Blistered rubber hits the street,
'better that than my feet', he says.as he
sits and begs in the poundland parking bays.
He does alright,it seems that those who don't have much
are an easy touch for the beggars charm
but he means no harm,
he's not dangerous
doesn't make a fuss if you don't 'cough up' and drop
a few pennies in his cup.
He isn't moving on though,I saw him there a
long time ago,he didn't look so bad then
among the mad men,now just a sad man on
his own wearing
cross ply radials on each foot (minimal tread)
not such a nut,
he's walked enough through many rains and in
surfing through the pain of it,now he's had enough of it,
so poundland suits him fine,

not the milk, you see, is too sweet,
thick, which will rhyme if i write,
for me.

thick like the wool that filled
breaches in the wall, saved the lives.

save some with shelter, needing shelter,
while others lean to watch the birds fly,
talk of the bell tower, and all the implications.

the man parked his car, tidily went to poundland,
bought cards.

sbm.

*notes verb
verb: condense; 3rd person present: condenses; past tense: condensed; past participle: condensed; gerund or present participle: condensing

1.
make (something) denser or more concentrated.

Thank you Shaun,
for the pictures and flowers.
Thank you Lily,
for the ray of sunlight.
Thank you Bry,
for psychopathic measure.
Thank you D,
for the feeling of good pleasure.
Thank you Tay,
for tea and bears.
Thank you Meg,
for Sherlock and apples.
Thank you Zee,
for robots and twins.
Thank you Carrie,
for fangirling and friendship.
Thank you Liam,
for support and superheroes.
Thank you Paul,
for understanding and ingenious.
Thank you Ceryen,
for fake names and shared tears.
Thank you Chiara,
for Italian cheese and fanfics.
Thank you Rod,
for fish and evil.
Thank you Lia,
for kitties and souls.
Thank you Stephen,
for gravestones and vegetables.
Thank you Christine,
for mercurial and poetical love.
Thank you Caitlin,
for product design and Poundland.
Thank you Jordan,
for weddings and Brenda.
Thank you Conaill,
for DT and Courbet.
Thank you Brendan,
for axes and aunts.
Thank you Tom,
for form time and Brittany.
Thank you George,
for philosophies and pigeons.
Thank you Morgan,
for video games and hearing.
Thank you Alice,
for Pokemon and tumblr.
Thank you Aliyah,
for hearing aids and help.
Thank you all,
for reading and listening.
Thank you, me,
for absolutely nothing.

Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm ***** and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.

It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.

where was I
in Mile end?
yes,
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.

Wandering the store,
The womens section is a far off shore,
Its drains me of my sanity,
I become what should not be,
in madness I begin to dwell.
In a personal nightmare and hell,
I begin to smile and giggle,
Thinking of the blood beginning to trickle,
I laugh and bend double,
Thinking of all my trouble,
But where do I put this pain of mine?
I run but it stays by my side.
I wanna cut again,
Put a bullet in my head and be gone,
But I'm told that's wrong,
So I listen to my favourite song,
I **** myself in my mind but not body,
And tell everyone I'm sorry.
walking around,
Chasing her about the shop,
Start to run aground,
I look and stop.
Womens clothes it hurts my heart,
Oh no, oh no no, oh no no!
Just go next door, don't make me start,
Just go to poundland, please just GO!
£20 sale shorts,
Ugly, nothing to her,
Running back and forth, I'm not much for sports,
Oh my this is causing a stir.
I try to relax, chill with my shades,
I just go numb,
Two days later it all just fades,
I curl fingers under thumb,
I clench my jaw,
Put my back in,
It aint ice cuz it don't thaw,
Don't blame me but anger is my sin.
Fall from grace,
Bleed the hate out,
Brush the glass from my face,
Scream and shout.
My mirror is broken,
My heart is sore,
Its toll has been taken,
That much I swore.

pink lights possibly work

like the rose tinted spectacles.



everything looks warm and safe,

needing large curtains in sombre fabrics

to hide us. is this the first step, two red

bulbs from poundland, at two for a pound.



fold the empy box flat,

and made keep it for future

ideas on rosiness.



sbm.

We ain’t sending Christmas cards any more!
We’ve done the list and that’s it!
Oh no!…There’s another one just dropped through the door.
You approach it gingerly like an unexploded bomb
Cautiously wondering “who the eff is it from?”

“Oh no! It’s someone who’s not on the list… the *******!”
Or, an older relative who doesn’t ‘do’ computers....
“We don’t do computers!”...
And so it bounces off them this ‘losers’ two pronged attack.
like getting one in the post and not sending one back!
But we definitely ain’t sending cards any more!

Can’t they just send an e-card, maybe one of those Jacqui whats-her-name jobbies...
with floating fairies, sleigh bell sound effects and ****** labradors too.
Or bang off a picture of Santa on FaceBook, Twitter, SnapChat, Instagram…surely that will do.
Oh no they’ve got to go the whole nine yards.
Even if they buy ****** Poundland Cards
there’s still the cost of a ****** stamp! That’s extortionate too!
No… Sorry… actually not sorry...
We ain’t buying OR sending cards any more!

We’ll donate to charity instead - that’ll be us…
It’ll be cheaper and a lot less fuss.
Sponsor a neglected reindeer, maybe a redundant elf
Or yeh…better still - rescue a pup.
One that WAS just for Christmas then just got chucked.
For me this Christmas mail-out is over - the game's definitely up!
Or really… if all else fails…we’ll just buy next year’s supply
in bulk from the January sales!

I am a man living in a house made of boxes
some are posh, others are bedraggled, anything to keep away those **** foxes
I started with a base build, long and robust, its where I have my open window above
only a square mind, it couldn’t be too big although it’s what I’d really love

No corridors or an upstairs en-suite
no no no, not in this hovel, now that really would have been a treat
The big names placed accordingly out there on the front entrance
Amazon to Harrods, Waitrose to Marks, leftover Poundland to build my fence

The roof a leftover roll of industrial cellophane wrap
my outdoor toilet just by the tree, a forest en-suite but no basin or tap
cooking can be a pain as a fire really could spread
a front room so small I eat my dinner from my bed

Now don’t let people tell you you're just some smelly old ***** as you are not
it's just a wrong decision I made in life, now this is how I survive and to camp
the boxes build a structure of life that is not always sturdy and stable
but if that’s how my life went, now I’m just bottom of some table

For this is my home
my refuge
my rest
my result

Remember, we all live a different life, just be grateful for what you have

The Box House

JJB

Okay,
I must make a foray into the wilds of the day
shopping at Poundland and
coffee at Costa then
back home for Brahms or a slight
touch of Tosca.
adieu.

We have to knit one and pearl one, two bouncing babies, a boy and a girl one because we like to keep things neat.
I used to be neat
not a beatnik
like Rik,
who is immortalised
yet again in the poem

he should pay me.

and who can blame me?
I'm coming up short for a trip
to Poundland.

hope on a rope is
like the soap but
doesn't wash away.

Dangle your suspicions
strangle my concerns
the world turns
even if it is flat
which I never believed
being well rounded.

his is the tomorrow that Jack built.

Slash and burn, rotate a half turn, repeat for effect and leave no stone unturned

A government that fails to see that to be popular it has to be
fair.
police the police that police the poor but only if you can find them,
cop shops closing all the time, bandits having a grand old time doing the things that bandits do , which is generally doing me and doing you too.

Poundland.

lala going gaga but no beds at these hospitals unless you're super ******' Bupa
or as crazy as a box of tuna and quite frankly
Jack don't give a flying frig if you think you're Pugwash on the Black Pig, he's building us a certain death by barcoding our every breath and stapling our ears to walls,
Yes, old Jack has got us by the mobile phone which is just the same as by the ***** but can apply and does to all and sundry.

Plainly and
in clear view behind your back they're mothballing you
to wheel you out, exhibit A
the title from
a Broadway play.

I'm shelling peas.

You'll not be going to Lapland,
but if you're lucky
you might get to Poundland,

Santa's in the bottom drawer
Rudolph ******* and what's
more
Donner's done up Blitzen like
a kipper.
and
the elves are all in Tesco's
except for Charlie, he's in
Wilko's,

so Lapland's out
and homeland's in,
have a brandy
have a gin
and put your feet up
for the duration.

.


Blame it on society or
the council housing policy,

my eyes meet only strangers
on the High street and the Broadway
who are doing it the only way they can.

The man who's on a mission
going fishin' or just drowning
in the goods they have on offer
at the local poundland superstore

More to draw on when they're starving
or when
carving out a better future
each man an artisan in
search of better times.