Abney Park

We scored a gram of coke

And an ounce of weed

Off a guy in Richmond.

Wound up next morning in Stoke Newington

Of all the places

On the godforsaken earth.

Took a walk round Abney Park

Watching blunt-toothed tombstones

Jut from ivy lips,

Chipped down by the gnashing of the years.

Man yearns for something permanent

He puts his faith in rocks

Letting the long, slow, crumbling maw of time

Bite down slowly

Onto precious things.


Easter Sunday 2

He’s so old now I can

Feel the graveyard on him.

There’s nothing left

Of what once made him him.

Deep inside, his genes

Are frayed like a bootlace

Beaten on a wall.

One day I pray that lace will snap

So I can face it like a man

Before its just a bunch of frail hairs


And munching on his soup spoon.


Each new morning

As the crisp sun cuts through the oak

That lines Sophia Gardens

A litter of fresh baggies

Line the Cardiff streets.

Frantic tongue and nail marks

Scar the ragged plastic

And betray the city’s nightlife

To the soft, welsh day.

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You see her face and every wound is torn open

Each memory memory dredged up

Like silt from a stagnant pond,

And through a cloud of settling ash

The odd hot ember jumps out

To scold you for mistakes you never made.

No, you know what, I take that back.

It feels like a man with an iron boot

Is kicking you in your gut

Over and over again.

And you deserve every single blow

For each mistake you chose to make

And each chance you’ll never know.


Nighttime on a cool August day

And the stars above me blink

With lidless eyes.

There is someone watching

Through the windows

Curtains closed

I feel them.

Until the sound hits.

A crack or shot

It’s sharp

Into my bones

And the curtains open.

I run outside

And hemmed into the alley –

Lying side by side,

A family of strangers smiling.

Their cold corpses washed

By the pale moon.

Camden Town

One Wednesday morning

I found a ball of heroin

Lying on the ground.

I snorted it of course,

I wouldn’t smoke it.

Except I would.

And I did.

By Sunday I was chonging down

Long, broad tokes of the stuff

Like a kid with cotton candy

Rotting out his teeth.