a pub

I spy with my little eye something beginning with an ending
“Alright mate I’ll have a short to start my long unwinding”
Dropped glass, through which 3D footie tv beams are bending
Red white and blue and blue, i’m blue, the booth’s leather is unbinding
I sniff with my little snout the stench of unused promises
The condom machine is clogged like my head, the stale latex rots
Huddled locals dream of sun, sea and love, like me, dumb solipsists
But I can’t escape, short unchanged, suffocate, bossman keep the windows locked
Jukebox is on repeat, 77 chic, punks not dead, or so I’m taunted
Or so we’re damned, perhaps I should hope too, “excuse me mate, wheres the loo?”
Branded on the toilet cakes, The Queens Head is flaunted,
She tries battle with the stink. She’ll lose, but I suppose it’s something to do
Something to sense
Time’s passed in the present tense
Another one please
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midnight poet

I am the midnight poet, get to know it

Gimme a dark-seized scene and I’ll own it

Writing as I beat my chest hair – i’ve grown it

My fag end illuminates, come and toke it

 

Toke it, see us in the shimmering smoke:

We are the ripe lychee lung to the old

Toads’ tarred raisins who ribbit, croak, soak

In stagnant pub-booths browned by yeasty mould,

Whereas our fresh froglet legs bounce from bar

To bar, make way has-beens, this city’s ours:

 

Our dicks pierce it’s air, spelling out our names

On a wall with hot piss, midnight poet

And mates and dates all hunting, we’re all game

For a house party, call them, don’t blow it,

Promise we’ll try not to eat them alive,

“My round. What’s your poison?” Mine’s a snakebite

 

Glug that down quick slurp burp, another one,

More more more jagerbombs which detonate

Reminders that I’m my sweet mothers son,

Replacing enlightened childhood landscapes

Is the ink-blot vomit of bus stop glare,

Porch bulb, disco ball, where’s the bog?, upstairs

I scramble,

Past dying partiers

Upstairs,

look in the mirror

W h o’ s t h a t b o y?

The mind and mouth empties

of word’s as I

blulleghhegh

Hhhblllee.rg!hererh

H,huur?rg;;gghlhg.!?hhh

 

Check my breath

 

Should take it as a

warning!

?

W h o ‘s  t h a t  b o y ?

But the nightsky’s incessant grin taunts me

Threatens to swallow me whole in dark victory

And my fists clench.

Who’s that boy?

It’s a man:

I am the midnight poet, get to know it

Gimme a dark-seized scene and I’ll own it

Writing as I beat my chest hair – i’ve grown it

My fag end illuminates, come and toke it

 

I spit blood-clot phlegm mixed with vomit back into the ceramic piss bucket, dim but still lit, gob rocketing out of whistling lips, I’m kim jong young and fulla rum, hahaha that’s a pun, this is fun, so fucking fun, told you I was good with words, stumble drunk, clunk, bang a table, ow that hurts, some chump says “a bump for you you sweet mother’s son of a bitch? numb the itch in your nose, sniff this, dab that, this powder’s white, not black”, crack open a tin, “that’s a sin”, who said that? Spin round on the attack, condensed mass of sweating backs, need a fag, need a fag,

breathe,

just relax, just relax,

tilt your head back, listen to this tune from 2002, “has it come to this?”, the streets, 2002, reminds me of a childhood beach, sat with my family, licking happily on a rocket lolly bought by my mother, lovingly smothering on suncream, the sea beams green, gulls swoop serene, lie back and breathe as aimlessly as daydreams,

“OI OI you alright lad? Sniff this, dab that, this powders white not black”

Brain whizz, blood fizz, shit, has it come to this?

“you shouldn’t be doing that” advises some lips,

who’s are they?

I’m seeing a guy I remember is my mate but out of his head sprouts my mothers hair, his blue eyes roll 360, reappear as her brown, his voice modulates up from a tone down,

“You can do whatever you wanna do,” she says. “But is this you, ‘midnight poet’?”

Has it come to this?

Brain whizz, blood fizz,

I’m gonna be sick,

I’m gonna be sick, need air,

Gonna vomit kaleidoscopic like this this disco ball

need air,

down stairs

nee.pld air

Out’34side

Subs.u8med int…o sha;;do’w

S.inknnk itno som790/ebue wooorrd.d.,llleee9ssss corenrrer

Sxelsesss proootttte.,,.ein

Timiiiidddj g        d,

Coweee/ri/ng./,//. As a b.o.yy.

Clo.,se myyyy eyes

b..eateen

beaten

Succt//.umb i.nto bla.ck eybi/…e.lids

 

 

He is the midnight poet,

And don’t we know it?

In the dead of night,

As the ashen oranges of cigarettes shrivel

And the sodium shadows dissolve,

into the viscous gloom,

The silhouette of a gasping body victoriously wears it’s gang’s black colours

Villainously sniggering at the futile striving of masculinity with it’s Don, the night sky.

He was the midnight poet

But it’ll probably be alright

Cos the sun,

Always rises,

Always resurrects.

The sun,

Always beats bright golden sobriety as loud as a judge’s gavel,

Rays which enlighten

As lovingly as a mother

a shower of one summer word after another

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

what’s yours is mine (sportswear punk)

If I am what I think
Then I couldn’t tell ya
If I am what I drink
Then I guess that I’m just Stella
If I get blue
I’ll be sure to bell ya
If you’re all heart
My crying line will surely melt ya
To say the smooth outweighs the rough
Would be to bluff
Would be to double bluff
I’m sipping rum out of a mug
Is that enough?
It don’t seem enough

Life’s a bitch and then you die
That’s why we say hi
To friend on the weekend
That pun was Nasty, just ignore me
Oh em gee! You’re so meta! You’re so clever
Nah just bored and at the end of my tether
Cos when days are as blank as my bank account
You delve into a familiar mind
And discover jarring half-rhymes,
Arrhythmic lines,
Fluctuating time,
Hate-crashed parties,
Discordant harmonies which you try and resolve
But that’s in vain:
The sportswear punk’s cold heart
Is a plastic that won’t mould
The who?
The kid’s who wanna/don’t wanna die before they get old
The kids who don’t need to sell their soul

Maybe that’s just me
I’ve been seething since I was teething
Punching the ceiling since I was breathing
But I’m not convinced I’m the only one
The idea doesn’t satisfy
Because I see the gunpowder in your eyes
Can smell the salt of tears you cry
Blurring your vision so you’re blissfully blind
Recognise the life you’re trying to find
What’s yours is mine
What’s yours is mine
And together we’ll be fine
Together we’ll be alright

chatting (an old love song)

Worlds fail as I gaze at your fingernails and how they tuck into your skin

Maybe it’s the drink but I can’t help but think of succumbing to a filthy sin

I wanna misbehave and surf the wave-like groove of the flesh of your lips

Cos I’m scared heartache will become heartbreak without the wet caress of your kiss

But the wall of guilt that circumstance has built weighs painfully heavy on my back

And so, for now, I’ll find solace, somehow, in your company, by chewing the fat

THIS IS IT version 2

when do you go?

I dunno, tomorrow or something,

one drink, two drink

I’ve packed the kitchen sink, might not fit in my new flat

ill come up to your halls one Saturday,

really?

yeah wont fuss, won’t stress, megabus, national express, up the fuckin m1 just to see my best mate

that sounds great

yeah sounds great…

hows it going at work?

could be worse

when does your new wage come through?

not a clue, end of the month or something,

three drink, four, one more?

sure fella,

two stellas please,

I guess we’ll have these and then we’ll say goodbye

part ways into an empty night,

it’s gonna be alright, isn’t it?

yeah mate, yeah, it’ll be fine

 

I’m next to the place my dad watched his son grow

The only home I’ve ever known

Im lying like a foetus in the middle of the road

Trying to stick to it like Velcro

Pretend the ground is a crisp white sheet

The curb a pillow

Trying to wrap up in the orange streetlight glow

But the light is nothing more than a bland sodium dribble

The tarmac is black

The concrete is cold

But I dare not stand back up

Because Im terrified of the blankness of the long night approaching

My nostrils curl at the hollow scent of autumn encroaching

Ah fuck im 20

This is it

What the fuck am I doing?

A 20 year old boy throwing a tantrum

Haunting himself with childhood’s ghosts, yesterday’s phantoms

There’s more to life than this

Hope is a solace

 

I stand back up

Hope is a solace

Lip so stiff its tough

And I look down my road to the sleepy houses

Rows of homes dwindling into an empty dream

And I paint a scene of blue and greens

Of gold and silver with smells heady and sweet

Oh fuck I’m 20

But hope is a solace

Oh fuck I’m 20

This is it

in the sun

I am in the sun

Sitting

Sunlight reflecting off my eyes

Which do not wince in the glare

Maybe my armpits are sweating

My skin perhaps getting burnt

I dunno

I look over to my right

People of children’s ages are playing and laughing and screeching

Climbing trees

Rolling on the grass

Whirling round on roundabouts

Soaring on swings

Their unspoilt, white faces grinning

Forming ageless memories of fun as he had done

The scene was expected

The rhythm of instinctual play undulating to a breeze whistling by

Coming from somewhere, going somewhere else

Harmonising with the breath of the trees

Sighing in the beating heat

The view moistens my eyes with jealousy

My heart groans begrudgingly at puberty

The hormones that poison immediate bliss

That rip open your eyes to ambition and sex and tragedy

Humanity

Because I sit alone

Lucid

My isolation empowers me and laughs at a recent memory

 

Moving like a wind I roll up into the city, person #26 sitting in this carriage, carrying my hopes for the night, sealing fate, hot date, don’t be late, half past 8, hello hello, hug hug, kiss kiss, you look great miss, I know this place round the corner, we move in the crowds, it’s like a sauna with clouds of steam billowing round, absorbing us, the cars, the busses, just been raining, all our faces are crept on by shadows in the failing sun, nah not this place, the next one, hop skip jump and we’re done with the walk, sit down and talk of the things everyone else is talking of in here, what you doing? How’s uni? You going on holiday this year? Clink clank, drink? Thanks. Everyone chitter chatters, somewhere a plate breaks, somewhere a glass shatters, doesn’t matter, because I’m sat opposite her, just a boy and a girl hurled through time, the cosmos so arranged that tonight, from 9, we can drink wine, climb inside each other’s minds and allow the forces of nature to do what they do, bring you closer to me and me closer to you. Liquid slips down and brows furrow deeper, conversation gets loud as I try to teach her all about me, my philosophy etcetera and vice versa, her lines said with such assurance it’s like she’s rehearsed them. We’re just animals, I’m nothing more than a sack of bones, we’re tiny and insignificant. The boldness is cold and I try to hold onto some sort of identity and reason, something to believe in, to keep me dreaming, but as I do I’m a hypocrite, I can’t deny it, i can’t hide it, I moved just like a monkey here, a pinball buffered by lust, fear, excitement, enticed by hope, just another sack of bones, another drone being thrown by the forces of time. Time to go, don’t you know, back home, alone, where I’ll moan and groan on the phone to a friend about my longing for some kind of tenderness, the same as us all, all hellbent on this idea that somehow I’m special, that I’m gonna be successful in love and money. But nah, just monkeys in shoes m8

 

But I am in the sun

Sitting

Sunlight reflecting off my eyes

Which do not wince in the glare

Maybe my armpits are sweating

My skin perhaps getting burnt

I dunno

Because my thoughts are too preoccupied

With ambition and mortality and humanity

To ever surrender myself to the weather