I think that Donald Trump’s wig
would make a good Presidential candidate.

It goes whichever way the wind blows.
There is a certain kind of honesty in that.

I am not sure if Hillary Clinton’s wig would be any good.

That fucker doesn’t care what the wind is up to.

Jeb Bush’s wig is just fine.

But his family have a penchant for bombing brown people.

Mea culpa, mea drunk.

There were five of us smoking cigarettes outside in the late May sun.
I’d only been working at the pub for three weeks but the punters were friendly and I was never short of company on my day off.
We were five white bellies on the park benches that dotted the beer garden.
Five white bellies plumped by too much beer and armchair sports.
I sipped at my pint and watched the planes above us, orbiting Heathrow airport.
The other guys told dirty jokes, I laughed, laughing even harder at the jokes that I didn’t like or understand.
Out of nowhere a car pulled up to a screeching halt, almost mounting the curb and clattering into us.
Behind the wheel was a woman, blonde, red lips, dark glasses….glorious.
There was a vacuum in the air above the table as we all sucked in those white bellies.
She leant heavily on the car’s horn and raised her middle finger at us.
Then she was gone.
She sped away leaving smoke hanging in the air and rubber melting on the road.
“What the fuck was her problem?” One of us asked.
“Rude bitch.” Said another.
We echoed macho abuse and all had a good chuckle.
“That was my wife.” Said the man sitting opposite me.
Nobody spoke. The smiles were all gone.
I distracted myself by reading the health warnings on my cigarette packet.
“Geez sorry mate.”
“I meant nothin by it you know.”
“Apologies pal.”
I too mumbled my mea culpa’s.
“S’alright lads.” He said, giving us all the finger.
“I think she meant to say ‘be home by one’.”

Two days of protest.

Last week the farmers protested about the falling prices of meat and dairy,
they claim that they are struggling to make a living.

Yesterday the tobacconists protested about the rising price of cigarettes,
they say that some smokers will give up the habit.

With farm-reared meat and dairy more affordable,
and less people smoking.

The politicians will have plenty of people to eat.

Not being around when all this goes on.

They were going yesterday and they are gone today.

I only have memories were I used to have three beating hearts.

Bukowski taught me that there is nothing worse than too late,

But I believe that the only thing worse than too late is too long.

Too long since hello.

Too long since I miss you.

Too long since I love you.

Time to wash the sheets, vacuum the floor, take out the garbage.

It’ll be like they weren’t even here.

Even the dog is upset, he hasn’t chewed my shoes since they left.

Things are terribly wrong.

A nose like Rudolph


He would down a can of full strength cider in the phone booth outside, then stagger into the pub a few minutes after I opened up and order a beer with all the courtesy in the world.

‘A pint of your finest lager dear boy’

He slurred his speech and sometimes had to wipe the spittle away from the corner of his mouth with his shirt sleeve.

Once on my morning off, I walked up the street to buy a newspaper and saw him  in the booth finishing his can.

He turned and saw me.

His expression was pitiful

A nose like Rudolph.

It was the first time that he had seen me seeing him

‘Good heavens boy, won’t you have some more decorum?!’

But I didn’t just see him. I saw him, the can and the smiling cider coloured devil

We never talked about it and I went on serving him with a smile and making small talk.

The Last Winter of 1942


The train howls

Pouring steam over the years

Sons, daughters and grandchildren crowd her bed

They watch and wait and weep

Her life leaks out

Death creeps in……..

Behind her eyes dances the flowers of more than seventy springs

Her ears echo with the first words of her children

Her feet are stained green from skipping across the freshly cut lawn of her parents house

Her thin crown of grey hair remembers shining honey colored and falling below her shoulders

The train growls diesel as the wheels turn

Between her legs throbs the beautiful agony from her wedding night and the thousands of nights that followed

Her fingers twitch, manipulating a needle and thread

Her voice is an Autumn morning

Her laugh; a Summer thunderstorm

Both are silent now

The name of the man that widowed her brushes over her lips

She tries to say his name now, gulping soundlessly at the air

They all lean in close, like sunflowers yearning for more from the sky

The train whispers into the neon lit station

The doors of the carriage open

And she melts into the night.

Marching til dawn

I saw too many young men lose themselves in afternoon pints  that transformed so easily into large whiskies,  weeknight lines and weekend grams.

Motivation lost in the pre-dawn of days beginning with paracetamol and coffee blacker than the worst of moods and blitz era London skies.

Men that prided themselves on flirtations with the law and bruised knuckles.

Men that promised the world and delivered only promises.

Men waiting, waiting, waiting. Anxious to hear the sounds of their shackles falling to the floor.

Loathsome arrogance.

Misdirected prejudices.

Money buying happiness in small envelopes behind the locked doors of late night toilets.

Men riding the ethereal chemical burn.

Hot blood in their veins and nostrils stuffed with four different soils of South America.

Let them ride. Let them go.

Only three cigarettes left.