We ghetto rich,
         I'm a Primark star..


I got every piece of original

    Pri… and I've neve bee
marked down in price,

I'm  beautiful....

No need for rich chick flicks..

I own what I got, make the most

         of what I'm given.

Beauty isn't what you got,

                 its what you do with it,

Never looking down always forward.

Because I make the most of what I have,


you work hard, we make do..

   I'm Pre-fabulous...

And its not what you wear,


                       but how you wear it.

the oil of the high grade pollen
coated in sticky honey-like crystals
old school wrap and a vaporizer
instills calm where there had been chaos
oh how the mighty have fallen

offers to go places
live music in an alleyway bar
cocktails till dawn
a rave under a motorway
the Sub Club for legendary libation
and mingle with familiar hazy faces

and yet,
he warms to the four walls of home
the symmetrical wooden rail border
the OCD driven picture placement
the videos in genre specific
alphabetical order

outside the city streets throng
stag-hen crews in costume
tourists off the beaten path
seeking the Water of Life
students drinking the bank of mum and dad dry
mid-week workers letting of class A steam
that for some is clearly too strong

the hordes
of bar ******
pimping their Versace
and Primark combo
any Glasgow bar
where looks could ****

bar telepathy
means he no longer
even has to speak
just have the fiber
to clear the bill

This he calls home.

Paying hapless homage to your gods
to your demi-gods
to your latter day all saints
With your Primark prayer flags
gloriously wrapped about you
You wander through empty streets
empty High Streets
Towards the stained glass sanctity
of your worship place
Your prayer less
Hedonistic
Playground
High on powders
Pills and potions
Drunk on over priced beer
Shot for shot
for shot
Laughing like madmen
Crying like angels
Dancing like tomorrow will never come
Flashing your white teeth
Trainers
and eye *****
at the moon
Howling
for some kind of salvation
for some kind of future
Angry for the promises broken
marriages and hearts too
Finding time to spend time
on doing nothing
Finding energy to enjoy
what could be your last kiss
what might be your first love
And all the while knowing
That someone let you down

Everything about you and everyone you know
What you had for breakfast and where you plan to go
Who you call and what you say and precisely where you are
Every visit to the doctor, the mileage on your car

The books you like, the food you buy, the bloggers that you read
How much you gave to charity, your attitude to ****
Every contact, every text, every on-line search
The way you dress, the way you walk, the last time you went to church

No none of this is private now; you're an information source
Of interest to the agencies of order, law, and force
It's for the common good - no really! Can't you see?
And this discussion now, it's over; it's about security

And while we're on the subject, someone really oughta
Keep an eye on her next door; at least until we've caught her
And be mindful what you wish for, now thought-crime's here to stay
But hey! It's Britain not North Korea!  Just mind how you go, OK?

Oh you have to hand it to the creeps - they've diligently been sifting
Not through your bins or bank account when ALL your data lifting
They've no need for tricks or subterfuge since you handed them the keys
You let them in unwittingly, and at the time, were pleased

So now you're pinned and wriggling on their glass one-way wall
You've no more secrets hidden 'cos you've given them them all
Privacy is dead and buried, too late now for bereavement
You slaughtered it yourself:  End User Licence Agreement

It's too late too for tin-foil hats, too late to complain
And anyway, how would you? You've forfeited this game
Join the Twitterati? Start a Facebook page?
Tell your mates on WhatsApp?  All adds more padlocks to your cage

P'raps best not to think too much about it; Yes that's the easy call
Lie back and LOL at kittens, watch Gogglebox, but actually think sod all
Yes buy your Funeral Insurance – it's acquired a curious appeal
And accept, why not, the Kardashians might actually be real

With opinions now as changeable as your boxer shorts
Grey and saggy throwaways, masquerading as your thoughts
You got the lot in Primark's sale, with your knickers and your socks
And you feel freer now than ever, inside your tiny airless box

And that's the way we like it; your illusion of control
Costs us little and lets us rule you in body, heart and soul
So make no waves, do not stand out, enjoy your bread and games
Don't try to dodge the system or we'll cast you to the flames

“Nothing to hide, then nothing to fear” is something you've no doubt heard
But those who shout it loudest know best that it's absurd
So peer behind the curtain, examine every single word
   Because you know they've cracked it... yes finally cracked it...
     The polishing to perfection -  to immaculate, flawless, gleaming perfection - of
Every
Single
****

Walking in crowds ,it's like I'm walking through glue and half of them texting on mobiles,it's vexing.
Some solvent will solve it,dissolve them away,
I should have thought of it earlier
but it's been a hell of a day.

Where do they come from,why don't they go and why don't they move,that's what I want to know?they're in Primark and Tesco and eating alfresco,(MacDonalds of course)how coarse can one get?

I should be a reclusive find people elusive and that is my dream until then I shall scream at them,Ladies and Gentlemen clear me a path,I don't want to bath with you just want to pass by you,
just like I'm walking through glue.

Someone told me I was ugly but I should not be worried right, I looked like my ancestors and they got laid  They probably did freaky stuff, bare back in a cave.  But what if I look like there ugly brother   What if I shouldn't bother   But someone said I was a hopeless romantic  Those that mean I will never have romance?   Cause I am on my back hoping I am in a comma and the real me is way more **** and maybe if I work hard enough I wont be this ugly but beauty isn't skin deep, it is locked in the genes and my Mom brought mines at Primark.  Well I guess lust is overrated and I might die a ****** but I can strip someone naked by revealing there emotions  Some one told me I was ugly, and I agreed.

I know you follow TopShop trends
But why not try me for size?
Abandon all your misfit friends
And put on something that suits you best
Some Primark instead of your Armani rest.
We’ll wear it like it’s fashion
This love we share tonight.

So before this London sun ascends
Let me see you under city lights
And as the summer air thickens
Bare your gleaming teeth, your LA smile
Whilst I drink in your grace and guile.
I’ll sip it neat and sweet
This love we share tonight.

You do not belong to this soil,
not the way they did—
feet sinking into peat,
lungs lined with salt and prayer,
bodies turning to moss before memory.

But still, you stand here,
four generations late,
hands in your Primark pockets,
mouthing names you were never meant to carry,
even as they sit inside you,
your first name stamped with their last,
a borrowed relic you never earned.

Your brother gripped the wheel like a lifeline,
right-side driving out of Dublin,
left shoulder braced against muscle memory,
like he expected the road to turn on him.
Mom rode shotgun,
printed-out censuses fanned across her lap,
highlighted, annotated, dog-eared—
a roadmap made of the dead.

You sat in the backseat,
cheek against the window,
watching Ireland unfold in slow exhales—
stone walls dividing nothing from nothing,
a horizon stitched with ruins,
the color of a postcard left too long in the sun.

Mom recited their names like prayer beads,
rolling them through her fingers,
waiting for recognition
that did not come.

And then you were there—
the grass, damp and grasping,
twined around your ankles,
softened under your weight,
pulling you down like something remembered.

The graveyard was older than the road that brought you there.
Headstones leaned like tired men,
softened by wind, by rain,
by the weight of a hundred years unspoken.
Their names smoothed into murmurs,
the dates washed into dashes.

And at every grave,
a small stone sign,
half-buried in moss,
letters chipped but certain:
KNEEL AND PRAY.
Not a suggestion. A sentence.

You did not kneel.
You touched the name instead,
ran your fingers over the grooves,
over the letters that built you
without ever knowing you would come.

A crow clicked its beak from the low wall,
watching the three of you like it had seen this before,
like it knew how this ended.

You whispered something you could not name.
The wind took it from your mouth,
tucked it into the tall grass,
laid it at their feet.

And then you left,
but the wet earth held its claim,
clinging to your soles,
like it knew you’d be back.

declared love, declared shame
for brymbo man living in suburbia.

declared love for mindless blobs
of gold, medieval collections. here.

ah, we discussed the tonsure,
denoting all humility,moved

quickly to primark, all things
underworn. yet there was no

brawn, yesterday. half day

closing.

sbm.

There is always some twit who looks down his nose and thinks that he knows me,I think he knows **** all and the harder he looks the harder he'll fall,
but he is of no consequence to me,I'd tell him he's a **** but you see,I must be polite,I must put up with his **** otherwise I might give him a right hander,the only thing that he's right in, is in knowing nothing, the *****.
Who knows how I tick? not that twot, he hasn't got a clue and wearing a cheap Primark suit he thinks he's Cat Ballou but I just get on with it,take no notice,not a bit,but if he ***** with me I'll slit his throat.
the little ******.

The Native American man
Is combing his hair outside Primark
With his eagle feathers and his pipes and drums
Waiting in a cardboard box
Waiting
For the concrete to disintegrate
Greggs and Marks and Spencers crumble
To the beat of the drums
Waiting
For green to creep across the face of Waterstones
And bilberry bloom at the bus stop
And a moss carpet pad the safety barriers with velvet
Waiting
For the beat of the drums
For those feathers to soar over forest
And the silk of his hair fly free in the wind

Peps, here listen, hear me out
yeah I know you're all really doing your best
trouble is, your best isn't good enough

You're making us look like Keystone cops
all this haphazard stasis-cating around like drunk Ruskies
staying up late back early morning, obsessive yet incompetent

Yes, persistent is the key
thing is though, you're just too dumb
some of you think eggs grow on trees
after all there are  egg plants, so surely eggs come from trees
yes! and we all live in a yellow submarine!

Now listen to me, you plebs
Don't you know what 'Royalty' means
do you think its some wishy washy label from Primark
or some honor you can buy at a Car boot sale
No, you pumpkins, it's not and don't mention 1066
or that opinionated zealous fool, Oliver Cromwell

If you don't know it yet, better know now
our Royal Adversary is Simply The Best
this man is as good as you can get
we are talking Exceptional here
we are talking, top drawer, creme de la creme
we are talking, One of a Kind, the Real Deal, yes!

We are the majority, yes..fat lot of good, that has done
you're all as common as muck, ******, ******* twerps
that's all you are.
yadda yadda this, yadda yadda that we are attacking his psyche
it's psychological warfare, it's mental and emotional assaults
it's your mother's ***, you dumdum, the man is laughing at you
Christ! what's with you people, how useless are you!

I know half of you are demented psychos
and the other halves just plain simpletons and sheeps
now the blasted public are beginning to see that,
they are fed up, already!

I tell you now what your ******* problem is
you think we humans are all the same, you think he is on your level
you ***** think he thinks like you, sees like you, reacts like you.
You, yes you, are stupid, does he look stupid to you?
If you say yes, then you're even more stupid than I know

Just be ****** honest with yourselves and face facts
you are just common muck, oiks chewing straws
and the man is Class, quality, top grade, the business
gifted, talented, brave, courageous, exceptional and a ****** 'One of'  
The Man is simply ROYAL, that's nobility for you
and say or write any **** you want, that's the ******* TRUTH

Now, get lost and go continue your nonsense
and don't steal anything on you way out, that's all you're good for!
jingoistic trash, time wasters full of dog's crap.
And you men, if one can call you men, with your floppy tiddlers,
put aside your *****-envy complexes and engage your brains.
( What brains, actually? )

People think it's easy
Being on the dole
But it strips you of your dignity
And slowly destroys your soul

It's not all tabs and alcohol
And pub crawls everyday
There's no designer clothes
It's primark all the way

It's farm foods or herons
For your weekly shopping too
Forget your marks and Spencer's
There just to dear for you

Your mates who work are clubbing
And pulling all the lasses
Your stuck at home with four cheap cans
And cups instead of glasses

You smell of pound shop aftershave
You use bic razors too
You wipe your *** on newspaper
When you go to have a poo

So when you say life on benefits
Is really quite a breeze
Walk a mile in my holey shoes
Before you call me please

Christianity died and was buried in Salem,
the wise men were missing
two were caught kissing
each other.

I know that if I go to hell
Mother will tell me off
for being very naughty.

The Pope is not available for
Fatwah's on Sunday and so
I'm safe from the
lunatic fringe.

The devil does not work for Primark,
that's a rumour encouraged
by a village in China where
they're all out of work.

Who do I pray to when the ***'s
boiling over?


See what I'm like here after a jigger of strong beer and I can't make my mind do the things that my eyes want to, but it's all down to the mischief of you who I know well and Mother will tell me for that.

Hell's not an inferno it's just the place that the mind goes.

Now,
if I'd been born into a different era and let's say the twenties things might have been clearer, but in the here and the now when the iron's in the fire and the Vicar's in the choir and yes I know all too well that I'm going to hell but only the devil regrets.

things sometimes go lowercase and I've found out that is the case when the prosecution has lost the case and the prisoner goes free.

And the sound of the  shutting door doesn't bother me anymore because I'm a Scientologist and I know  life is so much more than this.

(20 minute poetry)

We are here
stand clear.

One more trip down
the golden strip,

being stripped.

I hide in the recess
regress
to an earlier time

before the underground
prior to the mine which
by the way is the pits.

Nothing but bobble hats
and
girls wearing flats
they could be
Prada or Primark
but it's too dark to tell.

I'm going to hell on the Central line
one more time
I'm going to hell on the Central line

It's warmer
we
must be passing the bank.

St Paul's Cathedral
medieval
Knights of old and
now
it's cold or is that me?

Oh
joy of joy
glee of glee
I can see light at
the end of this funnel

(Such a crowd )
  
a bottleneck
flippin' heck
I didn't see that coming.

Time runs on
runs out
I am about
there

a fanfare
more knights
Bishopsgate
men in tights
but
It's always been
a bit
Robin Hood down here.

Her name is that
Of past hours
From days of power
And magnificence
When marble busts
Were cast
To satisfy
The desire
For eternity.

But this little beauty
Will not end her days
In  lofty halls
With locked and barred doors
The dust settling on her hair
For she will be suspended
Captured and rendered
On all the screens
That can be seen
From phone to
The Internet
And global websites
Printed texts.

Her name is Delphi
Youngest child
Full lipped star
Hair falling long
Over her arms
Eyes dark under
Arched brows
Peachy cheeks
Tanned skin
In the princess dress
She loves the best
From Asda or Primark.

To my lovely Delphi of the dollies love from Grandma xxxxx

The night we first slept together was election night,
the reds against the blues against the yellows against the greens.
We both picked the same colour, I found out,
sipping coffee, scolding tongues at that place on the corner
where you can chuck in some scran while you’re at it.

Here’s a cliché, but true: one thing led to another.
A DiCaprio movie I barely recall, a dreich day
umbrella-sharing as we charged back down Arthur’s Seat.
I wondered if Hibs won, you thought if my hand in your hand
meant we were comfortable, easing ourselves into each other
as if trying on a new pair of boots.

There was ***, but that’s personal.
It was at your place. The sleep.
After it was over, our throats aching with lust, you went
to the bathroom in your pricy Primark knickers,
spine ablaze with light, and I revelled in the deliciousness
of your not-quite-**** body, knew we’d started something,
knocked the first domino down.

In the morning, we’d reached an impasse.
The TV blared out no surprises.
My eyes discovered an unfamiliar ceiling,
you wore an iron-soon shirt, white, nothing else
as the coffee machine spluttered its language.
A one-night thing? I thought so, eyes punctuated
with crooked red hyphens. I didn’t know my toothbrush
would be there in months, my face again in the mirror.

Its almost December
and we're old friends
I should see more of you.
You've still to play your favorite song
These problems are not insurmountable

They've closed the down the town
Rows of shops shuttered
It feels like a war zone

If it never rains it pours
The Market isn't the same
and the footfall isn't immense

But if it snows
I meet you on a snow-covered street
and you'd wave a smile
in your Chinese hat and gloves
you got from Primark

Aluminium foil doesn't stop the signal from getting in to disrupt you, they fool you with that claptrap and you keep your mouth shut because you think you're fooling them.

We're being microwaved,
oxygen-starved and carved up
ready for their table
it's all about the signal,
everything is.

And you might think that the end of the World will look like the end of the World, it won't, it'll look like Primark does on Saturday, people falling over themselves to get what they can from the overstocked shelves.

There's thunder coming
and a storm approaching
I'm burying my head in
the sand.