Alma street

Worn red brick,
Moss on grey slate,
A row of weary
Terraced soldiers,

Boarded up now,
The council won
That battle.
Marched tenants out,
Stuffed their pockets full.
The spoils of war
Came with no planning,
No permission.

Alma Street.

A cobblestone wasteland.
No poppies grow,
Just junkies
Shoot up,
Trapped tight in their
Terrible trenches.


Free up your memory

Your brain is almost full.
Slow running,
Hard to send and recieve.
Time to reboot,
Erase unnessecary files.

Ones stored
Under ‘personal’.
Subject lines:
Wasn’t Clever Enough,
Overweight and Ugly,
Wore The Wrong Make Of Trainers
To Be Part Of The Right Gang.

Delete them.
Free up your memory.

The red flagged ideas:
Save Until Later When
I Have More Time,
Do It Another Day When
I Have More Confidence,
Try This When
I Can’t Totally Fail

Do them.
There’s room now
For positive thinking.

The rest can all be
Dragged and dropped,
Into the trash.

Camera obscura

Shutter speed
Won’t capture the magic.

Through the screen
A single bright spot
Murky, rainwashed sky.
Viewfinding eyes
Time over time
Release your desperate shutter,
Wanting permanent record of
A crack in time.

In the passenger seat,
She sits, eyes wide,
Lips parted,
Damp as rain,
Watching hot forks
Striking purples, blues.
The night sky sings
A symphony to her
And her electric beauty.
She is your photograph,
Yet you look outside,
Not knowing what’s within.

Nature rages;
Shutter speed
Can’t capture her magic.


Out of tune and
In the minor,
Tight lungs
Creak out the same
Old tune.

Chipped wooden horses
Hold painted smiles,
Gallop stiff limbed,
Chasing disappointed air.
Colours fade, translucent
Against cold skin.

Pushed skyward,
Then in freefall,
Travelling in circles,
With nowhere left to go.