a bit like living in london,
imagining birmingham:
no river - no flow -
             islamabad up yer ****...
what?! got that wrong?
you sure? isn't ozzy placed in
a californian mansion?!
            maybe i got that one wrong too...
am i perfect? no...
   would i like to be?
can i be perfect and not write insolent verse?!
no? in that case.... no!
an outer-londoner about birmingham":
hardly a venice, let alone an amsterdam,
or a st. petersburg:
                       no river? no flow!
they dared to call edinburgh the athens
of the north...
  well... birmingham is the islamabad of
the the north... what?!
never ate a red cabbage cumin infused
coleslaw? ******* racist...
   get with the grit & grime of sharing
alt. social normatives...
             you ******* preached it,
mr. bankrupt post-colonial-stress-disorder
(p.c.s.d.) - & ms. blackpool
                                 wanking handy!
what?! not so handy any more? not so
pleased with interruptions from non-colonial
countries?
      oh shay shay, tiresome missy,
aren't you the proper wanked over
  pauper... ms. east-london,
ms.: the grit-&-grind-of-whitechapel...
& that eager chopping worded phrase for
'ackney... poor you!
  oh look... wait! wait!
let me get a cabbage leaf out to imitate
a tissue to cry into!
the english? in the roofing industry?
they're personnas non grata -
   no please, don't sent the english into the trade...
and my father? who did he learn
the trade of roofing from? picts! who?!
                       the scots!
the english are best attributed to their papa
darwin and their fetish for **** ***,
divorce, and having 2nd or 3rd wives,
and a pearly career...
                   as the sing-along of
polish children goes:
             angol pedał...
                                     angol pedał...
no, that's not verbatim...
  the original was better...
   even though the fact that my
little village team made it to the national
leage 1 in 1997 / 1998 -
and i manged to chant
          Ł.K.S.! JEBAŁ PIES!
funny... i was a football hooligan for
one afternoon...
           that feeling of beloning
has schtuck to me, like a leech...
consuming more than blood,
         i.e. memory fusion with thought.

Oh, there is light in such places:
The galleries of Soho, the catwalks of Milan,
The boardwalks of Blackpool,
But it exists to flatter, to obfuscate, to tell alluring lies,
A trompe l’oeil of a family picnic
Etched on the wall of an abandoned orphanage,
The siren song crooned by a spider
To the enraptured and wholly credulous fly.

Ah, but the illumination here!
The sun reflecting off the roofs
On those Bob Evans and Shoney’s you would shun,
The starlight backed by a host of owls, a symphony of crickets,
All serving to peel away the layers of artifice and cunning,
To be shucked away like so many cornhusks,
Allowing the secrets of the universe to be whispered to you,
Faintly yet unmistakably, and once moved by these epiphanies
What is to stop you from running along the narrow, unlined streets
And green open spaces in mad, unfashionable celebration,
Exempt from the clucking of the chic and the congnoscenti?