East of the Heart
By ralph
- 2784 reads
Sometimes I go Looking
Quell my dreams someone i'm losing balance here dancing rope to bedlam south of madness rambling under sodium stars a mustard jazz parade french...
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- 1570 reads
45 RPM
Got it from a man, Leeds Victorian Market. Brought a record too.
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- 1 comment
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- 563 reads
Animals
The press conference, the day after, in Sheffield.
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- 5 comments
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- 1276 reads
As If Dancing To Basie
Of Stephen escaping to Mexico City.
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- 4 comments
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- 1163 reads
Contender
The guy is Zoot suited and Chelsea booted. He is drinking a South African red of a bad year that had travelled via Oslo on waves as tall as the barman's tales. He stands on a floor that is bubblegum sticky in a cloud of Marlboro blue smoke and inhales deeply.
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- 1566 reads
Eighteen Sheets to the Wind
We voted for that.
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- 676 reads
Meeting Mark E Smith
leaving us for other birds.
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- 450 reads
Gladys Bettess
Alnmouth, Northumberland, Spring, 2013. On a bench with Gladys Bettess. Overlooking the bay. Above us, a kite, swirls, panics, and falls. The disappointed pilot winds up
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- 4 comments
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- 1270 reads
The Gamesmakers
She went home, sat on the settee, looked at the photo of Eddie and her on their wedding day.
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- 1 comment
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- 538 reads
Fishtails
Driving with you, To the coast of Kent. Laughing and singing. It’s our day out. I stroke your hand Between shifting the gears. I rub your neck. Because I can’t reach to kiss.
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- 1366 reads
Passing the Secondhand
I am thinking of leaving, this cursed town. With it promises, of pop idols, progress, and good. I am tired, of its greyscale, worn intentions. The broken clocks,
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- 1055 reads
The Filth & The Fatwa by Julie Parsons
The Filth & The Fatwa An interview with a Sex Patel for the NME By Julie Parsons October 1979
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- 3 comments
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- 1616 reads
Walthamstow Story
‘Oranges and lemons, poor old Mickey Clemons, not a penny in his pocket, a shirt upon his back’.
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- 2 comments
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- 743 reads
The Last Button On Wood Street
Outside the wind cries merry. There is a dog with a fox in its jaw. A piss and shit telephone box. A dialing tone for this rusty whore.
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- 503 reads
The Absolute Beginners
January 1987. The song in heaven, ‘Reet Petite’ Jackie Wilson.
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- 2 comments
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- 723 reads
St. Swithin's Day
The found couple sat on the bench, holding hands. A July summer, English seafront.
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- 513 reads
Leaving London
They are burning good books for warmth. Eating cats and dogs for tea. Chewing, laughing, and screaming. I can see them in my street.
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- 2 comments
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- 878 reads
The Wakefield Trinity
The wind bites, and the mud larks, at our boots.
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- 2 comments
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- 712 reads
Walthamstow Sunday
Lipstick on crumpled shirt collar through rattled windows yesterday’s news strewn on polished pine telling tales of a bombed desert A protest singer...
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- 412 reads
Zuzu's Petels
Once a romantic he loved the air scent of sweet pea the drama of youth read visionary books but became blinded truth and fiction merged him began...
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- 729 reads
Frank
To be Frank, and to tell you about it. On the night he died I was in Leicester performing poetry. I exclaimed the word ‘Dad!’ and the audience...
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- 3 comments
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- 772 reads
Poems I Don't Like
I don't like poems about leaves raindrops springing lambs or the way a flickering candle lights Emily Bronte's face. Especially after you have just...
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- 584 reads
World Cup Snack Crisis: England v Italy
It’ll be hot tonight in Manaus, where the Azzurri are going to play us. They’ve trained on vanilla gelatos, us on deep fried potatoes. But when the...
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- 721 reads
The Sad Tale of Coleman 'The Shaker' Slim
‘Man alive! This weather. There are stories of him in this here Jazz history. But you’ll have to look hard (maybe too hard) to find them. Libraries...
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- 421 reads
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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- 590 reads
Making A Decision Whilst Putting Away The Lawnmower (for Speccy)
In the garage I think of Farage and his barrage of hate. And I decide to emigrate to Rouen. After I’ve put a brew on.
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- 466 reads
Safe Home
Safe home husband and wife drive to your Bailey household Home to your lost son and daughter bricks and mortar beef casserole the ‘One Show’ glowing...
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- 619 reads
Poem for Peter Porter
Poets who write poems about other poets and their poems are particularly prone to paranoia. Don’t take that personally please Peter Porter. My...
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- 838 reads
Electioneering
This morning whilst walking. I saw two friends in their seventies. They were posting flyers for Labour in the April sunshine with grit and a smile...
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- 771 reads
The Coal Porter
Walking with the sand tide against gassed winds. A man shot through gunmetal blue, seeks coal. There were other days of counting the ways, on how to...
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- 3 comments
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- 838 reads
Spanish Caff Incident
In the Spanish caff I ask the price of a carafe of red wine. And the waiter Jose, who knows me and who has become a big mate of mine I suppose even...
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- 451 reads
Lens
In Lens, France. A lion slays a dragon. God! Its only a game with a ball. In Birstall, West Yorkshire. A lens searches for reason. God! Is it only a...
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- 445 reads
Zuzu's Petals
Once a romantic he loved the drama of youth. The glass air and scent of sweet pea. He read visionary books but became blinded by truth. And fiction...
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- 1 comment
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- 564 reads
For a Few Dollars More
Just off Union Square we eat the finest pizza served for a few dollars a plate. The rest of the night, we spend listening to overwrought poets, but I...
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- 501 reads
Leaving Upton Park
Sometimes we’d win and we’d all go berserk. But the bubbles have burst since we left Upton Park. Hurst, Peters and Moore, an honest days work...
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- 3 comments
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- 916 reads