his phone rings
she says why don’t you answer it
he says it hasn’t said
anything yet     ..

I’m going away
for a while he
thought she’d
be ok about it  ..

tattoos are like putting
ink on a  j m w turner
no one’s a blank canvas

the upstairs window
looks out across the city
a figure peers back    ..

so what if I talk to myself
when I’m alone and
how the hell do you know  ..

she said I wonder
what you look like
without your glasses

he said I wonder
what you look like
without my glasses    ..

life can end
in a second, love
I’m just writing
a poem

we are
not what
we were
we ever?

sitting in the pub
thinking of my wife at
home half past
four in the afternoon

she says last night was a bad
    idea
well in that case thank goodness
   it’s over
he says
    and yet, she says, you’re still here      ..

see my poems as
just notes on the poems
I would like
to write but don’t

suggested a picnic
she said good idea
I’ll make the sandwiches
I said no, let them
decide for themselves

your underwears me down
with it’s expectation of
fulfilment, but I’m just not in the mood
right now I’m reading

got you a lettuce
hope you like it
it’s as crisp and green
as an apple   ..

got a kebab on the way home
could tell it was on the way home
it looked knackered

could tell you were disappointed,
but then,
you tell it so much better   ..

been together
for

so long

she says
I’m off   ..

not having felt great for
ages one somewhat ..

remember when your foot sank in
the mud and you lost your
shoe and I laughed and you never
forgave me? alright, I’m sorry   ..

watching you pull up
your tights as I
lie beneath the quilt in the half
light of the morning

accepting that I drink too much
is one thing,
but how about another?

things seldom
occur the way
one expects too much,
of course

young men fail to
notice the old bloke in the café
reading his paper
too busy with their phones
you can’t hide behind them
he says

there’s a few of us
going out tonight
if you’re interested

of course I am you
must tell me all about it
in the morning     ..

only ever known two women whose
feet I found attractive
and one I married -
don’t know what happened to the
other three     ..

old woman holding up the queue
as she fumbles for her purse
was once more beautiful than you
and far more fitting for a verse

the second hand bookshop has gone
and whilst I may have mislaid the odd
book or two, an whole shopful?

this was the very street
choc a bloc full of tightly pressed covers on
the shelves

wherein sad old men with aching feet
would often find ourselves

met my wife at work
said you forgot your sandwiches  ..

what do I want played
at my funeral?
charades

caught a fish in the pond
although it later transpired
it had every right to be there

a girl in slacks
a cigarette
agape

a grape
aggrieved
relieved

and yet     ..

he bought
her a ring

but she
didn’t

she said it
was over between them
he said who?

try writing about something
other than yourself
who actually cares?

in the pub, reading
someone says why would you read in
the pub
it beats talking

you get that little puff
of air
as the tube train doors
open

it’s no wonder they
gasp
those ghosts who drag open
the doors

can’t sleep
and so I write

doubly cursed
am I at night

rushed to the late night shop
but too late
it was shut

watched an old bloke on the train
struggle to open a packet
of sandwiches and offered him a hand
which he gratefully ate

alright I’m the worst poet you’ve
ever read
I mean what do you want
me to say ?

I want to read
my book
why are you
looking at me
like that ?

write poems on beer mats in the pub
they’re not particularly good
but it passes an afternoon

drizzle at the
bar grey
as muzzy
print

from your
morning paper
droplets of
ink

asked the bloke in the
market
where his apples were from
he said trees
said I just wanted to
know if they’re local
he said
they’re trees, mate
they tend
not to travel

apparently thought
is out of fashion is all
about how you feel

want to inhale
the very scent of
of the city?
try the back seat
of a taxi     ..

she said
you must hate me
I said
you can’t make me      ..

city at night is like myself
as a child
afraid to turn off
the lights

my legs ache
it’s a
bit like heartache
although rather harder to
stand

a small bird sings
in the wind in the
trees in the wind
a small bird sings