Untitled 51

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.

Untitled 33

I remember a house

On the high road in Amesbury

Right at the top

By the roundabout.

The house had hollow windows

And no one cut the grass

But someone lived there.

Sometimes musty curtains

Blotted out the sun

And once I glimpsed a pale face

Darting past the drapes.

I wonder now

Whether they glimpsed back.

A funny boy I must have looked

All spiky hair and shiny shoes

Marching on to school.

Untitled 40

As we get older we start to lie

To ourselves, that little bit more;

The line between truth and falsehood

Becomes opinion.

A long time ago I remember,

On a rooftop garden in Kensington,

Staring deep into my lover’s eyes.

We’d hook our legs across the edge

And bounce our feet along the brickwork

Picking frail moss from the cracks.

But not anymore.

I left her for the city,

For better or for worse,

But I sometimes still see her

Flitting through the corner of a dream.

Her black hair is wild in the midnight wind

And her face is broken porcelain

Glinting in the moonlight.


I can’t remember the name of the square.

It wasn’t Paternoster, but it was… nearby.

Anyway, I’m sat there smoking a cigarette and this

Woman, I guess, approaches.

Kind of hobbles up to the square, up the steps.

She’s… just… I mean, she’s just a sack.

She’s an old paper sack filled with

Paper sacks. A sack full of sacks.

And her face looks like an old football.

One of those old footballs

Where the plastic bits have come off

So it’s just a worn canvas ball, really

But bleached by the sun

So it’s kind of crispy and wrinkled.

Kind of angular and that.

Like a crusty old football that’s been burnt by the sun

So it’s all tough and leathery.

And her face is just kind of hidden amongst these rags

Like her face is just this tiny… impression.

It’s the impression of a face,

An old, tough, leathery football-face

Hidden amongst a bundle of soggy, shitty, tattered rags

Sticking out of a paper sack.

That’s filled with paper sacks.

Only the paper sacks are all battered and shitty too.

Kind of like they’ve been left on the street too long.

Maybe on the top floor of a multi-storey car park or something

In summer time, like, so the dust from the cars has just…

Coated these bags

And the sun has just

Destroyed them.

Just burnt the dust right onto them.

Like a sack that’s not made of paper anymore

But is instead made from the vestiges of old rainwater and some dust

That was spat from the undercarriage of a car

Onto the pavement,

And burnt into something that resembles a paper sack.

Anyway, she hobbles over to me

Reaches into the bin which is next to me

And just rummages through it.

Just rifles through it to see if she can find anything useful

Or valuable


Or just anything really

Something, nothing – doesn’t matter

I mean that’s hardly the point, right?

Like, this is her routine.

This is her job, I guess, the way she feeds herself.

This is how she takes her mind off things

Or… whatever.

So she pulls an empty coke can from the bin,

She drinks it,

And then she leaves.

And I just sit there,

Just watching a paper sack

That’s filled with paper sacks

That’re made from dust and spit

That have been burnt into a crusty shell,

Wander off down Wood Street, or Bread Street

Or some other fucking street.

I just watch this paper sack hobble off down the road,

I finish my cigarette,

I stamp it onto the pavement,

And I leave.

Kendal Mint Cake

I remember giving my Grandad some Kendal Mint Cake.

I mean…

As if some fucking mint cake

Could undo the hours of endless agony he suffered

Every single day.

He couldn’t even chew the shit without his teeth in.

And that was the highlight of his day.

Some fucking mint cake

He couldn’t even chew.