Shall we get a beer?
But it’s 7 in the morning
Yeah but tomorrows boring and the corner shop’s near, 2017 is just another year, a poisoned liver is just another fear,
Two fifty, click click, cheers, cheers, clink, clink
Drink slips down and sits atop of a mixture ready to be pissed,
A liquid to be missed in the desert of tomorrows drought
We must look shifty out our heads at this time, here here, clink clink, cheers, cheers, drink, drink, echo of two mens footsteps sear, penetrate boys eardrums, reverberates round the humdrum
Let’s shed a tear son, because its me and you, its us and blues, moving through, its us and the black, moving forward, moving forward,
Where is there to go back?
Ewell silently dwindles like a dying fire with a shine as dead as an old copper, lost but not forgotten down the back of the sofa
At what cost?
A lot probably, but no need to tell me as the water which drowns the blue of your eyes tells all as it fights hard to extinguish the remnants of the wretched flames of a waste of time, waste of space, waste of place,
What are we gonna do?
I dunno about me, what about you?
Same with me too, look up at the moon, look down at our shoes stained by toes bloodied and blue from walking the streets in search for some truth
Truth’s a funny thing which doesn’t exist in a sentence,
Truth’s a thing claimed by lost souls trapped in pretence,
In actual fact its a thing which creeps up like this sun,
This sun made of the same flames as the tragedy been done,
Home now, here, here, clink, clink, cheers, cheers, drink, drink, tilt your chin up and I’ll do the same,
lets gulp down one last time to try and forget why we came,
To try and build up the courage to say,
To whisper, to scream, to let the world know our names,
Let’s shed a tear son,
because its me and you,
its us and blues,
its us and the black,
moving forward, moving forward,
No point going back
humid mist, humid mist, blissful wince in the shower as the water splish, splashes on yesterday’s sunburn, sizzling pinches, hot rich breaths on my shoulders lounging, loafing, stuck by sweat on the leather sofa stolen from the street looking neat in my garden nestled between healthy nettles and the roses for cheeks on english roses, english noses which lead on, follow the leader leader leader to the park, to the grass which couldn’t be greener greener greener, its been a long time since I’ve seen ya, how are ya? I love ya, you’re my best mate, let’s kick it, great pass, fall on your ass, hysterical implosion, laugh, cackle, shriek, heaving deep as your back is mercifully broken by the weight of the world, food lover consumed in absurdity, satisfied sportswear punk, lucid drunk, naked lunch, glistening silver-plated ripped packet of wotsits, life-confirming fag drag wisps, plastic bag drifting free and content from somewhere heavent sent to somewhere half-spent in a sympathetic wind sighing despair, care, life and all it’s light and dark haired little boy giggles at a fart that his little mate donny done, that’s funny, everything’s funny really, you got any money? Dunno, probably, wanna go two’s on twenties are the best years a life you wanna lead according to this terrible magazine daydreaming pupils read, twenties are sold in 10-pound boxes which ridiculously detail how they help you pass away, twenties debaucery, the decade long party meant to be cautionary but lets throw that into a breeze mentioned in a distant memory, get carried like arrows in a parry, like a toddler with her whole life ahead of her giggling, kicking waddling legs in a swaddling blanket to sunbathers in brockwell park, to a tragic old rockstar in the elephants head, to dancing with a 6-foot model getting west in east, south london blunt chuffing rastas forking out for rum in spoons, to stars knifing the unpolluted cornish sky, to 5am bleary eyed holiday takers in gatwick’s Costa, to the sweaty musk on a runner running through dusk, gotta win, gotta be first, maybe I’ll just settle for seconds as vacuous as midnight promises between puppy lovers in pub booths bashing heads, nuzzling necks, twisting tongues to silently solve troubles time-trapped and tangled tongue twisters, tonsil tennis, 40-15, 40 loves a game we’re winning in 30-40 degree heat, its all good sport logos sported by good sports, good sorts, she’s a sort, she’s pure sauce, sorta broad I’d court woops caught short thinking silly thoughts I shouldn’t ought staring at her taut short shorts, stalk-like, bald-white legs out, thats alright, whoever you are, wherever you are in this whether to have a drink now or later, what’s later? Later is not now somehow but I don’t know how not now could every be found, conceived, seen by a minds eye blinded by cloudless light, like seriously what’s night? A friend I’ve known for years tells me its when you dream. Whats a dream? Not sure, probably something worth hoping for. Like what? I dunno, like right now, when hours taste like souffles, so sweet, sweet sweeties treat me to a torn up tongue humming an 80s tune, this is a tune, who are you? I love loving too we say with moistened eyes refracting fruit machine rainbows like dust dancing rays through a grubby, glass of water my booze decicated, emaciated, salt emaciated face reflects what it ought to, what is shouldn’t ought to: my rippling reflection burning as blisteringly true as cigarettes, a untroubling reflection which reflects a bubbling, blistering complexion swearing as clinically as tourettes that it doesn’t get better than this, this bliss, misty eyes, hot wet highs, mist, humid mist, humid humid mist from water which splish, splashes on yesterdays sunburn, sizzling pinches causing a blissful wince, what bliss, what bliss
When a second lacks promise like 3.30am
And full days seem just as dark
What my dad did doth done teach me
Is stretch your legs and find a laugh.
A belly-bellow televised in Technicolor,
Uninhibited and gleeful like Spike,
Which fizzes and swirls and turns against the world,
Beating any sour, old Boycott for flight
Wake up in the morning which opens up instinctively like your yawning mouth, trying to find air to breathe,
Phone on, turns south, screen beams screams back at you
No new news story, same old Tories, getting gory, that Trump’s a chump, a C-U-N-T (cunt), bring back the fox hunt! Brexit, we’ll make a mess of it, Great Britain’s glory is a boring part of history, the future seems to be nothing to do with me and what I believe in,
The sportswear punk’s yawns are like flares that no one else is seeing, that no ears hear
No ears hear the searing sips of bargain bucket beer I take in my garden between screaming-“fuck it”-sighs which evaporate hot, clear tears streaming, thundering, from cheek to chin to shoulder like transparent boulders
Because the sensitivities of those near, far and wide are older, colder, clamping shut their eyes, closing their minds to remember golder times, “the golden days” – give me a break
Unprepared for World War 3 when it’s declared by ignorance with bloated guts, skin like pus, silly haircuts, silly haircuts
But you can finish up your yawn
Bear your teeth like thorns and grit them
The anachronists can look back and sit and remember – but we can stand up and dream about forever,
Let’s sever old-rope ties, expose lies, empathise, sympathise with the young, old, black, white
Let’s wipe away the sleep in our eyes and use our time to make something of our lives
Let’s feel the suns that shine, the suns of Britain.
So finish up your yawn
Bear your teeth like thorns and grit them
We are the suns of Britain.
We are the suns of Britain.
Dear anna (or is it bella?),
I’m writing you this letter
Cos I know I’ve got no stamps
Whilst you dance with your key
In the heat of post teen steam,
I sit, sip, soak like damp
As if you’re Woolworths pick’n’mix
Stupid boys steal teeth and lips
I wonder what could have been,
Maybe you dream, same as me,
Anyways, yours faithfully, Tommy B