Cigarettes, Beer and Love

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Inside

With you inside. This bed. Undressed. And the radio humming. We fit each other, as if new socks. Tight and taut. Our eyes then take a trip, coaxed by feel. We are nothing, but

#1000Snowflakes

‘It's coming on Christmas They're cutting down trees They're putting up reindeer And singing songs of joy and peace Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on.’ (Joni Mitchell)
Cherry

A Kendal Mint Cake Crisis

The best of Nick Drake, spinning like a coin. The northern sky, just out of reach.
Cherry

Alex

Waistcoats. Red kissing the blue. Brandy coughing snifters, of a 40 a day obsessive. The killer black, to the top left pocket. With a little bit of screw. Sheffield steel. Shamrock luck?
Gold cherry

Alex

Waistcoats. Red kissing the blue. Brandy coughing snifters, of a 40 a day obsessive. The killer black, to the top left pocket. With a little bit of screw. Sheffield steel. Shamrock luck?
Cherry

At Whipps Cross

Hung over like a broken bridge, in this florescent rectangle. I’m gazing at a ceiling, designed by a minimalist My head screams, my eyes drip. The caffeine addicts,
Cherry

Blood Meridian

I know these things today. They take years to heal, to unravel. Most afflictions, are a ticking clock. As a child, in the beginning, he was my hero. He could make me laugh,

Chocolate Digestives and Everything: Part 1

Good evening everybody and welcome to the first of these Tuesday night newcomers meeting of Cocaine Anonymous in Stepney.

The First Bliss

January 1987. And the number one song in heaven. 'Reet Petite' by Jackie Wilson. The radios of Berwick Street market, chiming crackled soul. And do you remember? it was the worst for years.

Snap

Brace yourself my dear. It’s a holiday in Cumbria. Cut short. The market place. A Kendal mint cake crisis. Paperbacks. bric a brac. frisbee cd, a cup of tea. Silly old me.

The View From Here

Flaked, muddy window. Aerial wired rooftops. That I cannot afford, to frame anymore. Lightning phrases the sky, thunder applauses. Spotlighting me back, an era of smiles.
Cherry

Disco

I stole you from him, at the college disco, under a neon moon. It was the crime of the century, come Monday morning. The bee's knees of Basildon, the peroxide princess. Taken by the Ra Ra.

Swimmer

For Frances Lawrence He bled an ocean deep. Filling your rock pools, with rage. But it's not your fault, the tragic demise. It was to the bad hands, of generation. The unloved boy,
Cherry

Last Thought To Pimlico

To her. He was one of those days. An unpaid bill. Spilling blood on his sold life. He took the wrong turning, into her chocolate coated eyes. She melts away now. He sucks her wrapper.

The Death Of Jackson Plude

In the town of Kleek, from the county of Blaise. The kiss of the only girl, Whistling him gone. The splutter, then rattle. The dying minstrel, born Jackson Plude. His silver eyes set,
Cherry

Deep Soul Treasure

A friend said today. That I have to split love. Between, a reason, a season, or forever. I'd never heard that before. But it makes a sense. Although it's still raw. I think of her,
Cherry

Pursuit

Hunted, by you, all over town, like debt collection was savage. Your hair. Your legs. Underpinned by wine, in overdraft bars. Name dropping, like breathing. Insecurity, laid bare.

Of Peasoup and Piracy: (Butlers Wharf Winter 1962)

I have investment here. Over the knots of a century. It’s bound around the fraying years, on a cold cleat of memory. So loosen time and pull boys. Flex the sinews, let’s heave away.

Embelton

The wind wraps me into you. And I can stand this. For I am swept again. This isn't melancholy, crashing a wave, a lost riptide. I am clear on that. All of that.

Gig

Sitting at the bar, waiting for the band to play. Two-tone drink in hand. The DJ playing late Clash. Pork pie hats enter the room. Then a face that he once knew, loved beyond reasonable doubt.

Return to Wild Wood

This England. High sky, mid-afternoon. Its early summertime, and a light rain falls. Here we both are. Standing. Hand in hand, amongst trees, bees, butterflies.

The New Breed

The net curtains twitch. Mondays itch, as I walk by. Yeah. I’m this pure driven boy. Walking your streets. Hear me now! Because. I can cut you down, or make you sing.
Cherry

Latitude

I think of us fading. In that old house. Sometimes, listening to music, through silence. Van Morrison for me. A Prince for you. Tea, cigarettes. The occasional flicker.

On George Street

Earlier, and now. Inside, then outside, of this Edinburgh festival. In the steaming rain. You are my sunshine. The only sunshine. I’ll tell you this. Again and again.

Return of the Sausage Roll Kid: Excerpt

The odd things that flutter into the wild and dyslexic mind of Jamie Spence in the intense seconds before he wakes. They always cause terror, sometimes genuine wonderment.
Cherry

Jimmy

Inspiration Point:First Kiss

The Red Rose of Palookaville

It’s raining blood on a Bleaker Street bedlam. Nothing but dead horses, broken carts. Every phone box has become a mad motel, for the gin soaked, screaming hearts.
Cherry

The Red Rose of Palookaville (re-edited)

Re-edited because of some kind and helpful comments. he origanal version is at http://www.abctales.com/story/ralph/red-rose-palookaville-0 Interested in views.

The Ukulele Lady (re-strung)

In Burnley. In the county of Lancashire. In the country of England. It’s a wet, Friday afternoon. There’s an October slate sky, and the car park is full. Kerbed on a backstreet,

You Got The Floor by Arthur Adams

White shoes, White socks. Under the palm tree. Waiting to spin. Monday nights, are my night. Homework skipped, for higher ground. When it comes, this record. I’m free. Flying.

The Loveless

In my room of books. Warm radio noise. Yorkshire tea. Across the landing. The bath runs. She’ll enter it soon, and the soapsuds will sigh. From this chair. October drizzle presses,

Leaving London

They are burning good books for warmth. Eating cats and dogs for tea. Chewing, laughing, and screaming. I can see them in our street. They are talking rabies on the radio.
Cherry

Delia's How to Cook. Book 1

In the bookshop. In Basildon. We bonded. You with your cookbooks. Me behind the till. You asked me around. For tea. Pie and cream. I accepted. There and then.
Cherry

Mexico 1970

There were rumours, of decimalisation. A new decade in modernism, at Manor House Junior school. It was the summer of 1970. Of Esso World Cup coins. Fools gold for heroes.
Cherry

Undressed

My ex wife sitting naked on the bare stone floor, smoking my cigarettes, listening to the songs of Leonard Cohen. It’s the coolest thing that I’ve ever seen. There has been no sex.

The Palindrome

I was at home on the phone talking to Eve my missus. There were no long distance kisses because we were having a row. I called her a cow and then a silly little madam. She said.

The Loveless

In my room of books. Warm radio noise. A northern cup of tea. And from this chair. The October drizzle mourns, the death of the sweet pea, and my breath to a memory. One exhale chokes.

Radio Day

A Love Supreme. John Coltrane.
Cherry

Fugitive

Down the hill, tea time darkness. Headphones in. eyes down.
Cherry

The Mercy on Silver Street

I remember the exact moment that you and I fell in love. The Italians have a word or saying for it, something about a thunderbolt.
Cherry

There may be a good blossom

We have wounds. I tell myself this as I finger the scar on my cheek, wince at the film of it in the mirror. Memories are blood.
Cherry

The Sunday Morning Goalkeeper

He’s a Sunday morning goalkeeper, goes by the nickname of BNP Griff. On Saturday nights he downs a crate of lager, a couple of grams of sniff. He’s...
Cherry

On Turning 50

This morning I am 50 and I wait for new blossom at the kitchen window. There are signs. Emergent pink wings that flesh skeleton trees. And I’m still...
1 likes

A Kendal Mint Cake Crisis

Brace yourself my dear. It’s a holiday in Cumbria. Cut short. A Kendal mint cake crisis. Market Square psychosis. Paperbacks, bric a brac. a holy cd...
Cherry

Insider

With you inside this bed undressed. And the radio humming. We fit each other as if new socks. Tight, taut. Our eyes, a trip, coaxed by feel. We are...

Passing Tinsley Tower (for Joe Kriss)

I remember it. The day I came. My joked flat cap on. We passed Tinsley Tower in the rain. And you rolled the windows down. Made me scream, 'HOW MUCH...

The Comer Inner

January at Bretton with our hats on you look at me warmly. 'That one's by Gormley', you say. 'I adore Moore', I reply. 'Stop trying so hard'. You...
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45RPM at Thirty Three and a Third

I was six years old. My dad got me a prize For scoring an offside goal. The Gospel truth A record player. Made by Bush. The levers clunked and its...

Chemistry

A chemist in Hackney. I had acne. You, a yeast infection. Oh how we laughed! Ha ha ha.. On reflection I shouldn’t have mentioned that political...

Soho Monday 8am

January 1987. 'Reet Petite' by Jackie Wilson. The radios of Berwick Street market, chiming crackled soul. And do you remember? it was the worst for...

There May Be Good Blossom

We have wounds. I tell myself this as I finger the scar on my cheek, wince at the film of it in the mirror. Memories are blood. I walk downstairs...

Hey Clarence!

Hey Clarence! You say that every time a bell rings an angel earns its wings. It’s hard to believe unless you have a crazy faith but isn’t it the...

Zak

When I was very unwell earlier this year and in a clinic, I made a friend named Zak. Heartbreakingly, Zak found the world too much to live with on...

Of Dean, Frith and Greek

Friday night alive with the metronome. Payday peacocks say farewell to the week. Showing our colours on Old Compton Street. Pecking the streets of...
Cherry

Matinee

As we walk through the theatre doors into the neon lit foyer, the coffee bar where the festival folk gather, you sigh for those other visits here,...
Cherry

Peggy Seeger

At Kala Sangam in Bradford late Sunday afternoon, one singer sits on a hard chair waiting for the other to take the stage, tune her guitar to the...
Gold cherry

Joseph

You told me at bedtime of a secret land, where planes, tanks and troops resided, primed to kill for our republic of Essex. You said tomorrow the...
1 likes