East of the Heart

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...

45 RPM

Got it from a man, Leeds Victorian Market. Brought a record too.


The press conference, the day after, in Sheffield.

As If Dancing To Basie

Of Stephen escaping to Mexico City.


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.
Poem of the week

Eighteen Sheets to the Wind

We voted for that.

Meeting Mark E Smith

leaving us for other birds.

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

The Gamesmakers

She went home, sat on the settee, looked at the photo of Eddie and her on their wedding day.


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.

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,

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

Walthamstow Story

‘Oranges and lemons, poor old Mickey Clemons, not a penny in his pocket, a shirt upon his back’.

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.

The Absolute Beginners

January 1987. The song in heaven, ‘Reet Petite’ Jackie Wilson.

St. Swithin's Day

The found couple sat on the bench, holding hands. A July summer, English seafront.

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.

The Wakefield Trinity

The wind bites, and the mud larks, at our boots.

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...

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...


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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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.

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...

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...


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...

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...

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...


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...

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...

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...

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...