1047 - Blue Boar Blues

I’m sitting in the Blue Boar in Bolton
I’ve read a few short poems, drunk a few
I came by train, don’t worry: drink drivin’
Ain’t my scene. Now I’m free to drink a brew
Or two or three or four. Now what are you
Doin’ this Friday night? The rain’s fallin’
My hair’s flattened, constantly need the loo
And every few seconds, seems I’m smokin’
The piss-stained pavements, not so appealin’
I’m sittin’ here alone… Where are you, hun?
I miss our times together. I miss you
I hate goin’ out by myself, thinkin’
Everyone’s thinking’ ‘This guy’s all alone!’
Well yes, but at least I’m free, unlike you…
Fri 17 July 2009

1030 - 24 hours in Salford and Bolton

Last night Andy came round with Soundforge 5
We picked up Rachel en route to Bolton
The writers’ group met, consisting of five
Sat out the back of the Hen & Chickens
One exercise: to draw inspiration
From one of Gary’s books, brought in a bag
My book was ‘Death’s Eye’ (the explanation
For yesterday’s sonnet). I mustn’t brag
But I worked hard today. It was a drag
How the rain fell. Thought I wouldn’t survive
The walk home; thought I’d end up all sodden
My office wear reduced to soaking rags
But I borrowed an umbrella at five-
Past five, and walked home under its protection
Tue 30 June 2009

985 - Alone again, poetry

Been struggling to re-record ‘World At War’
And still I’m not quite satisfied it’s done
As I prepared to sing I heard the roar
From Old Trafford: yes, United have won
The title for the umpteenth time, ho hum
Good news at the foot of the table, though
Newcastle, at home, couldn’t beat Fulham
Hull got a point, and so did Middlesbrough
So the Geordies face relegation woe
Tonight (though without Janet), it’s Blue Boar
What a bore! Yet again I’m on my own!
Some chats with poet friends, hopefully, though
Sadly this time, I’m not taking guitar
Just reading three poems. I’ll miss you, hun!
Sat 16 May 2009

980 - Monday night in Bolton

The cold, litter-swept streets of Bolton town
Are pierced not only by the freezing wind
But by the shouts of lads playing the clown
The shaven-headed and track-suited kind
The dignified town hall’s clockface aligned
More with the moon than these streets down below
Maintaining high standards, seemingly blind
To economic downturn, social woe
The stained pavements and walls of each long row
Of pubs and bars and clubs streaked grey and brown
We pass a passed-out woman, left behind
For ambulancemen to mop up as they go
Down old and bitter streets, back up and down
In pubs the hard laughter brings pain to mind
Mon 11 May 2009

970 - Hotel bed 2

I’m sorry, my love, not many sweet dreams
Mainly my own fault, also partly theirs
Making me stay up late chatting, the themes
Of work and private life a colleague shares
In pubs, restaurants, through the wee small hours
Got off to sleep okay, but woke at six
Disturbed by sounds from the next room, those showers
Those lightswitches, tap turnings, all those clicks
Those hums, those coughs, doors, voices, real sick tricks
Like ignored wake-up calls… To me it seems
Unthinkable to sleep on unawares
Through three such calls, but next door’s guest, he likes
To wake up slowly, he needs three alarms
So now I’m really knackered, sorry dear
Fri 1 May 2009

962 - Obscure poetry and sound

St George’s Day has come and gone again
Been swallowed up by work, heard no mention
Of the old dragon slayer all day, but, well, when
Do the English make a fuss? Forbidden!
I worked hard at the office, forgotten
Was our national day, conferences
To organise, plus my girl, she was on
My mind… By half four, made my excuses
And left, to prepare for activities
Poetic, musical, Old Abbey Inn
Quickly rewrote a poem emailed on
To me by the master of ceremonies
Read it out and I was more than pleased when
It went down well. We must do this again!
Wed 23 Apr 2009

959 - April sun

A spell of sunny weather and life seems
More beautiful: the land, people, buildings
Driving through London, even though it teems
To absolute excess, becomes thrilling;
Round three and four lane roundabouts, racing
Round Wellington and Marble Arch, Park Lane
Like Italians, sun in our eyes blinding
That was Saturday. Sunday, down the lane
To Mobberley with Josie; pub’s the same
As it used to be: food the stuff of dreams
Josie riding her bike, and I’m jogging
Today, Monday, me and John took the train
Up to Glasgow, where even here it seems
Sultry….Like you, the person I’m missing…
Mon 20 Apr 2009

927 - Below the seat belt

Today I drove to Chorley, Lancashire
To watch the Road Fuel Testing Unit
Dipping tanks of road users in case they’re
Illegally using red diesel (it
Is cheap but can’t be used on the roads), but
None were. A lovely sunny day. Back home,
I cleaned the flat thoroughly, a visit
From a prospective lodger. Didn’t come
Till the time got to five fifteen pm
And then off to town for a bite at the
Duke of Wellington with a mate, then it
Was a short bus ride to Trof for a fun
Verse play, ‘Below The Belt,’ about sex. Yeah,
It had to be done. Pint and cigarette.
Thur 19 Mar 2009

924 - Blood on the strings

Last night I cleaned the blood off my guitar
From Friday's gig. I'd not dared use my pick
In case I dropped it way down on the floor
From my high stool, making me look a prick
I'd strummed for hours at home, but at the gig
My fingers bled by the third song, maybe
Because the guitar fell down flat, I flicked
The strings too hard, I don't know. It shocked me
After I finished singing, hands gory
And that's when fingers started to feel sore:
Only when I saw blood; that cartoon trick
When the character flew till he saw he
Had gone off a cliff, and then he fell far
Down into the sea, legs, arms, flailing quick
Mon 16 Mar 2009

906 - Salutations!

Ten minute break for a piss and a pint
Inn Verse is running late as usual
Manchester’s friendliest night, in a small joint
Known as the Salutation by us all
It’s stuck like a sore thumb, like old St Paul’s
Before and behind, sixties monoliths
Simplified structures, representing all
The structural, simplified sixties myths
Upward social mobility for Smiths
Then Mrs Margaret Thatcher, that old bint
Played on TV by an actress, yes, all
Slimmed down and sexy…that just takes the piss!
Some have gone home, some smoking. My complaint
Is that I need a piss and pint, that’s all
Thur 26 Feb 2009

892 - Work can be fun

A good day at work, hard work that paid off
A meeting arranged, but with no support
From colleagues on the day; I printed off
All sorts of data, various emails sought
And found; visitors arriving and brought
Up to the third floor; brewed cups of coffee
Then ran through it all; hopefully I taught
Them what they had to do nice and clearly
And after getting on so famously
We left the office for the pub to quaff
A few drinks, share some gossip; then I walked
Home, while they went to their hotel; no tea
Yet, but getting hungry now, sure enough
I’ll eat and watch the TV news reports
Thur 12 Feb 2009

891 - Music night at the Stubbing Wharf, Hebden Bridge

You’ll see me at the very end table
On the left, by the bar, scribbling these lines
I’ll try and finish them if I’m able
Before we meet for the very first time
One pint of Black Sheep, then I’m afraid I’m
On coffee or soft drinks, but that’s okay
I’m seeing you at last, not before time
I wonder what we’ll both think of to say
Small talk, maybe some laughs - we’ll soon see, eh?
That smell of food is most delectable
Though fading, as some diners have now dined
And are now disappearing on their way
Into the Yorkshire hills of Hughes’ fable
Leaving the musicians to sing and rhyme
Wed 11 Feb 2009

889 - After flying over the Irish Sea at sunset

I’m in the Crown Liquor Saloon, Belfast
And staying at the famous Europa
I flew over fluffy white clouds so fast
And saw the western horizon redder
And clearer than billions of ancestors
Who never flew, and couldn’t even think
This lofty view existed long before
Life had evolved from mere scum in the sink
Of oceans now gone; no, where is the link
Between view and viewer? The need is past!
Living viewer, superfluous once more
These red sunsets do not need me to bring
My blinking assent to a view that lasts
Beauty does not need life or mind. It’s there…
Mon 9 Feb 2009

878 - Poetry can be fun

It’s late, and I’ve had one or ten whiskies
Been to a poetry night, read some stuff
By God, it was a bit cold, felt I’d freeze
But now I’m back home, feel a bit more tough
Read two poems I wrote on the chuff chuff
That took me home from Glasgow yesterday
Not too bad, since both were quite off the cuff
One about Burns Night, one at close of day
As train sped through hills heading England way
The whiskies made me laugh, it was a wheeze
As guys read poems, stifled the odd laugh
I’ve not had much to laugh about, so hey
Why not? It’s cheaper than stand-up, and these
Nights can be fun with wordsmiths spouting guff
Thur 29 Jan 2009

830 - Windy wanderings

The pubs were full of Christmas revellers
While winds blew hard and rain lashed down outside
The Brunswick, Waldorf, Grey Horse and Circus
The Rain Bar, Briton’s Protection, we tried
And managed two pints, then went for a fried
In some empty takeaway joint with Coke
Recorded some pub sounds, then a piece I’d
Written the other night, bit of a joke
About those office do’s, with the drunk bloke
With roaming hands and overly loud slurs
A year’s worth of resentments he can’t hide
Goes home so pissed, he’s liable to choke
And so the grand finale of this year’s
Finally here, a foaming beery tide
Fri 12 Dec 2008

806 - Semi-thoughts of a drunk sassenach

Hello everybody in Edinburgh
I’d just like to say that your town’s okay
Although I was disappointed by the
Lack of lighting of Scott Monument: say,
The walk down Princes Street ended in a
Fruitful stay in a bar where the barmaid
Displayed her tits quite nicely, hip hooray
At the Queen’s Arms, all very well displayed
And then another pub, where much was said
About football, including Manchester
United’s prospects. Well, do you think they
Will finish above Liverpool? They’ve stayed
Above them for years, and so I’ll bet ya
That the Red Devils will beat the Reds, yay!
Tue 18 Nov 2008

408 - From Moscow to Hebden Bridge

As England, like Napoleon before
Capitulate in Moscow, on the field
Of football, thankfully, and not of war
I type this, feeling that their fate is sealed
I can't wait, you see. I've not even mealed!
But the thing is, I'm going out tonight
To Stubbing Wharf in Hebden. I've appealed
To your sympathy for this hurried write
I hope you grant it, for I'm in a plight
It's poetry night behind the old pub door
The ghosts of Hughes and Plath barely concealed
In listeners' and readers' shared excite
Ment. I also need to get a mirror
For my car, and cash. All will be revealed...
Wed 17 Oct 07

263 - Our old friend Terry Bull likes a swift pint

Our old friend Terry Bull likes a swift pint
Down the old Dog and Duck with all his mates.
He’s sound, he’ll talk to anyone in sight
It’s listening what really irritates.
He’ll watch the game. That ref, he masturbates,
Or words to that effect, know what I mean?
The ladies laugh when this bald geezer states
His mind, in language so bold and obscene.
His shaven-headed gang, they rule the scene
On the pool tables or cruising at night
From pub to club, where each week he relates
Old anecdotes to some doting has-been
Divorcee, gets real naughty, then he might
Get frustrated, go home, slap Donna’s face.
Fri 25 May

245 - Springtime in North Wales, picnic in the rain

Springtime in North Wales, picnic in the rain
On Holy Island; Arthurian lunch
With ham and cheese sandwiches on terrain
Of seaweed and grass, stones and shells that crunch,
And tiny crabs that make great big girls cringe,
And dabbing tear-choked cheeks and grabbing coke,
And toilet stop in Beaumaris; next, plunge
Accelerator down - this car is smoke -
To reach Llandudno: fairground rides or broke.
But Kavern Records boarded up - what pain!
Downloading dries the profits like a sponge,
Along with supermarkets. Lazy folk!
We eat inside the Fountains pub again,
But what a dirty place to sit and munch.
Mon 7 May 2007

228 - To all the many ex-smokers out there

To all the many ex-smokers out there -
I’m one of you now, starting from last night!
Each cigarette can palpably impair
The blood flow, you know. What a bloody fright!
My arms and fingers, legs and feet aren’t right:
They have become progressively numb (hum
Along). So I’ll stop setting cash alight;
I’ll gamble it all away instead. Dumb,
Maybe, but healthier. And soon will come
The first of July, when the English air
Is liberated from those clouds of white
That long oppressed the crowds trapped in a room
Like prisoners held in a dragon’s lair.
It’s time to quit. That’s it. Thanks and good night!
Fri 20 Apr 2007