Saturday, August 24, 2019


During those hours at work I can
Generally be found making talk on the
Checkout.  I flirt occasionally, chat
To almost everyone who comes my
Way.  It’s different down this way,
The people, with more money
Seem somehow friendlier, I guess
More satisfied with their lives.  I
Stand and wait not caring who it is
That comes for this is my job and
For a few months here all seems
Well.  We’ve got town’s most
Ineffectual shop lifting casualty
Whose so far been caught every
Single time.  I’ve met all kinds of
People, most rich but as yet none
A writer but should that really surprise?

For this life of mine is meant to be
Like this; hardly anyone gets signed
To faber & faber, so a life on the bottom
Rung of the poetry world is all I aspire
To and therefore a life of being eternally
Poor knowing these royalties will never
Stretch far enough to quit my job
And just go for it.  If work stays like
This though maybe life won’t be so bad
As I can always drink whenever I want
Whilst the smoke is ready to be supplied
And of course there will always remain
The magic of the word.


Wednesday night and I'm sat in a garden by way of a change
A garden I one day dream of being my own
And whilst the sun is setting I find myself happy at last
It ain't 40 degrees and the breeze means I ain't going to get heat stroke today
And for that I'm truly grateful
But then there is always the thought, the damn dreadful though
That this time next week I'll be back at home
Lost in the madness that captivates Brighton town


I sit here on this Friday night
With the option of going to the pub
Meet with some work colleagues and
Stare at some girls for fun, or I
Could sit here nursing a most glorious
Bottle of the finest port, got today
Only three quid fifty, and sit here
Writing these words.  Shit, if I
Pick one it’ll seem like I’m still in
The game whilst the other might
Just mean I’m out, that I really do
Love poetry more than girls, and
Will never get that visceral rush
Of how a new love feels each
Time they come around...

This port tastes real good
Real good indeed as I choke on this
My second glass of said stuff but
I know I’ve been out the game for
So long that if I sit here drinking for
Maybe ten minutes more we’ll
See again whether I’ll prove
Myself wrong once more...

Tonight I was going to sit here
And drink, smoke and write a poem
About my Nan and loneliness
But that it appears will have to wait
Until another day.  It’s time to go
Roll one, hell make it three, get a
Drink and have some fun, who
Knows the wild times may have
Returned again...


It’s 6.27am and I’m out of my fucking mind
The smoke has worn off already and nausea is all that remains
So what to do but smoke another
Get even more unhinged, disengaged and ultimately alone
For that is the life that has been laid out for me
To simply be left alone, mad yet bored, forever more.


Saturday night
Home alone, my life almost back to normal
After that brief flirtation
When most things were fine
But the drinking was oh so brutal
Now I sit
With a full bottle
In my kitchen
Which, tonight,
Shall remain untouched
As last night
Was a forgotten one
Lost in a haze of
Bars and drinks
And smokes on
Street corners as
Strangers walked on by.

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...