"hoxton" poems
He meant the giant in the beanie
so I know he didn't mean me,
an easy mistake to make
and the giant in the beanie
who knew he didn't mean me
took me for a Chinese
take away.
and today I said goodbye to him.
If only I could slow time down
go back once more for one more
night in London Town,
see Hoxton Square
where witches flew with angels
watch the angle of the sun
become acute
shoot the breeze again
drink one more glass of beer
with him again,
but
that is not to be
and the giant in the beanie hat
becomes a treasured memory.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 3:45 PM UTC
I once saw, scrawled
in marker pen;
The apocalypse
is now.
Its name is
Hoxton Bar.
(They forgot the And Kitchen, but not the Hellfire)
It’s only plaid,
Wire rims and knit.
Drink your day’s pay.
The apocalypse
Will come for us.
But not tonight.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
It was a night unlike the nights before and longer if that can be true of any night where Angels flew with witches.
Do you think, that night was flat?
I ironed out the early evening late day sun unaware of events to come and sallied as I usually did,with hooded eyes to see surprising things occur.
In Hoxton Square and City Road where the dying light unloads its feeble rays,where days of top hat and tails once sailed into the West.
End is always best much better than the starting out.
A shout cuffs in on the Northerly breezing sleeve of winds that never leave this soul..
Buy me gas for a lighter head..words said,spoken from those tortured lips where sadness slips upon the oily streets.
Young girl sleeping in the rain..soaking up more pain on which no passing eyes will glance.
No measure there,no chancing of a lady fate to close that wound..without a sound or with no sound to hear..her eyes quite clear in the evening air,laying there for all the world to see and yet unseen.
Another queen of broken promises of beaten faces,broken heart the endings are maybe not as good as when we start.
Another night unlike and yet the same for some who sway with dreams upon the warming sun that they once knew.
Another do or die another sadness yet to lie..yet and die.
I cry myself to sleep.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 9:09 AM UTC
Archie Monroe, the swollen bell ringer of Lavender Moor,
Is looking to sell his copper claw,
His wartime Horlick’s pedals,
And his ferocious bone lick with its wet mink sheath.
He half believes in two thirds of a God every other end of the day.
He believes in St. Clank, and the spanking of the parable,
He believes in the Holy Bee and the miracle of the monocle.
He's walking all lookable
He talks about succulent;
The warm unbuttoned government;
The other worldly succubus,
And tickled sinners such as us
Who never want to make a fuss.
The curled up nurse of Russia Road is building ghosts of crimson brick,
Hurting the sick, and Christmas pale
With the poisoned tip of her sharpened nail.
She nestles by comparison with the dullards of noon.
Who would have thought it expensively cruel
To do it in the dentist froth,
Now that she's lost in Hoxton Square?
Barely able to breath;
Hairy and ****
Sticky to the last.
See the violent and widespread bed spasms of Arbuckle’s bottle,
And the lamp lit cancer of corrosive blue whining,
The ill mannered throat-goose
And the manicured miscarriage of Mendleson's twenty fourth mother.
Felix was peeling
We knew it to be true,
Even back then
In the pickled omentum.
The pompous rebuffs and the transparent gloves of yawning;
It seemed not she like.
See the museum’s scratched trumpet mask of medical sod,
And the soft dissection of the ink *****
Implements of ticking and slip with the slow itch and clop.
The anatomy doll, all green and glad;
Its uncertain internal shrinking of Crippen;
The skull’s Baron of the Intact Apparent.
She cradles her parents in terrified liver
Resembling dill with an unusual, excitable finish.
Meanwhile out in Kraków:
The idiotic London guillotine shop
Shows eight obscene operation reveals trembling on a saucer.
This, I'm unafraid to never say, is not almost uncertainly bowel pay.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
It was a night unlike the nights before and longer if that can be true of any night where Angels flew with witches.
Do you think, that night was flat?
I ironed out the early evening late day sun unaware of events to come and sallied as I usually did,with hooded eyes to see surprising things occur.
In Hoxton Square and City Road where the dying light unloads its feeble rays,where days of top hat and tails once sailed into the West.
End is always best much better than the starting out.
A shout cuffs in on the Northerly breezing sleeve of winds that never leave this soul..
Buy me gas for a lighter head..words said,spoken from those tortured lips where sadness slips upon the oily streets.
Young girl sleeping in the rain..soaking up more pain on which no passing eyes will glance.
No measure there,no chancing of a lady fate to close that wound..without a sound or with no sound to hear..her eyes quite clear in the evening air,laying there for all the world to see and yet unseen.
Another queen of broken promises of beaten faces,broken heart the endings are maybe not as good as when we start.
Another night unlike and yet the same for some who sway with dreams upon the warming sun that they once knew.
Another do or die another sadness yet to lie..yet and die.
I cry myself to sleep.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
From November 2012..it will soon be the cold again.
dedicated to the memory of Grant Burford, the Giant in the beanie hat.
It was a night unlike the nights before and longer if that can be true of any night where Angels flew with witches.
Do you think, that night was flat?
I ironed out the early evening late day sun unaware of events to come and sallied as I usually did with hooded eyes to see surprising things occur.
In Hoxton Square and City Road where the dying light unloads its feeble rays, where days of top hat and tails once sailed into the West.
End is always best much better than the starting out.
A shout cuffs in on the Northerly breezing sleeve of winds that never leave this soul,
buy me gas for a lighter head, words said, spoken from those tortured lips where sadness slips upon the oily streets.
Young girl sleeping in the rain soaking up more pain on which no passing eyes will glance.
No measure there,
no chancing of a lady fate to close that wound,
without a sound or with no sound to hear
her eyes quite clear in the evening air,
laying there for all the world to see and yet unseen.
Another queen of broken promises of beaten faces, broken heart the endings are maybe not as good as when we start.
Another night unlike and yet the same for some who sway with dreams upon the warming sun that they once knew.
Another do or die another sadness yet to lie, yet and die.
I cry myself to sleep.
True story, the Giant in the Beanie hat knew the girl, one of so many people he helped, I didn't cope well with the situation and it was later that the irony struck me, well **** me, should I judge a ****** he never did.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 12:04 PM UTC