I was always told that
Angels fell to earth right out of the sky.
But I’ve just seen some plough through the street
In a soft-top GTI.
They wear no halos or feathered wings
Just low cut tops weighed down with bling.
They reach for offerings from higher powers
Whilst blurting out a verse so sour

From the radio distortions
Where the treble and bass don’t mix.
They fester in daddy’s fortunes
Refuelling on Marlborough kicks.
No reasons to care or give a ****.
No schedule. No curfew. No back up plans.
Because the coke’s *****, the merlot’s cheap
They dance until they dare to sleep.

They own the roads and highway code -
They drive however they like.
Be it a classic Sunday saunter
Or ripping up bends at ninety-five.
No care for  what’s wrong or morally right -
Not the subtle difference between concrete and ice.
Their fate is held by a suspect man
With a shrouded face and a scythe in hand.

His mercy waveringly alters
At the flick of a delicate switch.
He knocks it upwards violently
With the most convulsing of kicks.
No red alert! No alarm bells ring.
No saviour. No hero. No Prince Charming
From Clapham to Clacton to save their souls -
They’re at home watching rich boys banging in goals.

The lightest clouds from brighter skies
Can’t cushion them from their fall
The sight of a hematic sunset
Is the last thing they shall recall.
No blessing, swan songs or final words,
No final pleas to be willingly heard.
It’s up to Daddy if they get to relish
His delicacies – or the unspeakably hellish.

you’re a snuggler
a tangler
a logistical link of limbs
that end up intertwining with mine

you kick me over some of the duvet
in the gentlest of gestures
and fester in the filth of your little sister’s linen
as the full moon sheds shame on our backsides.

but as the sun scowls through the window
that frames the four post
you wrap yourself in the sheets
like a sushi roll of biscuited bitterness

you natter to the bedbugs
the only ones who’ll listen to your curses
whilst me?
I’m basking in the warmth of a Sunday scandal.

Boadicea came into my quarters from the cold,
Took off her battle robes and her brooch of soiled gold,
Rinsed off the crimson stains from the blade of her knife
Then flung herself into my arms as she cried all through the night.

Her teardrops couldn't **** the fire in her eyes.
Each drip crawled down her skin, so blemished and so dry.
She scratched at every wound and buried battle scar
Until we were silent, staring up unto the stars.
But as I wet my lips to blow out the flame
She sealed my mouth and whispered my name.

She went on to tell me how the empire will fall.
How the togas will soon crumble within her kingdom walls,
How every man will no longer call the heavens their home
And stop begging for their names to be engraved in stone.
She said, "Come, be my magic and the power in my hands -
Tell me there's life left in this promised land!"
And just as the moon went out of our sight,
She fell onto the floor and howled with all her might:
"To all the Gods of things good and right
Don't you dare turn out my lights!"

But some sunsets later she stumbled back in
Looking ragged, holding unknown medicines.
She'd lost her strength, seen her comrades die
But my arms and magic were sharply denied:
"I won't live to watch my men suffer as they bleed
A short and sweet release is my final plead -
So let me free now.”

And she turned out her lights
As we cried.

I know you follow TopShop trends
But why not try me for size?
Abandon all your misfit friends
And put on something that suits you best
Some Primark instead of your Armani rest.
We’ll wear it like it’s fashion
This love we share tonight.

So before this London sun ascends
Let me see you under city lights
And as the summer air thickens
Bare your gleaming teeth, your LA smile
Whilst I drink in your grace and guile.
I’ll sip it neat and sweet
This love we share tonight.

My dear I’m afraid we will always be
Nothing more than chocolate and cheese.
Whilst you’re caviar, diamonds and fine Persian silks
I’m a 20p tabloid, sliced bread and skimmed milk.
Your standards: astronomical, but I’m easily pleased!
My pet, I’m afraid we’re just chocolate and cheese.

Yes - we’re simply chocolate and cheese.
Ask your sow of a mother, I’m sure she’ll agree.
She’ll tell you I’m feral and my manner’s uncouth
But doesn’t she know? She’s the living proof!
But you’re not much of a fighter, scared to disagree
Unlike me. We are merely chocolate and cheese.

Chocolate and cheese, we’re buds far apart
You love with your head, I think with my heart.
You keep your hands clean (whilst I get mine *****)
And agree to whatever whilst I’m getting shirty.  
If I’m daringly dairy, then you’re gluten free.
Too frightened to argue why we’re chocolate and cheese.

So, chocolate and cheese we will always be
From this moment on for eternity.
You’ve not made a case - is it because mine’s rested?
You’re too scared to fail whenever you’re tested.
You'll never be bold and explicit like me.
So forever you’re chocolate and forever I’m cheese.

Let him sleep tonight
For his bed has been made.
A corrugated cotton sheet spangled red and blue
Reposing over hackneyed *****
Soothing the sores and aches of his daily grind.  

Let him sleep tonight
For his eyes are heavy
From the sight of comrades blown sky bound
Where he hopes to unite with them
For moments where they can rest at wanting ease.

Let him sleep tonight
For he has already heard his lullaby -
An opus of shrapnel and sirens
Bleeding through a shell-shock ensemble
Singing to the rhythm of the reloaded gun.  

Let him sleep tonight
For his flesh has gone cold
And his voice left desiccate,
Thirsty for the warmth that only an eternal blood and
Brotherhood can offer.

The coca-******* parties
The weekend spews at 10
The cycle of sleeping and *******
Repeats itself again
The brown, the crack, the ****, the smack
Fuel her replica world
It’s a far off cry from the glamorous life
Promised to the matchstick girl

A head of hair thatched upon
Walls of weak foundation
The chic new style to fill the aisles
And sweep entire nations.
She’s Bambi on ice in a dress so tight
It would make your mother hurl
But we live in a time where all women pine
For the look of the matchstick girl

The big old Pappa Razzi
Guard her every step
From the same hold-hand fanatics
That crave her vinous breath
The punks, the queens, the teenage dreams
Who buy their love with pearls
Stick close to her side and somewhat abide
They’re friends with the matchstick girl.

The Sunday evening voicemails
The daily text of pain
From a desolated mother
Who begs to see her again.
The pleas, the cries, the tears don’t dry
While apologies unfurl
For the sins, the aches and major mistakes
Made by the matchstick girl.

sugar-soaked in sepia
our expressions embellished like squashed liquorice
a sticky tattoo on tattered sleeves
an exhibition of adolescence

smiles that split our faces sore
gnawed lips cracking
to reveal chattered gnashers
stained from library coffee and
polished with bargainbin toothpaste

our salted skin doused in *****
and coke – making the memory oh-so sweeter
surrounded by a band of bar-time brothers
lost in an array of technicolour strobes
oblivious to the incoming traffic
and the carcrash they call adulthood

I remember the melody being played
the regular Wednesday swansong
NOW DON'T LOOK BACK IN ANGER

I rarely do

if your love-life is a jukebox
shuffling between songs
without the choral ecstasy
and lasting half as long
you can wallow down the mouthpiece
and shed a tear or two
call in to the Lonelyline
and ask for someone blue

if it’s company you crave
but can’t find a human touch
and the lexicon of love
sounds more like Double Dutch
if you ache for promiscuity
desire to feel brand new
simply dial 2583
and ask for someone blue

you might hear somebody carnal
who idly begs for you
or someone purely platonic
but wouldn’t know what to do
they might be flirty and 30
or decrepit at 92
but rest assured they’re bound to be
someone else who’s blue

Take me back to Chelsea please
Where the flossed and glossed smile at me
And everyone’s kind to an open mind
That’s materialistic in design.
Where locals embrace me all open armed
Whenever I’m crinkling cash in my palms.
So eject me fast from this boorish ******
And take me back to Chelsea please.

Take me back to Chelsea please
Outside the city’s financial squeeze
Where mummy and daddy pay the cheques
For my escargots and Ready Brek.
I’ll wield through the system with the family name
And use all the power of my local fame.
Oh, to live life without la joie de fees
Come take me back to Chelsea please.

Take me back to Chelsea please
To put my social norms at ease.
I miss my measly excuse of friends
Who constantly ***** to make amends
For their failed entrepreneurial careers
Their dialect a hodgepodge of gobbles and sneers.
I long for their monotonous wheeze
So take me back to Chelsea please.

Chelsea, Chelsea you’re all I adore
From the A308 to the A304.
You’re the sole nirvana I can’t bear to depart,
Your femmes fatales know the paths to my heart.
But you will always have the its lock and key
So Chelsea: come and take me back please.