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Dampwaste Place (Poems 1985-2013ish) by C Byrne

Dampwaste Place

(Poems 1985-2013ish)

by C Byrne

Copyright 2013 Christopher William John Byrne Compiled by All Is Vanity Press 2013 Published 2014

Contact cwjbyrne (at) aol dot com

Cover Photo by C Byrne

Table of Contents








C Byrne was born in Aldershot, Hants, UK in 1973. He is a graduate of the illustrious University of Humberside, which led to him being head-hunted for his first graduate job on the production line for Glade air fresheners at Johnsons' Wax in Frimley. He also lost a lot of hair from his head (possibly due to the chemicals in the air) while he was there. His pseudobiographer considers that on reflection, he was not so much 'head-hunted' as scalped for this position. Luckily, he soon made himself surplus to temporary staffing requirements there by talking too much.

His journalism and creative writing has been published here and there, including The Journal of Nietzsche Studies, Vice, New Statesman, Mental Health Nursing (Journal of the Community Psychiatric Nursing Association) and Blueprint.

He has performed spoken word at various venues in London and the South of England area including supporting Fingathing (Grand Central Records).

For the most up-to-date versions of these poems (they're all a work in progress), free mp3 downloads of some of these poems set to music and C's latest poems see:

He recommends the poetry of his friend with a far superior talent for poetry - Matthew Sergisson- Main: .


Thanks to my Mum, Dad, sister, uncles, friends, musical collaborators (especially Blufoot for helping get the ball rolling) and anyone who has encouraged, supported or fed back on my work. Thanks to the friends from whom I learnt much about the arts and culture (David Akass, Kevin Matthews, Darren Flicker among others) and anyone who generously shared their music collections with me.

I would like to thank my English teacher Carol Rogers (her married name at the time) at Salesian College, Farnborough especially for encouraging me as well as keeping me on my toes in my GCSE English Lit & Lang studies (never needed to take it any further ;) . Suffice to say, I probably wouldn't be writing poems now if she hadn't entered my poem in a local poetry competition and won a prize - been chasing that paper (book tokens) ever since. Thanks also to Peter Barnecutt at the University of Humberside for introducing us to Nietzsche, which was an inspiration in many ways.

No thanks to all the time wasters.

Thanks to the editors of The Journal of Nietzsche Studies for publishing my poem alongside some scholarly stuff (in the 'Articles and Poems' section!). That enabled me to regard myself of a poet of some value and start to enjoy an extended rest on my only imagined laurel!

Thanks to myself for typing and formatting this text too. All typsos und erroz r mi one.

Note: 99% of these poems have not been edited (i.e. it's a job lot apart from a quite embarrassing one about homesickness from Hull which is not in the archive) and are in no particular disordure.

For the muses (SE, SP, TC, FC, P and those whose names I never knew or just forgot)


Tunisian Holiday

The girl danced the hokey cokey Before smoking a fag She obviously wanted The best of both worlds

2003 Pieces.

The world is now almost silent. Text message on my phone? Without nuance or expression It’s hard to lower the tone

Emoticons - I con emoted Via paper in a pigeonhole Valentine’s Day ‘95 It’s difficult when you’re emoting in a new language I can’t thrive without talk of jive

The world will soon be silent Media, machinery makes all the noise The streets are all now all filled with cars Where girls and boys neighbours annoyed

Often in the social spaces It’s seems that they’re designed To be used by people Who don’t have communication in mind

Loud noise in pubs and clubs Can mean image is almost all Rappers battle and people meet on the net Deathly, still in the urban sprawl

Trying to communicate naturally You can become perplexed This isn’t a holy book but “I am become a text”


Do you come here often?

I know you're clean 16

Do you come here often? Are you hip with the scene? Do you come here often?

I know mad Barrys with a sheen

Do you come here often? We fishy like Pacific sardine Do you come here often? Can I nick some nicotine? Do you come here often? Can you see a smoke machine? Do you come here often? Give that girl a tangerine Do you come here often? Do you wanna live a dream? Do you come here often?

I like the light when you beam Do you come here often? Are you hip to my scheme?

Do you come here often? You light the wood when you beam Do you come here often? Do you wanna form a team? Do you come here often?

I don’t like them custard creams Do you come here often?

I tell the truth if djartamean? Do you come here often? I’m deviating from the mean Do you come here often?

I could start to like routine Do you come here often

Scaling Ayers Rocks (2004)

Blood diamonds dripping from my neck and wrist It’s hard to see through your frosted ice, snow and mist She’s showing off her rock like it means something It could be a cola ring-pull or a piece of string “Eternity rings are for when you get eterned” - That’s a lesson in love that I have learned De Beers marketing man set in stone - it’s true That I work for 2 months to say with metal and stones I love you

Rockist (2004ish)

I’m ever so tired of this too boring rock A vessel of shit commonly known as a crock Accountants change into Johnny Thunders in the toilets at 5 o’clock You n' Jagger weren’t born in a crossfire hurricane so stop Your music redefines writers block The only pop hit I’ll give you is with my poetical Glock Musical thoughts and movements like a nervous tic toc I would like to see your tribute banned The King of Rock's throne into landfill Monster of Rock from the depths of the Loch Your cheeking in tongues amuses the flock You’re so turtley (sic) mock I have to mock and sublimate my strop You ain’t struttin’ like Tyler struttin’ like Jagger More like a slaughtered turkey cock Known by MDiVvy girls from Wakefield to Bangkok You’re so predictable it’s always a profound shock Trying to fly away from a very dry dock Strangle a Strangler sounda/looka/like deforming my ears like Spock Hoxton and Shoreditch the new cultural Eastern bloc


My oracle Jonathan Cainer's usually feel good horoscope Putting me in fear of my life on one day Lost in the labyrinth of Malia's shanty town strip Watch the girl kick-start her scooter in heels The bar covered in flames Getting my hand crushed by the female Minotaur (Part man, part bull, and all monster) At around breakfast time at the 24 hours bar Friends disappearing out in the sea Down the road from the death shrine Walking among the ruins of ruins And us wasted Brits on the piss returning via Iraklion Visiting the nursery of a dead God - another father of Gods and men Eagles circling in the sky Eating a McDonalds on our first night out To warm ourselves up for some Bronze Age Minoan high culture

Sky Glow (based on "When You Wish upon a Star" by Leigh Harline and Ned Washington)

Used to wish upon a star Now I can't see where they are Used to wish upon a star as dreamers did

Light pollution spoils the night Electric lights are shining bright Used to wish upon a star as dreamers do

2 million oil barrels everyday Equivalent light pollution in the USA Used to wish upon a star as dreamers did

Light trespasses in my room

I was happy in the gloom

Used to wish upon a star as dreamers do

I can't see the milky way

Soon night'll be brighter than day Used to wish upon a star as dreamers did

Animals and ecosystems affected by electric light Don't cities look best at night? Used to wish upon a star as dreamers do

Thanks pours l'electricité Mars help us war, rest and play Used to wish upon a star as dreamers do


Warm memories of a long time ago The street scene resembling a tableau Whiter than white silent night glow Temperature must be 10 below Sloshing through the Arctic floe The road salt is running low Sliding down the street like it's Skid Row As I walk in dog shit Past the bloodstains in the snow

Retrograde (N+15)

An N+15 version of a poem of mine that was published in the Journal of Nietzsche Studies. (generated by ).

I am the splurge of retro zoom curd

A costumed crony locality in a counselling dray

I am the profession of what was copse Reaching rotor tennis

I live in inverted commissaries

In a send-off-imposed casket

I am exempt for those who like rudder My "revival" is resuscitation

Smiling knowingly





Today is of little vase

I prefer the good old deans before I was born

I deny the creative postponement of young blubber

Or am I just farmyard drivel for a far too serious wren?

Amsterdam (Based on "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns)

Oi, my nose and eyes are red like those long stemmed roses, That we saw tossed in the bin. O, my sun-burnt love is like that man who set himself on fire In Amsterdam, the city of sin.

As fair-priced are you, my lovely lass, As the girls in those windows You'd come cheap at twice the price And everybody in Vondelpark knows

Till all the tills are ringing my Dear,

I hear the bells, the bells

My sister is getting married And moving to Tunbridge Wells

And fare you well, my Love, And fare you well back to the Emerald Isle! And I will go again, my Love, Although it were a just mistrial!


Allow the silencer to whisper the bullets from the machine gun softly While I catch a case falling from the world tree's luggage carousel Trying to jar Pandora Oily vegetable fats Move like the milk tray hitman Criss crossing border lines Bruised by the lily Clean the pollen from the scar


If you are agonising Over which designer egg cups to buy Then your life may be Too full Of vanity And frivolity


I am a professor of social engineering

My cigs are my social toolbox "Would you like a fag?" to a room of strangers = "I come in peace" Embarrassed, awkward? Anxious, cracked a bad joke? Light up a fag! Want to look generous? Offer everyone a cigarette I'm never alone With my 20 Strands Trying to look sophisticated? Want to meet more people? START SMOKING! Want Rebel Legend Mystique? Smoke Marlboro Reds Want to be a supermodel? Smoke Bro Golds Want to be a true player? Smoke Camels


I did not play myself in

But I made three appointments at the dentist

On the off chance That I would

Down Memory Lane

Some of the windows Have a rose tint The road is cobbled with millstones Down short-term memory lane There is a pothole


I was quietly picking my nose

And got a bad reaction Do they react so strongly When they see things that are really disgusting?

(Her) Presents

If I was a poet

I would say that the only thing that you can change is the present Not the future or past But that is not true There is no receipt or proof of purchase as All presents are given And we receive the present But that is not the same thing as fate The hardest thing in the world Is sometimes the music stops You get excited And you have to pass the parcel No one forces you to You just have to let go It is harder if it is your birthday Or it feels like it is It is difficult when it is a mystery prize Or a ribboned riddle

I think proper poets call it passing by

There are a lot of presents in the future But a lot less in the past And the only way to find a good present is to Get stuck in to the lucky dip of life and Help yourself


In a port things come and go In a port some things never return In a port you feel the rain more In a port some people are cold In a port there are dark cocoa mills In a port there are betting shops In Portakabins by the docks In a port there are many boats and faces In a port there is always something fishy In a port things can't stay the same


Cars go by Hissing with the sound of amplified hi-hats Some slide by like rattle snakes Others sound like dodgy kettles


I'd like to be the writer type With a click click typewriter

I would have to smoke a pipe

And relight it with a lighter

I would drink black coffee

Pondering , scratching my beard I'd get brandy from the offy And people would say " He's weird! "

Centre of the Universe

I can see the love glowing in your eyes Or is it the Starburger sign I see? Doner kebab is in the air Or is it love? This is Frimley Noise and smell

I want to give all this to you

Lets hit the traffic island ( as in town) Please do not give me the cold , hard shoulder Roads, motorway and dual carriageways You are the quiet above the drone

My focus in this blur You are a daylight smile Underneath the withering neon glare You are the music above the electric hum

A reference point in this featureless town

In streets of monoxide and lead Your oxygen goes to my head You are strobe animation among grey suits Are you real virtuality or Vanessa Parody? You seem to fluoresce in that dress You masturb my disturbation Dilute my concentration You are some stillness in the swarm

The Closed Circuit Teardrops

In this takeaway town No one gives a fuck Everything has a short shelf-life:

Jobs, marriages and friendships

Modern life seems to be made of many Velcro relationships Pushed together Torn apart Please don't crush my Styrofoam heart


will not decompose


can not be recycled

You smoulder like a cigarette

Not extinguished by this ashtray town


is not the cigarette that counts


is the packet that matters

The electric light in this room is so strong

It feels like it is bleaching my head and hands

In this town there is no scenic route Nothing is in black and white Just grey


I like to play on words

Like they are blades of grass In a field on a sunny day

I do not use artificial fertiliser on my words Just pure bull shit

Just Words

She is one hell of a woman She only calls me on payday She is a harpy In Harpic One flutter of her eyelashes Can cause a tornado on the other side of the world She is a siren Blaring in my ear She gives me the best evils that I have ever seen She gets me in hot water Then hauls me over the coals She glares daggers at me Then throws knives at me She bleeds me astray She has snake hips on the dance floor

She is not allergic to caviar or champagne She likes to piss on my bonfires (literally) She likes to grill me about everything that I do and say Over a low flame


Provisional Poetic Licence

I have passed the theory But not the practical

I tend to look in the rear view mirror too much

I am not good at reading the signs and signals The fast lane is sometimes too fast for me

I have blindspots in my windscreen as well

I am not good at indicating Giving way or racing Music distracts my concentration

I wear a seatbelt

I seem to drive better on my own


Her eyes are one big question

In them I think I can see my future family tree Her eyes flash like a lighthouse That drags me towards the rocks She is my pupil dilator She makes me want to die later

I am neurotransmitten


In the Wheatsheaf

I can (pick my nose)


Fart and spit In a snoozer's boozer

I can only talk

Drink and sit


Roses are red Violets are blue Daffodils are yellow And chrysanthemums are difficult to spell

Home (written aged 13 years)

They handed me a bag


unzipped it


black suit


white shirts


white vests


pairs of underpants


pairs of socks


tube of toothpaste



1 five pound note One train ticket

All in a black plastic holdall

I sighed

The records officer called me "Sign this form Sir" That sheet Forty years in the slammer What a contrast

I drew my 1950 Parker pen

From my top left hand jacket pocket The scratchy nib failing to make an impression on the sheet


hesitantly asked

"Erm can I borrow a pen?"

The officer yawned and threw me a biro

I signed my liberation

The warder drew a large Bunch of keys from his pocket He strolled up to the main door The key slid into the slot As the warder heaved open the giant door The joints groaned under the strain

"Well then Sir. Let's not be seeing you again!"

I walked out

I was free

The door slammed behind me My bag at my feet

I looked around

My, how the world had changed Half of my life wasted By some man's lie

The sun shone through the electric fence

I could see the shadow of the barbed wire On the concrete road before me What did I have to back to?


My parents died 20 years ago A cool wind blew on my face

I turned up my collar

And sunk my hands deep into my pockets

I picked up my bag from my feet

I felt like rifling a telephone box So I could go home


I am pinned to this place

I am pinned to this face

I am pinned to this race

I am pinned to disgrace

I have sinned

I am pinned

I am pinned to your door

While I am pinned to the floor

I am pinned by my fame

I am pinned to my name

I am pinned to my flaws

I've been pinned here by the laws

I am pinned by my pain

I am pinned to the game

My eyes are pinning The world is not spinning For me


I'm in extreme sports gear To go down the pub In combat trousers To play Nintendo I'm wearing running shoes To walk down the road And in cyber undies To do the washing up


I do not write urban hymns But provincial poems

Statement 2

I am glad that

I do not write war poems

Whether commissioned by The Guardian

Or not Many war poets Are real Poets on the underground

Simple Pleasures Are Free?

Does he regularly eat chocolate? Get to watch the silver screen? Does he regularly eat chocolate? Show his face on the club scene?

Has he checked out the Tate Modern? With the same passion he checks Tesco's waste? London for all your leisure You may repent at haste.

Does he like to browse in Waterstone's? Check out the latest (chocolate) bar? Does he regularly eat food? He has no home, job or car.


There is a man Up in the sky Head in the clouds In that crane

He has friends at work But he don't know Their surnames


On the way home Just left work Walking intoxicated in the early Summer evening Seeing 2 adjoined concentric rainbows Asked an old man if he could see it He said yes And if I remember rightly He informed me he had been to the end of a rainbow Over there too


We walked in silence Over the well-chosen Adolphe A bridge of charm Back to the station

Vertigo and other things heavy Headed for the other side Into the abysmal Falling like a Mary hail Stone through to a statistic

Turn back to life Back to reality Try and find a reason to live from the same The laborious magic of lead into gold


Over the edge Like the hot heroine on a piece of foil Like a fox with Jack Russells down into it's hole In a corner Like there's a price on my head With hellhounds' eyes dark in the distance behind Like I'm running from the Legion with a gun Like a court poet

Learning Poetry

On Reverdie

Early enough in the mourning

I ventured out for a ramble

In a foreign place I laid down by a river for a rest Fell asleep And saw Aisling again 8 to 7 years later in Tubber Tintye

I soon remembered what I had spent 7 to 8 years nearly to the day

In forgetting On a seat I sat me down and had a notion again We talked about work, ice cream and vomiting Tall pretty women, Alpha males and merry making The green, genes and sexual harassment in the workplace Image and metaphor blurred in the gale of rediscovered feelings

Ashtray in the head, I boasted to my ego's discontent With the special, romantic valour that consists in fighting for long lost causes While she conducted herself with maidenly modesty As I sang "Who the fuck is Alice?" into the night

I pitched my sale

And she smacked it back

I asked myself in wonder

Whether she was a Greek goddess Or some other fantastical figure Several possibilities I listed in my mind She intimated that she was no such creature But, instead simply Éire

Or maybe just the eternal rewards of nature, spring, and love We walked in the stream together Everything flowed Even the bus driver had to acknowledge it

I said to her, "Stick with me Fiona, and you'll go a long way

Not just on public transport" (Which Marcel doesn't think is a good line) Twirling through the dizzy Amsterdam day dreams Tripping lightly more than once along the canals' edge No mention of the deep ravine as The silver bright ring of the day shone again through Into what a poet called "the darkness of the deepest chamber of the heart" She never upbraided me as a frivolous rake Nor did she point to the approaching symbolic dawn


Sick of the sick of the sick in the street Sick walking under rubber trees Over open drains with food or water poisoning Or in Europe in the snow With over-salted cuisine Or just sick of school dinners anywhere I'll soon get the sack or leave Good excuse to come back The four seasons or sometimes two Happy to see sad faces again on the street Missing your face Missing this place I'm missing when I'm gone away Sick when I go Sicker when I stay

Crazy Paving

I paved over my garden

And soon the singing stopped Lazily I bet my hedges For no return Nothing grew Nothing fell

A few pot plants to create an illusion Weeding out the wild life Showing in the cracks The things that blew in

I swept away

Water ran off Causing floods down the road

The Thames (London)

Not deeply profound Or profound in its depth


I may not have a fantastic social life presently

But I do have a web presence; .


You think you're a social butterfly But you're more of a bee



Resisting In a persistent Vegetative State "Appalled ironic paralysis"


Like a speeding car driver On the first day of summer When the oil rises up from the tarmac I'll be coming back to you

Collaborative Poem From A Toilet Door In London by various anonymous authors. (supported by London Arts Council and the National Lottery.)

My arse sings like a buttercup It warbles in the night And when it drops it's little load My legs must take to flight


Red pudding tonight Angel Delight Fluffy mash in the sky Shepherd's Pie


Sometimes it feels like We're ballroom dancing It seems I'm only here To make you look good

Tortured Artist in Isleworth

Van Gogh also lived here


You were free publicity There was no spark Apart from that of media interest The only things that clicked Were the photographers' cameras

I did not have much to say to you But I had something to sell

My Stylist

I go to Barry

At Toni and Guy's in Richmond To get a regular sprinkle Of "designer dandruff"

To create the illusion that

I am a mere mortal

With the rest of humanity

The Big Turd

On the edge of a big nothing Space to fill Time to kill Everyone wants to look Some need to be seen

Dead Artist. Modern Art

I am out of copyright

I've still got loads to say

I am out of copyright

And there is no one left to pay

Extract from Dissertation Acknowledgements


thanks to a certain fast-food restaurant in Aldershot, Hampshire

for many hours of much perspiration and rational bureaucratic exploitation

for a very miserly remuneration but thanks very much for the inspiration and inside information for this dissertation

/ independent study.

Thanks to my fellow "crew members" there for the odd moments of




and jubilation

Bullshit (Dedique a tous poetes.)

I do not get shitfaced Pissed up Or hammered

I am an artist

Too exquisitely sensitive for the world

I seek to explore the extremities Of the human condition Booze is for me An agent of mystical transport Je bois Pour epater les bourgeois

I do not have a romantic attitude to lager It is integral to my (f)art


And hangovers


I am reliably informed

That the Chinawhite Bar's VIP area Is called the Mao Bar When can we discerning punters expect The Hitler Brasserie And Stalin Cafe?


As a firework farted in the starry sky

I try to stare into your cross eyes


From panpipe purgatory To the saxaphone moods first ring of hell


I'm so suburban

I think my Nike trainers make me




Raw and


Yo Baby!


It's no coincidence that statistics show

Reebok Classics footprints are now more often found in Forensic evidence than Air Max


In the kingdom of the bland The person with a non-ear piercing is (shoc)king The man with a comedy tie is Joe King And the man with a Jamiroquai CD is fun(king)


I want to be a cult author

I'm going to shoot my wife Drink myself to an early grave

Do drugs man To provide vicarious thrills For commuters on the train

Clubbing in Aldershot. Shite

As the deejay piles pure piano tuna On hard cheesebag endlessly Anybody who is nobody Will soon walk through that door Life is not hard in here Just a lot of it is para trained Major structural damage is being inflicted upon the premises By the mattress backs (Not mutton dressed as lamb But offal packaged as mutton) Waddling in time to the big numbas It feels like the roof is about to cave in My dandruff is glowin' under the UV light Oh the glamour

Talk of the Town

I was once an eligible bachelor

Now I am an illegible old bachelor Now I am more Debenhams Than debonair

I used to be enigmatic

Now I listen to Enigma


I am so modern

I listen to post rock

I like post ironic humour

I use post shave balm

My post is delivered by the Royal Mail


Baptised in the TV channel Style-pressed Like a gingerbread man With a biscuit cutter Pinpointed by market research As target Youth market Nike tattooed on my chest Catchy jingle on my mind When I blink I see negatives Of cola logos and golden arches We pledge allegiance To the swoosh Or stripes Conspicuous consumption has diffused Through my pores The brand Has placed it's hands On me


Do smart bombs Write anthems For doomed hardware And software?


Am I "Lost in the automatism Of the hypnotised corporeal" Or off my nut On half a paracetamol And a vivid imagination


I am the spirit of retro youth culture

A costumed crisis living in a costume drama

I am the process of what was cool Reaching room temperature

I live in inverted commas

In a self-imposed cartoon

I am excitement for those who like routine My "revival" is resuscitation Smiling knowingly





Today is of little value

I prefer the good old days before I was born

I deny the creative possibility of young blood

Or am I just fancy dress for a far too serious world?

Ice Cream Cone

Up shit creek Without a boat

With concrete socks on

I see alligators

Or are they crocodiles?

Ode To Chips

Thou art divine

Lines on Wrinkles

When you are young You try to find yourself While yourself is finding you You do what you are told And also just do You are only young once So that one day you can grow old But we are not born warm For us to grow cold


If this poem was a pop song It would have a producer It would have strings And be an instant classic It would have crashing cymbals And thundering kettle drums (I use clever symbols) I'm going to do a cover version of some other writer's poetry To get my name known


If I was a film star People would still say "You've got a big head" And I would have to explain Cinema projection to them


When the sky is your oyster The world is your limit


You can read me like a book It felt like you cracked my spine When I leant you my dog ear Even though you spellbound me well I must have been well cooked Your plot was to stew me You threw the book at me too And you saw right through me When I tried to take a leaf out of you I've got wood worm New tomes and scrolls Swallowed an overdose of wax tablets And you leave me Stuck and gathering dust On the shelf In your bad books


I've fallen for you Must have banged my head or something Kissing the concrete Prone I'm still free Falling down My head is in the clouds My wings are feral pigeon feathers Dripping warm wax Catching fire And my golden parachute does not work I'm flapping my bare arms There's no-one to sue It's got to be one inch or more Seems I was struck By a thunderbolt from Cupid's crossbow I took the fall I'm feeling scraped up Cut and sore A stone into a well I'm slipping, tripping and sliding Into the right crowd It doesn't seem like an accident

Trappy Days

There's snares and kicks Trapped by cheese Cats pray on the mice Hearing sirens in the trap Some snakes rat on dogs Tangled up in the trap Fell for the bait and real din Sinking like I'm in quicksand Been down since the dawn of crack And the walls are closing in Heart ticks like a glock Wrapped in the trap Singing in a moving sea of keys Windows wide open but wired shut Trap got a grip like the jaws of a vice

No Title

I come to conquer

I will travel over seas to your treacherous shipwreck coast

Climb the suicide cliff Of the wild west of your rebel county Come hell or high water To look for only the best in life Between the devil and the deep blue sea All or nothing Lost until you Take what is mine No permission sought Hostile resistance is ultimately futile Waiting for a sustained lapse of treason Your irresistible object will meet my immovable force With an upside down flag in the earth Bleached out by sun and rain Drunk on our lethal cocktail Exploding in my face Waiting for you to leave me to my own incendiary devices Take your castle Take your peace It's my God and Queen-given mandate to rule My superiority And your duty to comply captivated in my plantation

I come to familiarise and learn of the exotic and unfamiliar Sow my castaway rape seed in your flowers' beds And process the oil Give you a smallpox handkerchief to wipe away your tears Let you get to grips with my model railway Bring light to the dark by lifting your veil Lose your identity Fix your reality Map your uncharted regions and oceans With my awareness of the Earth's surface To know your contours and the lies of your land Visually separate “you” and “me” Civilise love under my smallpox blanket While I introduce new disease Teach the language of success And tame

Strip Mining

In the red light district she asked

"Why don't you buy yourself a fleshlight?"

I said it would be like admitting defeat

I was realising despite how she may change

On the nymph - crone continuum Her light wouldn't Her type is scarce on the earth's surface So I asked her to marry me Didn't get an answer Silence, impure air and moonlight merged in my mind The next day I tried to follow her advice and Talked about the hyper-inflated set price of an engagement ring As defined by diamond marketeers


You left your permanent mark on me

I couldn't leave the same

As we passed by slowly Like a non-safety match Scraping on a sandpaper box. My eyes rolled back as you scratched me

With what felt like the sharp bit of a safety pin You got under my skin

It must be car paint or writing ink

(Of which there is no data on safe use on humans) It's gone from tenderness and swelling

To itching, bumps And bad and good behavioural change I'm fading from blue black to green

A tatty drunken sailor

Trying to wash it off by summoning spirits No longer invisible to the Gods Hopefully you'll be able to identify me in the next world With my passport to future happiness

Past is Mist

I miss you

Like a hole in one That went in and out again

Summertime (and the leaving is easy) aka PTSDVSNPD

The air is grey with barbecue fuel, choking the drivers on the roads Kerosene chicken drummer surprise Cruel summer Bacardi breezes People running from the North

The overworked air conditioning on the shopping centre sounds like an air raid siren No-one heeds the warning CCTV cameras turn the other way And don't cross the road

92 degrees fahrenheit at the death of an errant night in town Ice cold blooded demon rising from the melting tarmac, walking on boiling fire water Drinking the lightning and the beck's fear; hot under the shirt and burning slow. Soon lit tempers flare as time flutters by

You shall surely see shell shock waves from a fist on these streets Skipping blind drunk on cool summer rain sucker punch from 'the scum of the earth' Thundering in by the 'abominable desert heath' We're all looking for an oasis tribute band

While Freyja and the valkyries sit on a nearby hill Too sensible to venture into this town on this night

A byrnie wasn't drenched in blood

Just bells ringing in his ears

Soles maybe made with rubber from Songkhla connected to the earth

A handy RBC railing - some Judo knows how to stand

And much head banging in my younger years Maybe prevent some stamp collecting in the bloody way

By the black gunpowder tree shot

People who should live in glass houses throwing fists so Miffed, you bolt towards the darker edgelands

A hero isn't supposed to try and save a distressed dragon

Place De L'Eglise

I will leave you worn down

Like a sculpture just finished off Like a ruin standing in a sandstorm Like a persistent and hacking cough

I will leave you shining

Like diamonds in a jeweller’s shop

Like a nice and healthy suntan Like a new metal spinning top

I will leave you broken

Like a chick’s egg that's just hatched

Like a window smashed by a vandal Like a chain that’s become unattached

I will leave you laughing

Like a person who chooses to laugh Like a hyena that’s got the giggles Like a baby enjoying a bath

I will leave you dancing

Like a new born lamb in Spring Like a prisoner on his release Like Ali in the boxing ring

I will leave you in silence

Like the last mourner at a grave Like the desert in the midday sun Like a distant goodbye wave

I will leave you gasping

Like a pepper spray attack Like a fish that’s out of water Like a panic attack on crack

Dream Coat of Arms

As I cycle up these rough hills in the shower of death Seeing a devil, games of war and ravens "Virtus Sola Nobilitas" was not for Chickens of Mars Skalding cold black water Heralding a time flowing back into the Blackwaters Hunting for an important ancestor This time along Dad's line Armed only with an ego A bag of rubbish And a fly in the nose of Arthur Wellesley The rain drops on the canvas outside Sounding like the machine guns over the common "Hoarsemen" dancing to their own "apolkaloops" All too common as old Miss spelling out the Curses of Rathlin and elsewhere

Or just bad luck of the Anglo-Irish His trees hidden and his land Ghosts of a Norn iron Gest Eggy, bred under Norman yolks? Soldiers, 'holy men', writers and politicians Sir names, Northmen and nurses Bearded ladies and faeries All is full of love and war Froyled again on Friday Lil' Lord 'Bad' Macbreth Just trying to live like a Rake of Mallow Was the (Protestant) "man from the big house who had a relationship with a servant, then was cast out of his family" anything more than a story? No Sancho, no Rozinante No nights of the bath or garter to speak of recently No evidence for anarchaic ignoble heritage Examined with a large post-concussed free lance forehead Conducting genetic research Gazing hungover into a switched off computer screen Another possible clue staring me in the face While an army helicopter roars above Family, stories, myths and misreadings of the Nothing that is known of her story before marriage Gets a bit Irish misty c.1820 But a lot of history is learnt Whiteboys and imperial standards Armada with a Drake then the cold meat train home Guesswork and onomastics A peasant visitor sitting in my folly on open day in Sussex Falling through a corrugated iron roof onto a shrine to my ancestors Total reikall? Barking; and up the wrong branch of the family tree? Or just a Shire Berk's peer into the past ages?

Orphic Mystery

" poets lie too much


- Friedrich Nietzsche 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra'.

Little read blood spilling Salty pipe cleaner soup Like a myth Can't get my story straight Or my act together Not even a reliable witness In my own accounts Says the taxman That's too fine* Spelled out somewhere In the incomprehensible prose of his collected letters Losing a gain

Dances and dunces Holding a candle Creating and burning at the same time What seems like (to me), at least many Millions of tiny diamonds every second As I get on your wick Trying to become a man Playing out to flow away Into the shade Of the private woodlands of Dampwaste Place Blows and glances Chopped down again Bringing death to life And life to death Losing my voice The hoarse has bolted Losing a loan Dying to live Turning again To the careless girl in the water meadow Tried to grab her arse and got knocked out Cold Hit my head on the forbidden fruit machine on my way down To the underworld A door you A trap door on the world's stage For my solo Teleportation transportation Stuck yet spinning Going to work on a lost loft Locked out Locked in to your freak Wincey Whether Poseideon fork arsed Or jacking a bean Stalk your harbour Oil the door posts of heaven's garden gate with wolf or boar fat Turn from white to crimson Wondering along, breathing and Growing in the dark Lying out of reach for secure wards Lost myself backwords Onwards and upwards in the backwoods Not for giving nor getting Words are stillbroken (no typo) Trying to make magical flutes from the head And a shield for next time As I float along the river with a song Wind whistling with me through the treetops Every story seems to be about me Tallesin told it well You sent me a text on Skype To let me know your status will always be a way

In your photos you are small and far away

On the phone you are far away and almost nearby

In person you are life-size, near and far away

No-one to blame but myself so Every sad song's about you I'm singing songs too for you in ancient capitals But you're sticking to the lyrics of The Script's new single The truth remains Whatever the facts of our matter may be

My £200 fine from the taxman was later reduced to zero :


"So the last shall be first And the first last"

A lot of time can pass by in line

Over a lifetime In our national pastime Don't know why I've been waiting so long Have I been learning persistence for this alone? Walking out again Shutting down Women and children first Pushing in Didn't know I'd be waiting this long I am traffic Opening No After you Left Patience is a finite resource VIP velvet rope wrapped around my right arm Waiting outside Time closing in Parting Can it be true That you've been queueing like me too?

Picture (Act 2)

Our tense, electric street theatre

Blurred the boundaries of pavements & stage, life & art, And so on

It caused static on passing spectators' clothes and

The whispered dialogue made everyone's hair stand on end There was no interval There was improv everywhere Locations & props appeared as if it was all planned Even Statler and Waldorf were lost for words


I'm sitting waiting on a South West Train You can spoil your day if forced to constantly complain Can't open the window Can't use the loo The air conditioning Recycles smells of poo Everyones reading or shutting their eyes We've all been mugged off It's simple and plain I've been ripped off again To no surprise Yes - I've been ripped off In epic style Faced with this gangsterish cartel All I can do is smile Round here the same company runs the buses And runs the trains What good does it do me to complain?


Be my trophy wife (I've already put you on the pedestal) I'll never leave you On the shelf Or locked in the basement I'll improve on my dusting skills And polish up my act Everyday at the moment I feel like The holder of the Sweet F.A cup For the record time Forever half empty and half full I hope one day to pick you up And raise you up in the air I'll bathe in your reflected glory 'Cos for every trophy there is a story

Sleb Tatt

It's true the question can bemuse, Divvy birds I'm addressing youse It's true there are many more important things happening in the news I'm searching for some clues

And hope I'm not coming across as sexist in my views My purpose here's to disabuse Maybe it's a form of socially acceptable self abuse, After conducting my research there must be some excuse, It makes sense to buy loads of lotions, potions and shampoos Spend that money on nice booze and a cruise It's great when Cheryl and Rihanna are your muse Searching for guidance - confused you might find me in the pews Pamela Anderson I would like to accuse for the trend has diffused I can under stand why they find it important to buy loads of clothes and shoes But I can't understand why some of the most beautiful women get the ugliest tattoos?

Night Moorings

To be tossed from the sea of a upside-down mattress Onto shaky coffee grounds Late mornings fail to try early nights An anchorite floundering helplessly Trying to connect his vessel With the bed of your body of water Flailling in my pit Like an uncomprehensibly simple page Torn from life's rich tapestry Light slipping - a heavy wait Until I'm once more

Thrown from the back of a good mattress By a gentle, subtle cool breeze Of worldliness, compromise and carelessness Still time stamps Wanting to pier into the open dead see Playing the blame game Coasting around the subject Dissolve the causes Turning star bored An aging buoy - bound by the day but Moved by the current The night outside drives on Flashes and gives a hoot from time to time Ear plugs for paper walls and floors Find me forever a drifting off At the end of the wrong cables, ropes or lines


The mountains are lowered The sky is further away Luminous cathedrals cut into the marble field Brilliant in the moon licked night 'Waste' processed to chalk For paint, filler for ceilings Or toothpaste

As the hills are devoured

Fancy That

The Russell Grant weekly horoscope

Was a sheet of newspaper under the muddy shoes in the porch My horoscope caught my eye Every time I took my shoes from or to the newspaper sheet And surely enough

A while later

Was reprinted in full In the same newspaper History had repeated And was to repeat itself again it seemed


She stripped me of my knighthood She had the measure of my tall tales and long stories Then my war horse turned pale and ran away She threw my medallion into the fire pond, disappeared And abandoned me in my platinum palace in the sun


Everything is measured

Boxes of twenties and 75cl of 40% Glasses twirl and bottles smashed But where is the proof? Private eyes lurk in shadows

A black and white copy of America

A voice is over behind the camera

Plot and character exaggerates In order to appeal to the emotions Dream job factory blowing smoke into your eyes 24/7 Money is the route 666 of all evil The lights are low for an unbalanced composition

Patrick Woods

AWOL from the Irish Army To tail gunner for the English Army Throwing yourself out of planes post-World War 2 Throwing punches for sport in the army then Up and down ladders cleaning windows in peacetime To your last days Reading the Bible to yourself in town Zoom back to your younger days Moonlit silhouette on the ground of a rifle butt flying behind you Turn around Jaw broken in self-defence Regimental sargent major

For a while you seemed to change churches Like some do cars The runner up in an all-Army boxing tournament You taught kids how to box locally Your son (who was taught P.E by my dad) Now teaches people how to run internationally An Irishman who (on account of his jewellery) was At least once mistaken for a Jew by a Chilean woman The story goes that you once broke someone's rib Giving them a warm hug in your later years I'd like to be remembered The way I remember you Full of love The definition of a Christian to me

Soft Shoes

I feel (alone it seems) that In our tectonic relationship The resonances of our harmonic vibration Their full cadence might cause bridges to fail If we crossed them So that's maybe why We must walk out of step And run out of time

Left Hand Pathos*

Our Father The confusion started One day in idyllic late 1970s southern England At a Catholic infant school The sinister Mrs Williams might have been to blame Maybe the fact I can't recall her name Is just one of the symptoms Of the possible primary consequences of converting handedness (That of memory disorders) "Inclined to be be slow" On a steep incline As for the possible secondaries (I 'mastered' joined-up at secondary) They include disorders in the personality profile, Shyness and introversion That teacher may be partially responsible for this attempt at a prose / poem Defiance to belligerence and braggadocio The pencil is mightier than the pen and sword When taken from the left and put in the right hand Dr. Johanna Sattler's research states that the conversion of handedness drives people To continually use at least 30% more energy to mobilize their intelligence In formulating and expressing thoughts and In recollecting learned material In writing and speaking

(I'm still trying to establish the veracity of these claims) So that's possibly why

I won't try to memorise this

And recite it at a poetry night Still reaching with the right

Feelings of inferiority to "Hail Mary! He's quite contrary" The lord of his oppositional and provocational manor Poor co-ordination of the shift What's right? It's wrong What's right is not left What's left is not quite right My right to be left alone As I always told my counsellor Whatever the problem is (Was Or will be) It is always someone (or something) else's fault World without end


*This poem only paints a picture of the negative consequences of forcing someone to change their 'natural' handedness.

lower case

if i had your address

i might have sent you a present

if i had your phone number

i might have given you a


but since all i've got is your lousy email address

i'll wish you happy birthday (and that's all).

The Soldier and the Gypsy

Her earrings dangled like fruit Ripe for the picking He had his collar turned up punctually He was on a recce and had his long sight on her. As she looked away for him Saddam gazed far, far, far away in Dam Square With Iranian flag flip flops on. She looked a bit fuzzy

Was he a raghead Rupert? Or just in the wavy navy Talk of port for the Tunisian Italian As he ate a big pizza pie She was a weakened warrior He a wanderer who could only follow orders on leave He wanted all the fun of the fair. As she flossed her candy He glazed over at her toffee apple So he began to obsess over her fascinations* for a while He was posted up at the bar She was absent without leaving He took her on a forced march To free April Lengths, breath and the depths This time she was first over the top She was just passing through him again Leaving him, Still breathing In her wind and the dust of her wagon

*Phrase stolen from my friend Marcel

Attempt At A Poem in the Style of Tu Fu

"We seek him here, we seek him there, Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven?—Is he in hell? That damned, elusive Pimpernel"

- Baroness Emma Orczy

The puddle has swallowed a full moon The necessary monsoon washed the wild dogs' mess from the path I'm only airborne for as long as the flame stays alight Just as well I'm made from fairly tough paper

Colonist species come in on the breeze Or on the hooves of grazing animals The gold peals from you ringing belles over the water Calling up and down to placate incensed spirits and request favours

Walking through doorways to forget at my hermitage I watch the male cats fight in the garden The prehistoric plants thrive all over the wasteland Including the pink Bog Pimpernel

Covering the receding water-line Of a drying pond on dune slacks

These flowers only fully open When in the sun and air

These flowers are solitary. And at the end of long stalks,

I want you because you want nothing

I need you because you lack nothing


I'm just a junk food rapper Blown in the breeze Can I have it like that? Can't say I didn't give you extra cheese

Meme Warfare

I'm singing for the dictator's son While my duty is to stab his dad in the heart Counting my blood and oil money

I know the price of my art

dunno wot this is all about



trapped detected

free misdirected



professionally interpreted




Epic Records

You give me the crippling weaknesses To seas the strength To measure the distance To go to the lengths

This is a movement A wide and long view Almost a song by me A finite Wandering Jew

Don’t take my stories for symbolism You obviously ain't be there I'm building solid foundations For my castles in the air

Try transform attachments to fine feelings It's easier written than done Try share a common interest When all's said and she's Donne one

Getting a grip To the open hand Take an office & chair Taking a stand

My heart beats like a button Rattled in a collection tin Skin's just a separator Gonna be just what has binned

Two swinging on the boat swing Singing from a tree Rhyming dictionaries offer few advantages To overeducated petty bourgeoisie

The lie runs all the way too Paradise is in near range Walking through a vastness of Passing by the passing strange

My British heart foundation Must be set in hardcore or stone Penny for this guy No SEO for payday loans

Between the planets Under the planes Between the footsteps Under the golden chains

Need a hobby or interest Let it fill the void Surprise yourself – it's quite surprising Know the long term unemployed

Make like you could have gone to Oxford Giving gifts like flowers and boons Dont pass go. Collect 200lbs by Just going straight to Wetherspoons'

Take a persona here and now Just take any 3 cards There's only one left Poet can't really be that hard

Doesn't have to rhyme, Scan, or even make sense Give yourself a rap name too Like '50 Scents'

There's suns and winds

And daughters and rain

I didn't understand

Could you please explain?

High Viz

Invisible man with low status

I need to be seen during poor lighting or weather conditions

Too retroreflective stripes Helps to distinguish between objects and people Work and cycling A substance that has absorbed light Emitting light Still shining more in the moonlight Than in the daylight More easily discernible from the background When in environments where there is a lot of moving machinery Chartreuse yellow is a nice colour

Poetry and Music

Someone's still there When the light goes off Leave the landing light on Sing me a song Make the dark bright

Entertain the great nephew and niece Visiting Catford With a song about an old man from Leeds

It was so funny. And it rhymed as well We had to ask him to tell us it again We laughed and I learnt it by heart

That was what was memorable about the day Not our car being stolen


One of Rupert Murdoch's 'new' poets He had bags of Cex at the poetry festival Some of his luggage on the journey home Was in carrier bags from the shop Selling second hand video games and the like He didn't like the accommodation much He was put up in someone's house And had woken their dog in the night


Where the empty buses drive around Gas leaks months (years?) from underground Dog owners defile the nature reserve Fertile ground to over-egg my oeuvre


She's from the edge of the earth Its not the end of the world Almost the quintessential Western European An old worlder The salt of the earth From where rocks break the ocean With omerta

Princesse Lointaine

Days are long like the journeys As I walk through the ages You are not approachable Because you are not here By the grace of your grace Seen you from behind many times In my rear view mirror In the highway mirage Mist in the fog I'd love to go for a walk with you again Leave the chaperone


If I remain oblivious and insensible after I carc it Please one day (Doesn't really matter when as long at it precedes the Apocalypse) Put me on a shelf Between Burns and Byron. Good company for any afterlife somewhere between heaven and Hull Say my name right Not 'Burns' or 'Byron' Please pass me over to a friend Don't pass me over Please pass a bit of me around still Like ashes on the breeze

What It's For

Romantic poetry is for old ladies Whose husband hides in the shed Seeks refuge in the pub And when indoors plays dead


pay your own weigh your baggage the load is too heavy giving up on new adopted homes at home all i wanted was Sky, pool, darts gliding through europe crossing the border that no longer exists into the next country and back home later to the world an endless voyage with no destination but the boomerang boy arcs quickly home comforts have to come a long way all i want is sky, pool, darts sweating tetleys still bitter after all those air miles all foreigners are strange dont remember the beggars on their knees sliding into quicksand meeting someone i knew within 9 days 6 thousand miles away by accident as he worked for the same company shipwrecked tsunami arrives the day before you leave washed back home


think i was at the wheel

Expat - Hyena Version

Pay your weigh your luggage. Too burdensome


Taken on a new home Glides across Europe

Across the border that does not exist In the country And returned home after


Travel to infinity

Without a destination. However, the boy quickly warp a boomerang. The convenience of house has come a long way Tetleys sweating Still bitter after all these airline miles. All the strange foreigner Can not remember begging on their knees. Scroll down in the quicksand

I know some people find that on the 9th

Six thousand miles away By accident, while working for the same company


Tsunami arrives. The day of your trip. Returned to clear

I thought I was the driver

*Translated English > French > Thai >English by Google Translate


I told you what your friend's Gaelic name meant in English You never knew

I never would have known it If I'd never met you

Back Cover

Reviews for the author of this ebook:

“… a spoiled little mama's boy from Southern England.”

- Jim Anderson, .

“ inclined to be slow”

- Mrs Fernandes, St Joseph's Primary School, Aldershot, UK