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Going Out For Cigarettes

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We waited for details
throughout the night.
We ate toast and jam,
sipped instant coffee.
Phones ran out of credit.
Those moments defined us.

Danny never listened to me.
The worst of all his moves.
A man proficient in Geography
trusted with the treasure.
Your money, your girl, your car.
“We’ll only be an hour,” she said.

I heard it on the news.
A house burnt down in Luton.
They said it was her birthday,
they’d drunk too much cider.
Danny called me late from Turin,
first time we’d spoken in years.

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On A Beeston Morning

One magpie,
Beeston’s little park
just outside work.

I remember the rhyme
and I’ll take its sorrow
with a cigarette.

The memory
of this morning’s
barely dressed little girl.

Leading the rattled man
to a derelict Holbeck pub.
Its heroin loneliness.

I’ve slept in these rooms.
Their smoke, their foil.
Their needle numbs.

Two magpies now.
A sun breaking through.
I’ve known joy too.

Blackbirds

It will get better, some say.
It was one of those bird

days, when they all came
to lodge, outstayed their

welcome, hopped into every room,
fluttered my thoughts, action,

even my food. At bedtime, music
played from the radio. Telling

the things I did to earn hatred,
from the four and the twenty more.

Socialist Cocaine

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There ain’t no such thing
as socialist cocaine.

You may be one of those
who buy sustainable clothes,
fair trade food, the Big Issue,
weep for Mogadishu, but
at the weekend sneeze, “atishoo!”

There ain’t no such thing
as socialist cocaine.

You march against oppression,
but love a Friday night session.
You argue right wing wrongs,
sing the Republic Songs,
hate the dropping of the bombs.

Shall I tell you what’s wrong
with socialist cocaine?

You see, there’s a long white line
to where the sun don’t shine.
Young girls dead inside a container,
en route from central Romania.
Do I have to explain it to ya?

That there ain’t no such thing
as socialist cocaine.

You might like a little toot,
whilst a head’s crushed by a boot.
A tiny sniff to take away the fear.
We’ll keep the red flag flying here.
We’ll keep the red flag flying here.

Atishoo! Atishoo!
We all fall down.

When we indulge in
socialist cocaine.

And It’s Over To History For The Weather

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Live through this,
called useless as a kid.
A cunt, flat footed,
friend of a Yid.

Live through this,
raped in my teens.
“I want to suck a cock, boy,
take off your fuckin’ jeans.”

Live through this,
“You’ll never be a Dad.”
Wank into a specimen jar,
until half blind, going bad.

Live through this,
a crack pipe and alone.
Ring, ring, “Help me please!”
Always broken phones.

Live through this,
the knowledge of the pain.
Today I carry an umbrella,
to shelter from the rain.

Recovery Song

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Dear friends.

This morning
I cut myself
shaving.

A canal
of blood
drifted from
my chin.

I let it
clot,
heal gently.

A miracle
in the
bathroom
mirror.

There were
other
times,
after the drugs
and the damned
had left.

When
self loathing
gripped,
led me
by the hand
through to
the kitchen
drawer.

I’d stand,
sweating,
naked.

A reflection
in the just
before dawn
window.

A knife
stroking
my heart,
my throat.

My shrivelled cock.

That I never
sliced myself
to death
may have been
a case of vanity,
or divine
intervention.

Maybe,
I wanted
more
oblivion.

It all seems
a while
back now.

Friends.

You know,
I’ve not much
of a voice,
but I’ll always
sing my tune.

Help me
higher power.

One
day
at
a
time.

Until
I’m buried
and

real
real
gone.

Because the
only thing
I’ll ever
have.

Is this
here
recovery
song.

The Pulpit of Snide (or when I became very unwell with severe depression and drug dependency, some of my so called friends shattered my heart into a million different pieces by just walking away)

depression-cartoon.jpgIf you think you know the whole sordid tale,
I promise you’ll know only a half.

And within that fraction of my downfall,
only a quarter will make you laugh.

One eighth will be manipulation,
to feed the victim’s pride.

The other eighth, your cheap cover version,
that you stole from the pulpit of snide.

I suggest you swallow just a sixteenth,
and pray that you don’t choke.

Because when you do, supposed poet,
it’ll be me who’ll be writing the joke.

#Recoverysongs