The dark shinyness
of brand new poetry,
like the smell of a showroom car.
Poems don’t have to be factual,
they don’t even have to be actual
Reality is, writing breeds writing and
violence breeds violence.
The children that survive
may well be the soldier’s of tomorrow.
Terrorising their own children.
Terrorising their own fathers.

My words will still be here and so will the irony.

Both lost.


‘I don’t buy flowers, I can’t work out what they mean.’
‘The words I might never say, are going to come out anyway.’

Great lines from Mr Morrison.


If I gave you flowers,
in this shaded public house
would we have swelled for hours.
Letting the walls clamber in
on several mis-tangible coversations
about the overly worked oak tables or
perhaps the temptation of the quiz night on Monday.

Half-expensive and
a bit battered from my heavy hand,
these flowers would give you something
from me.
An apology, an advance or a cry for help.

You gave me so much more
than flowers ever could.

You gave me my dreams.

And my flowers couldn’t save me from myself.

War and Peace

Quiet mid-afternoon
in a modest semi-detached,
a child cries.

His young mother gently encourages
a mashed-up banana,
he normally likes that.

Too tired to play
with his toy soldiers
and action men.

She frets,
probably over nothing,
but so fragile are these little souls.

On the news, in Lebanon a child cries,
looking for his stricken mother.
I wonder if the Gods are crying too.


Some classic quotes:

‘No matter how good you are at something, there’s always a million people better than you.’

‘This next song is called – My Fans Are Stupid Pigs.’

More to come………