dylan thomas died from the drink
but that’s not what you think of
when you read his poems you think of caitlin,
swansea and soho and yeah, ok, pubs  ..

wanted to knock on his door
and ask him to come out to play
but what if his dad answered
and what if he said, oh ok  ..

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

where were you last night?
I can’t recall
and you expect me to believe that?
not at all  ..

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

we’re both getting old,
but she still has dignity and desirability
and a demure sensuality and
all I have is a cough

o’hara should have
been a little more careful
on the road
perhaps wasn’t his thing

last time I wrote a poem that
was
any good was on the late lamented
deep underground poetry site about an elderly woman on the
bus who offered me a boiled
sweet,
I thought,
but no, thanks     ..

glad I never met george orwell
since he’d have despised me for
being a weak liberal and well
yeah he’d have been about right

for once, think of somebody else
so he did
she didn’t like it

got a couple of tickets for
the theatre if you’d
like to go? yes I would, actually.
goodbye

“I’ve had enough,” you
said, pushing away your plate,
but looking at me     ..

dressed to ****
and well yes there was
blood on her
skirt but I know
that’s not what
you meant

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

leaves him alone
in the wood
are all he has    ..

I’d willingly take you
into my confidence
if I had any

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

why do people dislike politics
so much that they
prefer mob rule over civilised debate
is better than hate

only writing because
like bukowski said
only if you have to
will it be any good

p g wodehouse and
john betjeman made
life seem worth living
just to read them    ..

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

we are
not what
we were
we ever?

love museums full of stone age
artefacts, the odd roman sandal or two
and victorian pottery, and all
those insects skewered beneath glass cases
not solved by pulling faces
at what our ancestors got up to

lived in lewisham for a while
it was alright  
but then she grew bored and I grew
bored with her growing bored
and staying out all night
and south east london ain’t the end of the
world

don’t get me wrong
I like trains;
it’s just getting on

apparently the geese in russia
are bigger than the pyramids in egypt
now that’s proper gander

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      ..

you were crying and shaking as you tried
to explain you’d spent the night
with somebody else
well, as long as he makes you happy    ..

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

old bloke in the pub says
buy me a pint and I’ll be grateful
for ever mate, neither of us
have got that long       ..

what do I want played
at my funeral?
charades

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

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

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

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

try writing about something
other than yourself
who actually cares?

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

sitting in a pub writing
a poem but it
wasn’t very good and the
beer was awful

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

love to walk alone
through the city
streets are not just for grown
ups a daisy!

she used to complain
that she never knew
what he was thinking

he said I hear what
you’re saying, but isn’t
that rather the point?

he bought
her a ring

but she
didn’t

that you keep on giving me
your opinion suggests you don’t want
it, either

a man of letters
who pens
upon
trivial matters in convivial inns
where his life is spent
almost invariably
in tatters       ..

he said I don’t know why
I ever went out with you ..
she said but you didn’t go out
with me, we just happened
to leave at the same time  ..

we brush against each
other
than that there is
nothing  ..

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

light is the lilt
of a flute
at dusk
in a quiet square

how long
has it
been
up to much
lately?

she knew it was over
he hadn’t been home for days
why don’t you go home
she says   ..