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Michelle Quick Nov 2010
He struts through the street
With an arrogant stride
A staffy at his feet
Fills him with pride
Baseball cap on his head
Peak points in the air
Yea blood I'm hard
And I don't seem to care
Trackies and hoodies
Are the code of his dress
Big golden chains
Hang low on his chest
Sock's pulled up high
Above his designer boots
I'm a council house chav
So proud of me roots
I'm hard and I know it
And I'll rob ya of bread
Don't mess with me
Or you'll end up dead
His attitude stinks
Filth falls from his gob
With a chip on his shoulder
He don't want a job
But under the bravado
He's as quiet as a mouse
Living his life
From his council house
His mum is on drugs
His dad is long gone
No wonder this bloke
Turned out to be wrong
So show him some kindness
Just a friendly word
Might just be the the thing
That stops him doing bird
I somehow much doubt it
But its worth a try
Cause deep underneath
He's a friendly guy
Michelle Quick copyright 2010
I want his look
not his favourite Ironman T-shirt
I'm not an Irongirl
I'm not an iron anything sort
I want him creases and all
not his “to infinity” golden band
it has the ring of something too definite
I want him here
“and beyond”
just how far
I'm not yet sure about
not his ultra clean pair
of New Balance sports shoes
I'm not the run around sort
wet trackies pants hot and loose
I want him caught off balance
bare footed on the grass

I want his look
and when he gives it
straight back
into my eyes
I know what...

I'll look away at the skies
and hope beyond hope
he'll interpret my act
ironman out my shyness
ring the changes I want
and run beneath my disguise
to find an orange not a lemon

only trouble is
I think he won't
because at this early stage
we don't have much in common

O ******
he's looking...
                                    the sky's so bright!
like he's going to...
                                     I squint!
                                     blind!
                                     eyes shut!
be just my...
                                      I'm so silly!
.... dotage
huh! maybe I should try...
courage?
a comic character?
hypnotism?
an older age?
- Melanie W.
Ryan May 2020
So, up to Liverpool,
pretty cool,
I've got family there, and I'm trying to find my bearings.

When I was a kid I went with my Auntie to the Adelphi Hotel,
I remember it well,
so that's where I'll start, move my feet,
it's a quick walk to Bold Street.

Everyone flocks to the Albert Docks,
regenerated, updated, and has created a vibrant corner of a once-thriving port city,
which is pleasing,
the only downside is it's ****** freezing!

The nights out are decent too,
this where Liverpool really pulls through.
Matthews Street, can't be beat,
or Concert Square,
where, you head to Baa Bar for some shots and a few jars.

Then onto Nation with the rest of Liverpool's student population,
going down to Wolstenholme Square,
great memories, shame it's no longer there.

Capital of Culture, lots to explore,
the council wants to restore the city centre,
Liverpool One is second to none.

New shops to buy our Fred Perry tops,
new bars to entertain us,
new places to wear our smart Adidas trainers.
A modern shopping centre to walk through,
have they really called it Everton Two?

Girls off to the supermarket with their hair up in rollers and wearing their PJ's,
funny looks on the face of people who are new to the place.

Lads in black Lacoste trackies,
in the 1980s they came back from the continent after European success,
wearing Fila and Ellesse,
it was called casual,
the style went national.

A city of myths legends,
some more tongue in cheek but still unique.

A sock robber from Kirkby,
is it the original Cavern Club? Well, to a degree.
What about Carragher's tattoo?
He's blue born and bred,
is Paul McCartney actually dead?

I know it's a clichè, but I must say,
it isn't a mere rumour,
there is undoubtedly a Scouse sense of humour,
wordplay and the inflexion on the things they say.
A witty city that's for sure, come and visit,
you'll have everything you need and more.
A beginner who is looking for some opinions and constructive feedback.
Shevek Appleyard Nov 2022
Home is an old red rucksack that my mother took round Chile
filled with my baggiest trackies for months
where home is trains and tubes and my headphones on coaches
Home is the rain when it batters the outside of a humble caravan
Home is a little wood burner, and a long green coat that was gifted unintentionally
and worn by many

Home is waiting for the triangle bus
Home is a cup of coffee in the right shaped mug
Home is a cigarette, shared with my sister in a pub
Home is our brother owning the pool table, modest and silent
Home is now the sea, but not in summer
mid-November waves, rough and lonely

Home is the river, the flow and the feeling
the fish and the constellations of a shared celling
Home is mums’ casserole and fresh bread still warm but under proved
Home is a shed, strangled with ivy
Home is tea and malt milk biscuits
Home is magic stars pasta beans and cheese and Netflix
Home is my duvet
Home is crumbs creeping into a lumpy mattress

Home is the day, lazy and underwhelming
Home is grandmas own tomatoes
Home is a laugh from an inside joke
Home is her long red hair, her stumbles and soup
Home is hazel eyes singing, by light from candles in old gin bottles

Home is a spoons breakfast with zero sleep
Home is a sink full of washing up
Home is cobwebs and a faded hoodie stained with paint and the smell of hash
Home is sharpened knife that can nicely slice when I am cooking to the bass my mini rig creates

Home is in the woods a maze of plot twists
mapped in childhoods haze of coordinates
Home holds smiles from guests and strangers who become family
Home is vats of marmalade, in sticky jars that collect dust they sit for so long
Home is the chorus of a Finley Quay song
Home is the journey I am on

Home is the field
the mud when its ripe beneath my toes
the grass worn with love
Home is a guitar (sandy with stickers)
I am home in her lyrics that swirl through the air
captivate by this Home we created
and our feet know the pattens of the beat
Home is the taste of freshly smashed melon
Home is a cluster of tents around a fire
and a tarp of scribbles

Home is the purr of Roo
Her velvet fur and trills of love
Home is an overgrown garden I used to tend to
Home is holly leaves transformed into wishes
Home is memories of butterfly kisses
Home is a hug when words aren't needed
Home is where I'm not alone

Home is him, the smell of his car and comfort of his arms
Home is his orange overalls
Home is a rhetorical question when I’m looking at his face
Home is not always a place



(Needs a big edit still)
So, I heard you want to be Middle-Class?
Jet-setting in the sun with an afternoon siesta
Not Karen from accounts still driving her 05 Fiesta
Starts to read The Telegraph, not the red top Daily Star
Cocktails at lunch in trendy Morrelos, not the 2 for 1 deal in a Wetherspoons bar
Credit card explosion on the latest pair of Nikes
You wouldn't catch me shopping in Primark, go on, take a hike
Possibly a change in friends,
names like Beatrice, Bijou, and Arrabella
Not the kids on the street, dressed in 90s trackies, still listening to old Paul Weller
No, a change is needed if I want to climb the ladder in this world
A Waitrose loyalty card and sandwiches from Marks,
now a proper Middle-Class girl

Middle-Class Me

JJB

— The End —