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, a 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?

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

you hate foreigners coming
over here we go again  ..

anonymous, he disembarks
and heads
for any old london bar

and thinks, should I collapse
and die     ..
and drinks to each strange
passer by

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

gran loved westerns
me too
we didn’t have too many connections
but that’ll do

I want to run down
hill and get faster and fast
er and faster and      ..

I’m drunk
feel your

contempt
so not

quite drunk
enough     ..

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

he could not have imagined
how things would turn out
your
pockets, said
the store detective

she says these poems are
****, but what if she’s right   ..

this is where I live
I’d ask you in
but it’s a mess

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     ..

afterwards I
smoke
whilst
you fall back
to sleep

and it’s been said my
social skills are appalling
but that’s pretty rude

met her
  in the gents of the red lion
didn’t say

anything of course
        I mean
   you don’t in the gents    ..

just
        going
                    through
a don’t
                              want to
  write any
                     more
  of
        that
                     scotch
left?

under threat of the bomb
we all sit at home, some thinking trump will
save the world, the rest of us thinking
he’s blown it     ..

quite like the calm appraisal
historians bring to the past
supplying a little distance
to that which is actually vast  ..

how to write down
one’s thoughts
are
impossible
to trace
outside of one’s head
they’re
all over the place -

fleeting,
connected,
disconnected,
indescribable
with any accuracy isn’t likely
as not
another
****** cliché

drizzle at the
bar grey
as muzzy
print

from your
morning paper
droplets of
ink

samuel johnson comes across to me
as somewhat nicer
than dickens, although I daresay johnson
could be ruder
and dickens
was no doubt politer     ..

want to break this lap
top and just pick up a pen
and start writing again
ah, those were the days  ..

read a biography of herrick
it was pretty dull
whereas his poetry was
pretty beautiful

some days my legs work better
than others look at me oddly
as I clutch onto the railings, the wall
and you, you most of all  ..

first read about *** in orwell’s
keep the aspidistra flying
it didn’t sound any good     ..

the first time we met
I loved her face
but I fancied her legs
and I know that’s
sexist and objectification
but we’ve been
married for thirty two years
so who cares

my wife gets annoyed
I don’t know why
but best just apologise

people tend to comment on
the content or subject of a poem,
rather than the form or the style
it out, mate, style it out

city becomes us ill
and buildings rise and fall
in laboured breath

told as a boy if you cut a worm in half
half of it survives
but we’re not worms
boys just put down your knives

the silence
    creaks
  with barrows
and feet
   depositing crates
  on the pavement

dried mushrooms
   black beans
           and chinese tea
  
inside the shop
     
  I smile at
the attractive 
     assistant       ..

hi, I hope
I’m not

disturbing
you   ..

she said it
was over between them
he said who?

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

apparently relationships
have to be worked at, we laughed    ..

looking at st paul’s from
across the river I see
someone looking back   ..

used to walk around
the city at night
with nothing on my feet
except myself

use a stick since my stroke
approximately four years
ago it was when I last ran for a
bus, but I don’t miss it

writing a poem on the bus
and the elderly woman sitting next to me
says oh, is it about us

old bloke in the pub says
he’s drunk on the unfulfilled hopes
of his youth
but in truth it’s the scotch

want to
play
by myself
today

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

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

wrote a poem on the train
got a fine
and they made me
wash it off

don’t like coffee much
prefer tea
       and yet people are always saying
          we should meet up for coffee
    and I profoundly disagree   ..

perhaps we’re like fingerprints
unique
but without its effecting one’s everyday
existence we’re much the same
so to speak     ..