i've been awake since 6am
i'm running on two and a half hours of sleep
i've been on the road since 7am
and i'm writing this at 1pm
i'm thinking about greggs sausage rolls
thinking about where i'm going in life
thinking about when this road will end
thinking about slowthai's yugioh cards
thinking about how much i love frank ocean
thinking about how i interpolate milo lyrics to fit my life
though i probably couldn't tell you what his words mean
thinking about how i drift from one person to the next
desperately searching for a new friend to cling to
thinking about why i didn't shave my face
for two weeks i was scared that with a blade in reach
i'd be tempted to slice my throat
if i drowned, would my body float?
thinking about how i should cut my hair
thinking about how i can act cuter
thinking about that coil girlfriend
but maybe i'll go for a boy instead
i burned my mouth on a greggs sausage roll again
so it looks like it's all going to plan
sometimes i view greggs as a temple
and the sausage roll is my zen master
i find solace in cheap british bakeries
just like how i find peace in a black man's philosophies
today i'll get my groceries from the nostrum grocers
and write poems at the apex of my sleepiness
this road is only going one way
and i can't go back to pick up the pieces
so i collect what i can to stitch together a new tapestry
made out of the few remaining pieces of the old me
maybe one day driver will say i have perfect hair
thinking about how excited i am to read tallen's messages on discord
it's nice hearing about his l5r discourse
thinking about how i promised to deliver instrumentals for quetzal
but i never did get started on them
thinking about my friend gabe's new album
and how i wish i had richard dawson's falsetto
and how i wish someone would hug me
but if i admitted that, that'd feel pretty needy of me
i don't know when this road will end
maybe i'm stuck on here forever
immortalised in the asphalt like a dead bird
approach me like you would your dad hanging in trafalgar square
i used to smile in every selfie
now it's a chore to smirk at all
but it ain't all bad
i might make curry on saturday
or maybe i'll make chicken soup
and it'll be better than hers
because i'll make sure to remove the bones

Margy shouts her advice from outside Greggs
unsolicited, but often needed
usually it concerns fashion
- the choice of a scarf
- inappropriate shoes for the weather
- or the state of a pair of trousers, hanging and baring a cleavage
(“No one wants to see that, dear.”)

Margy can be relied upon to wear the same distinct socks
– draped around her stocking feet, their multi-coloured design now greyed
by wear and the Uxbridge Road.

Margy is more reliable than her friends and she tells them as much
(“You’re all a bunch of time wasters.”)
demanding more loyalty and demands from me enough for a cup of tea
- a very expensive one apparently.

And on a Sunday, she’ll kneel and pray throughout the early Eucharist,
declining the bread and wine
(”On, no dear.  It’s not a habit I want to cultivate.”)

Expert testimony has decreed yellow,

Who are we to speak against those with seven tongues and antlers,

You sleep as the muffin man creeps

Camera in hands and remnants of sickness past upon his clothes

Your eyes Otto Dix, your face like an anguished customer at Greggs.

He, the muffin man, staggers in the night and surveys these barren lands.

At what point will you release your patterned anguish?

Expert testimony has decreed yellow,

Watermelon and disorder for the masses in their lived fury

hunters of the lowest rung,

misery and handbags at the cumulative paces from Newcastle to Carlisle

Flawed Romans and tasty Saxons,

Expert testimony has decreed yellow,

Revolt! bring down the manor!

The muffin man in his element, deckchair reclined

My mates ‘ll be in Geography now,
painting Tipex on their -  
nails, and swishing their hair about,
cos they’re worth it.
Hoping the boys will notice
their cheeky smiles,
before having a crafty ***,
and a pasty from Greggs.
I should be in Geography now,
but I’m sitting here -
instead,
staring at the blue line that’s telling me,
I’m dead,
because my parents are going to
flip,
a kid having a kid,
what will the neighbours say?
Should I run away, or stay and face -
the music that won’t stop playing, can’t turn it off like
my Ipod,
can’t skip this track,
can’t look back, or re-sit this test
none of my mates will know what’s best
School’s out.

Homeless guy
sits begging for change
where the streets
don't care for your name
lugging about
all he owns
home
a rough patch of turf
down by the docks

His plight ignored
shunned by those
that walk by with wrinkled nose
save the few
that flick him the odd coin

Guys got to eat
and the cold cobbled stones
ain't no solace
for a warm bed and a roof over head

As the emos and goths
passed me by
congregating by the flying v guitar
the hippies sat drumming
in a circle
singing
lets give peace a chance

As homeless guy
heads to Greggs
a hot drink
and a feed
the sun is setting
on the streets of Newcastle

The Native American man
Is combing his hair outside Primark
With his eagle feathers and his pipes and drums
Waiting in a cardboard box
Waiting
For the concrete to disintegrate
Greggs and Marks and Spencers crumble
To the beat of the drums
Waiting
For green to creep across the face of Waterstones
And bilberry bloom at the bus stop
And a moss carpet pad the safety barriers with velvet
Waiting
For the beat of the drums
For those feathers to soar over forest
And the silk of his hair fly free in the wind

Can’t decide if I should put a

  an exclamation or a question

          mark in the title.

  Can’t decide if there is an

     A&E or an NHS office

               close by.

Can’t decide if it's a metaphor,

  a sarcasm, or an innuendo.

Can’t decide if it is the local

           watering hole.

Can’t decide if Superdry is a  

Laundromat or an AA meeting

  Can’t decide if KPO 3 USF -

        is a soccer score.

Can’t decide if this crossing

   is of a chameleon Zebra.

   Can’t decide if the police

lady has an ariel on her hat.

Can’t decide if Louis Vuitton

wants to be associated with it.

    Can't decide if Arn\ale
             is a drink.

  Can’t decide if GREGGS

  should be spelt with a D.



                                 Ryan O'Leary
                                 1st Jan 2016. ©
                                 Photo to poem.
                                 Joel Goodman Manchester New Years Eve 2016.

They're cancelling us out
and
this is what this is about,
the cancelling out,
wiping the slate clean
and what does that mean?

Erasure?

when it's all gone
the socialising,
the eating pies in Greggs
the pint in the pub
sometimes with pub grub,
what will we remember of anything
other than what we've been fed.

. Brexit means broken to Brits,

   economy in tatters, empty

food banks, queues at Greggs

for dregs, candle light dinners

wrapped in blankets, dog gone.

What a wonderful sight to see

   the evil empire descending

     into that same hell they

       inflicted on the world,

             there is a God.

It used to be quite unusual
to leave pound coins
in the money jar
and ever see them again.
Apparently, in my son's eyes,
each one could be
a Greggs sausage roll token,
to treasure after school.
I couldn't tell you when
I first knew about these silent
transformations happening.
In the beginning,
as now, the pound coins
just lay; untouched.
That's why, whenever
I see them lying there still,
I feel a little pang of sadness
at his budding independence
being robbed.

It's all a bit airy fairy
more make believe
and I wouldn't care
but she
makes me.

Seen it all before?
not meaning the plague
just Jehovah's witness
knocking at the door
and
Greggs is open
hot sausage rolls
not toilet rolls
and if I make a joke
which I won't
they'd probably sue.

I’m bored of going out
People make me shout
I just love the daytime tv
A Greggs breakfast will do for me

It’s Eastenders night tonight
I hoping there'll be a fight
Or an affair that ends in a flurry
I’ll view it while eating a curry

Whilst pondering a thriller
I check myself in the mirror
And wonder why I’m fat
How has it come to that

It’s all since my mothers death
When the alcohol stopped her breath
Cause my father ran off with a ****
After he dumped us from his heart

Nighttime is when I start the tears
I’ve being doing this for years
I punch myself in the face
Look at me I’m a disgrace

No one gives a **** about me
I’m a nobody is all they see
Sod it a cake will make me feel good
Instead of sleeping as I normally would

I hate being a couch potato
But it’s really all I know
I dream of it every single day
To be a dancer in the royal ballet

It’s late and I really need to sleep
Not curled up in a flabby slumped heap
But this film has got me by the hook
Think ill sit down and have a little look