I throw my gubbins out
in my net, casting for a
dinner to feed you
by spoon.

My words are gubbins.
Irritating impulse of
fingers and joints
bending around your waist.

Our speech is gubbins -
puked through esophagus
bile and awkward conversation.
A belch of early caught perch.

We make love like gubbins.
You flop wrongly, I flip coarsely.
Our toes knot and break.
We kiss backwards.

I cry gubbins
on your sweaty shirt.
Your gubbin caught dinner
still smudged on your cheek.

I wake up to your bucket of
gubbins from dinner next to the bed.
I bring it to my boat
to catch our next meal.

Negative,
live and live or die and slave to sieve your life through the fine light wire
where the buyer controls the market and the product is factory made.

I was conceived in a small town East of the city of spires,
one of many in the land of Shakespeare and Shires and fired in the kiln with the clay from the pit
hardened and *** red with pebbledash dreams setting suns in my young head,
for a bit it was fine and the wire didn't cut,
but when you're dead you don't know that the way it is so is not the only way to go,
sold out and told off and mixed up I coughed up my penny for the guy toll which rolled into the gutter, a puppet on strings to stutter his way to the factory where scissors are polished by steel wool to finish the job.

The old man, my father knew better than I who gets by on a wing and a gallon of grog and the dog doesn't mind being cussed by the master, just as on the Dansette we go round and round and the stylus is us being stuck in a groove.

I move on in tandem with me and my random collection of thoughts and things I have bought though not factory, there's too much of that stuff and it bungs up the works and clogs all the gubbins.

Here's enough time to live and to live it right here or the engineer may turn us to burn us once more,
the overseer sees everything, hears the 5 o-clock bell ring and me with a wing and a gallon of grog.

And the Lord said, “Get thee bent!”
Here your empty money’s all spent
Among the **** and ashes of last month’s rent,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.

I’m a bit of a disco dancer,
Frequent romancer
That half pint, any change? Bit of a chancer.
I would read her star sign
But I know its cancer,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.

No easy escape,
From that ****** that vapes,
On the bar stool under the gym.
He eyes up the napes,
Of the barmaid’s shapes
Who looks like that girl in his ***** tapes,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.  

No crisp fiver,
Just her salvia,
Dripping from your lips and gubbins.
Behind the red eyes and ***-end nubbins,
You love those filthy, back street rub-ins.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.

You just go home,
Another sexless twilight roam,
You smash up some middle class **** called Jerome.
Hair full sweat, you’d **** for a comb,
It is me or the ***** or just a syndrome
Face full of holes like honeycomb,
You just can’t write anymore of this poem,
And think to yourself “well, when in Rome”
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.