Writing

When you find where I live…

“When you find where I live
Will you love me enough?’
he asked.

Years passed without a
visitor, no polite conversation,
tea time chat.

Where I lived shifted;
Love shifts, I know that.

When All My Brothers Slaved Away In Class

(for Mum)

For Seamus, it was Sunday peeling spuds;
For me the hallowed turf of Wimbledon.
She kept me off that day, (back then you could),
and I assumed the rank of honoured son.
The solid, but unfancied, Miss Ann Jones
was up against the awesome Billie Jean,
on Centre Court, our TV monochrome,
though now full-colour on my memory screen.
When all my brothers slaved away in class
And dad worked on the line in Ellesmere Port,
We cheered each volley, double fault and smash,
Brought closer than we’d ever been, by sport.
All hers, as Jones snatched immortality,
That Friday afternoon, just mum and me.

Whales

From my cell widow
I see the long curves of the Downs,
like great whales
stranded on the unseen shore,
the rising of their great chalk bulk
built from millions of skeletons,
white beneath the green skin of grass.

Then on TV I see breaking news –
on the coast, upon another shore,
a family of fabulous creatures
like pictures from an old story:
whales, stranded like refugees,
helpless victims of our tides
with a one-way ticket to oblivion.
Whales
HM

Wandsworth

It was down in London city, back in 83,
I was starting off a 3 year term in Wandsworth prison, wing ‘c’.
I was sitting on my cold hard bed, unable to sleep that night,
When my eyes, they suddenly beheld, a very eerie sight.
Something dark and evil slipped beneath my door,
And quietly made it’s way across the concrete floor.
I tried so hard to focus on the intruder in my house,
And then it came quite clear to me, the vermin was a mouse.
He made his way under my bed to where my goodies were stored,
Chose himself a Milky-Way, then he reached for something more.
Well, I didn’t mind a Milky-Way cause I had two or three,
But when he took my last half ounce, he made an en-emy!!!
I eased up from my freezing bunk, being as qui et as I could,
Stepped out just behind him and he froze right where he stood.
I threw a killing ’round house right’ which connected to his jaw,
Grabbed him in a vice like grip and hurled him against the door.
I was gonna apply the pressure which would bring on his demise,
When I noticed these tiny tear drops, appearing round his eyes.
Well I couldn’t do it matey, I couldn’t kill the beast,
Then the hairy little creature spoke a story up to me.
He said “go on mister convict, go on take my life,
Being a prison mouse, you see, has been all hell and strife.
He said, “I was born and raised in Brixton, my father was a rat,
He used to beat me badly but I won’t go into that.
I jumped a dust card heading east and wound up stuck in here,
They put me in a fraggle’s cell to live in constant fear.
He had me stealing smokes from cells when the cons were all asleep,
He even tattooed my arm, Pappu, he was such an evil creep.”
And with that, the mouse, he pulled the fur back from his paw,
And there was skull and hammer and his number there and all.
Now on hearing the mouse’s story, I was sad, to say the least,
I wiped the tears from round his eyes and let my hands release.

Ursa Major

On November 12th 2014 a great bear
Escaped from the Gretzky Circus in Moscow
And ventured northward
Snatching fish from ice lidded lakes
And leaving so many steaming piles of shit
That half the broad had thawed by January
On he galloped past Vyshny Volochyok,
Petrozavodsk, Kostomuksha and would
Occasionally, against his will, stop and
Perform his silly circus dance
Onward he went
Up to the Kola peninsula and found a cave
Where he sat and ate and partook of that
Act that all fortunate beasts partake of –
Hibernation
There he slept until early spring wolves
Crept upon him and tore his gorgeous
Muscled flesh – devoured a greater constellation

Two Years A Tramp

If the prison property department haven’t lost my equipment, I will leave prison with a rucksack, a tent, several sleeping bags, a tablet (containing hundreds of books), a mobile phone, an expired passport, a few changes of clothes, and a pair of worn out walking boots. Several pieces of key equipment got lost in disastrous circumstances on Valentine’s Day in Sofia, Bulgaria. This included my beard trimmer, camping stove, a spare pair of shoes, and a pair of second hand British Airways first class flight pyjamas (an incredibly bitter loss).

Two Toothbrushes

Somehow it’s those little things,
The here and now
A mind content,
And a heart
which sings.
Two toothbrushes
Share one cup in a bathroom,
One with soft
One with hard bristles,
Both fairly worn
With usage
Their mileage
Time’s testament
To whatever kind
Of marriage.
Tokens of togetherness
Two toothbrushes
No more orless
A kind of bliss,
Let’s keep it like this.

Twinkle of Twilight

Verse 4:

We danced all night with happiness
and the dog he chased his tail.
I drank more whisky from my glass
and I gave the dog some ale.
I woke up early in my chair
found my mind has been misled.
Only me there and the dog,
so I sat and nursed my head.

Chorus:

There were fairies dancing on the floor
and an angel tapped his feet.
Some violins rang out their tunes
and a bass drum kept the beat.
I looked into my whisky glass
like a mirror to my eye.
I saw a beauty standing there
now my heart was high-and-dry.

Verse 5:

No moral compass; wasted years.
I describe myself as crass.
A life in chaos some would say
looking down a whisky glass.
It took me years to see some sense
thank the Lord I’m sober now.
No more shadows cross the moon
‘took a no more whiskey vow.

To A Snowball

Wee white fluffy baw awe joy
O, although you look so innocent
Ma teeth quiver wae anticipation
The taste awe coconut an marshmallow
It melts in ma mooth lik a drop a snow
Ma belly welcomes you wae satisfaction

The Writer’s Hand

Palm flat down before I start,
strong veins, brussel sprout knuckles,
hair creeping up from wrist,
nails, okay at first sight.

Pen gripped, ready to go.

Curled pink O makes a tunnel from eye to page,
thumbnail a bit ragged, forefinger less so,
callus on the middle finger – top knuckle, left side,
thickening.

Forefinger next door, fleshy pink top,
a ridge forms the more I write,
other three fingers looking good.

Rhythmic scraping across the page,
pen moving briskly now,
words coming easier today,
better than the day before,
but ink-smudge paper
means ink-stained hand.

Not as bad as some I’ve seen –
my writer’s wounds.

The Window to the Light

I asked the darkness
What do you feel?
And he replied
Nothing but heaviness
In my heart.
Then I asked him
What do you think
And he replied
Nothing but darkness
In my head.
Then I asked him why
Is he in the dark?
And he said
Because I’m scared of the light
And I said
Light is the window to hope,
So why would you want to
Stay hopeless?
Because all I’ve known
Is nothing
So
Why would I ever
Want that something

The Visit Hall Beckons

the visit hall beckons
familiar faces
conjure up images
of freedom.
one hour of dad’s infectious laughter
the weans are runnin riot,
mair interested in sweets.
mum asks, ‘how you doin?’
ah tell her, ‘ah’m fine.’
‘Yer brother came hame drunk’, she says
‘he’ll end up in here wi you.’

The Struggle

When you feel like that jigsaw piece,
That doesn’t quite fit,
Don’t try to chance your shape,
Chipping away bit by bit,
Wait until the ones surrounding you,
Fit well around your frame,
And match your edges so much so,
You stand out without shame.
Don’t bend your borders in,
And twist your corners out,
As just for you to be seen,
You shouldn’t have to shout.

The Peaceful Art of Fly Fishing

Peaceful, to me
is a dancing whipped hand tied fly
a Gold ribbed hares ear nymph,
or a Greenwells Glory.

Peaceful, to me
is a double Spey cast in a figure of eight,
a Stoat’s Tail
or an Ally’s Shrimp.

Peaceful, to me
is a pitch black night time river,
a Teal Blue and Silver
or a Silver Butcher.

Peaceful, to me
is the naked flame of a campfire,
a smoked brown trout
and a dram of whiskey.

The Pathway to the Park

The pathway to the park is almost hidden by its simplicity. Stretching out from the sidewalk and situated between parallel fences that guide you forward whilst simultaneously blocking all view outside in.
Each step you take along the path pulls you further away from the rumbling and low growls of civilisation and is instead replaced by the musical notes of birds that beckon you.
Colour seems to return as if life was once black and white, at first only with small patches of green as the grass fights the dull grey of concrete. Though as the fences open back up, that same green colour of life envelopes you as the grass stretches out to either side and in the distance trees stand tall like soldiers in the background.
The pathway to the park may seen simple though it is in face the portal between two worlds.

The Other Side

Looking back I recall there
Was a time we had it all
But that was on the other side of the wall

So wait for me my darling
I’ll be coming home soon from the other
Side of the wall

I gaze out from my window
See the world keep turning
Life goes on without me
On the other side
Of the wall
So wait for me my darling I’ll be coming home
From the other side of the wall

These bars they cannot hold me
This world it doesn’t owe me
My body’s here but my mind is on the other side of the wall
So take me back when things were simple
When life was good and the livin’ free
We set this world on fire
Our hearts so full of desire
On the other side of the wall.

The Other

I’ve lost the plot again. And so to resolve the situation, I write the truth down on a small piece of paper. Stuff it inside a small, tight box. Put it away in the safe. No-one can get to it apart from me, yet everyone knows it anyway. And so it’s mainly for my own benefit that I write the truth down, stuff it into a box and put it away. It helps with the process of forgetting. That act of physically boxing the truth and putting it away, out of sight, helps to initiate and maintain the process of mental forgetting that I’ve become used to.

I sit myself down on the plastic chair, knees pushed under the worktop. The cell is quiet around me, except for the buzz of my own thoughts and emotions. “Forget the truth. Forget the truth. Push it out. Forget the truth,” I repeat to myself over and over again. I lean forward and put my head in my hands. Slowly, a trickle of warmth comes into my heart again. I feel the thaw coming on as the winter of my desperation starts to subside and the truth slips away.

“What are you doing up at this time?” A voice asks behind me.

Relieved, I turn around on the chair to see my cellmate looking up at me from the bottom bunk, propping himself up with his elbow. I have clearly woken him somehow. He looks somewhat irritable as he rubs at his eyes and yawns in an over exaggerated manner.

“Never mind that,” I reply, “We’ve got work in the morning.”

“Oh woohoo,” he replies sarcastically, “you have awoken me in the middle of night to remind me we have work in the morning. Joy leads to joy,”

I switch the lamp off, bringing the cell into complete darkness. I climb into the top bunk. Pull the duvet about myself. I’m relieved to have him there. Yet at the same time I am constantly repulsed by him. It is a strange dynamic. We are both serving long, long sentences. Yet for him, he has admitted his guilt, and he wallows in it, depressed and broken. I know that I am nothing like him – I at least have hope. He was convicted of a most horrendous crime, the kind which results in indignation and condemnation from the general public. And so, he is hated and abhorred by many, including me. Yet the simple fact that he is there is a comfort to me. His presence makes me feel in some way better about my own self.

“You know,” he says, “we work together, we share a cell. We do everything together in this prison. There is seldom a moment’s respite from one another. Yet you hardly ever speak to me.”

“I don’t want to speak to you,” I reply.

Lying on my back, I stare at the blackness ahead of me. My top bunk rises high. The ceiling is there. Right in front me. I could reach out and touch it with my hand. Yet the darkness is so total, that I instead prefer to imagine I am staring into deep space. Some sort of interstellar void, seeking out a bright star.

“Well that’s charming,” he replies, snapping me out of my reverie, “but you know I’m not going away. I’m going to be here for as long as you are. We’re going to be sharing a cell, working together. We might as well get to know one another.”

“I don’t want to get to know you. You are a horrible, horrible person. Everyone knows it. I could never have done what you have done. You see, here’s how it is: I come from a loving family. I have friends, loved ones who care for me, I work hard. I care about people and how I affect them. I am a good person.”

“No-one in prison is a good person. That’s why they are in prison. That’s why you are in prison,” he replies.

“What a ridiculous assumption.”

I roll onto my side, closing my eyes.

“I am nothing like you,” I say, “I would never do what you have done.”

I hear the squeak of the metal bed frame and feel the rumble of him rolling over on the bed below me. ‘Good’, I think, ‘he is going to sleep.’

“You think I don’t know what’s on that piece of paper,” he says suddenly.

My eyes flick open. Terror grips my heart. It feels like every bone in my body has turned to jelly.

“,the one you put into a little box and put away in the safe. You know, you can try and hide the truth from yourself. You can even try and hide it from me. But you will never hide it from everyone else.”

I feel the dread pulsing through me. This is the cost of having him here with me. Sure, on some levels he makes me feel better about myself. Because I’m simply not him. Yet on another level, he keeps me awake at night. Ironically, I awoke him tonight. Yet now he is the one keeping me awake. And it seems to be that he comes most alive at night when I am trying to sleep. It’s an incredibly annoying character trait in him. For most of the day, when we’re at work, or when we are watching television, or listening to the radio, he is quiet. I forget that he is even there. But at night when I am trying to sleep, he just won’t shut up.

“You know very well what I have done. But you’re no different. Trying to ride along on your moral high-horse,” he went on.

I pressed the button on my watch to illuminate it. 04.05 AM. I can’t believe this. Not again.

“Listen, shut up,” I snap, “We’ve got work in four hours and I need to get some sleep.”

“Pfft, like it really matters,” he replies, “Going to work is pointless. It is a false sense of purpose that the prison wants to instil in you to keep you compliant. You know that. Inevitably we have been outcast from society. Vilified. Our lives will never have normal traction again. All this going to work, then coming back to the cell, then going to work again; it is inevitably pointless. A burying-the-head-in-the-sand existence. Blocking out the truth. Like an alcoholic drinking reality away. That’s all we are doing with work, TV, radio, and other pointless activity. Blocking out reality. The reality that we are fucked. Hated. Awaiting our own miserable deaths – where the only people who will grieve are the ones who wished we would have suffered more first.”

“Enough!” I shout, “I won’t listen to this anymore. Every night you spout this same pessimistic shit and I’m sick of hearing it. You really are poisonous, do you know that? Not only have you committed such a terrible crime, but you continue to spread misery, even in prison. You will never change.”

“I can’t change. Who I am and what I have been sent to prison for are now synonymous with one another. It’s like the moth encased in amber. A snapshot of its life, a moment of its life, preserved forever. An unchanging image.”

“It’s nothing like a moth encased in amber. The moth is dead, it cannot do anything to change its position. You on the other hand, you can move forward with your life. You can do good things, move on with a loving heart. Show that you are not just a bad person. Show that for that moment in your life when you sinned – you made a mistake. To show that you realise that your life was being lived in a bad way. Even to prove to society that you realise you were wrong, would be an achievement. It would show that you’re not a heartless monster.”

“Society isn’t interested in whether people like me have realised I was wrong. Society only likes to categorise prisoners into neatly ordered boxes. Once society decides to put you into the box labelled ‘Monster,’ that’s you set for life. They have comfortably decided that you are in that box, and who you are has been decided. It’s all very straightforward and matter-of-fact. After you are in that box, no other deeds you carry out will ever be of any relevance or significance. Like a prism – if you hold most people up to the light, you will see a rainbow of colours shining through. A spectrum of who that person is. There are blues and yellows, oranges and reds, and all sorts of other colours in between. This is all the different facets of their personalities. All the traits, works and deeds that make them who they are. But society has decided that if you hold us up to the light – and by ‘us’ I mean most prisoners: there will be no colour. We are opaque, with no light shining through. No spectrum of beautiful colours. No differentials between one aspect of ourselves and another. Only one colour, and it’s not even a colour. Blackness,”

By now I have rolled onto my front, with my face pressed into the pillow. Every night in the solitude of this cell I listen to this. In some ways, I know he is right. Yet in so many ways I know he is wrong.

“,In the eyes of society we have become one dimensional. Defined only by our criminal acts and by nothing else,”

“Listen to yourself!” I interrupt. “I can’t explain to you how I know this, but by God I know it. This is not a permanent state of things, alright? Everything is temporary. Nothing lasts forever. And even hell can get comfortable once you’re settled in. So we just have to endure the dark days. The days when we feel that everything will never change. I’ll tell you what this is like – and it’s not like a moth preserved in amber. It’s like, I don’t know, climbing Mount Everest or K2 or something. These are the dark, difficult days. The days when a storm rages through the mountain. When we feel a million miles from home, or from safety. These are the days when we feel that the mountain has defeated us. But at the end of the day, we chose to come here. We have no-one to blame but ourselves. So when the storms come, when the avalanches come, when it feels like we can’t breathe because there just isn’t enough oxygen: Those are the times to remember that we don’t have to think about conquering the mountain right now. All we have to do is put one foot in front of the other. One step at a time. No matter how hard it is. And one day, The skies will clear, the sun will rise. Anyway, we will be off the mountain. And I will be far, far away from you.”

A beam of light suddenly arrows through the cell, illuminating the back wall in a clinical examination. A prison guard had lifted the shutter on the door with a familiar metal-on-metal scrape and bang.

“Keep the noise down, 13,” came the faceless voice.

I lean over and look at the hatch. It is about three quarters of the way up the door, about the size of a cigarette packet. Through the small Perspex window where the shutter had been, I see a single eye staring at me. The eyelid and brow are hooded low over the eye. In that one eye, all manner of emotions were conveyed to me. That one eye was abhorring, hating, cold, distant.

“Yes Ok,” I reply.

“Crazy bastard,” He mumbles, as he slams the shutter closed with a bang.

Once again the cell is in darkness. I reflect that if the other prisoners hadn’t been awoken by my voice, they surely would be awake now after the way the shutter had been clattered down.

“You will never be far away from me,” my cell-mate whispers darkly. “You forget that I know what you write on that piece of paper every night. I know what you try and forget. Boxing it up and putting it away. You are trying to put distance between us. You think that by writing it down and putting it away, it somehow makes it erased from your mind, but it’s not. Memories and reality don’t work like that. You are no better than me, despite desperately trying to deceive yourself.”

A great sadness expands in my throat. Tears start to stream from my eyes, soaking the pillow. It’s time to let go of that piece of paper for good. It’s time to accept the truth. This cannot go on.

I throw the duvet off myself and climb down the ladder of the bunk bed. I hardly even notice the cold rungs of the ladder digging into my bare feet. I switch the lamp on and punch in the code for the safe. I pull out the piece of paper and unroll it. I feel determined to see this through. Yet I am shaking slightly, like there is somehow a deep vibration in my bones. I stretch the piece of paper out, one hand to the other, using the tension to steady the shakes. Written on the paper is just one sentence: “He is not real.”

And then I remember the difficult truth. My cell-mate is not real. He is me. We are the same person.

Perhaps it is a survival mechanism. I have created him to separate myself from my guilt and my despair. To put some sort of distance between us. I have created him because the person I was feels like a different person. A totally different person. There is no way I could have been him. I have created him because it feels like he should exist as a separate person. He does not feel like a part of me. He seems autonomous in my mind now. His own entity. Like a character in a movie that I watched a long time ago. Yet what I feel to be real is not what is objectively real. Objectively he is not real. He is not separate. And I need to realise that now. I need to accept my past, and ultimately accept myself.

Only by accepting myself can I weather the storm on the mountain. Or cope with the avalanche. Or cope with the lack of oxygen. Yes, it is painful to let him go and to accept responsibility in my own mind. It is painful to not have that reassurance that it was someone else. Yet, like the mountain itself, we all have low points, crevasses, and jagged edges. But we also have beautiful slopes, peaks and vistas to behold. Like the mountain itself, we are none of us one-dimensional. And like the mountain itself, we can all of us change.

I rip up the piece of paper and throw it in the bin. I accept who I am. But I will not be defeated by it.

I do not concede that he was right. That when prisoners are held up to the light there is no colour.

Only by accepting the truth can I learn how to put one foot in front of the other. And only by accepting the truth can I allow myself to hope that one day someone will hold me up to the light and see not only the black, but, like a prism, a spectrum of colours.

The Life and Times of Four Eyes

These are the muttering streets.
Keep your insidious intent
for the cliquey classes
of intellectualized kiss-asses
lovers of art not drawn on walls
shining out invidious intensity
to the boy who ends up
living it up with the glitterati on
Have I Got News For You.

And it doesn’t matter
that he smiled sweetly at the old ladies
and the rent man
and didn’t swear with the other kids
or nick cock mags from Maggie Johnston’s
or blow up condoms
or chuck bangers through letterboxes.
He’s still the strange one.
He’s still the evil one.
So, when does the badness start?

The Jimmy Plays

Scene one

Maw: Jimmy, Jimmy,
no reply!
JIMMY!

Jimmy: Whit is it Maw?

Maw: Come on in, a want you to go a message fur me

Jimmy: Oh maw am playin fitba weah the boys.

Maw: Niver mind yur fitba weah the boys Jimmy. This joob is mare important.

Jimmy: It’s a job maw?

Maw: Aye it’s a job Jimmy!

Jimmy: Is there ony money in it fur me?

Maw: It depends, there could be!

Jimmy: Whut’s the job?

Maw: It’s a job only you can dae Jimmy.

Jimmy: AWE MAW! One oh they jobs!

Maw: A want you to go doon tae the one eyed blue parrot pub and tell yir fayther tae git his arse up here pronto, and tae bring whit’s left o his wage packet!

Jimmy: Maw that pub’s dangerous, it’s a dive. A dinnay feel safe gawin doon there!

Reflections

I won’t be the same when I get out of here.
I won’t be the same
When I get out of here.
I won’t
Be the same when
I get out of here.
I won’t be
The same when I get
Out of here.
I won’t be the same when i
Get out of here.
I.
Won’t be.
The same.
When I get
Out of here.
I won’t be the
Same when I get out
Of here.
I won’t be the same when I get out of
Here.
I won’t be the same
When I get
Out of here.
When I get the same
I won’t be out of here.
When I get out the same here
I won’t be.
I won’t be of the same when here.
I get out.
Be the same:
I won’t get out of here.

The Dance of Angels

I have tracked the path of its descent, this one in a million.
I have watched its shape since it came into my vision.
Thousands of feet it travelled to get to where my eyes could make it out.
Its surface turning the surrounding world upside down.

To my childish mind you started your journey in heaven.
The truth?
It was a mixture of moisture, warmth and cold that began your descent.

You are close to your journey’s conclusion and my heart races in excitement.
You touch the earth with barely a sigh.
The puddle absorbing you into itself.
Then with one final defying act,
The sides where you land spring up like arms reaching back to heaven.
Your – Tah Dah – Your finishing flourish.
And I smile.

To most you are just a raindrop,
But my mum has told me your truth.
If I lie here in the doorway of our house.
A house I have known all my five years.
It is here
I will see
the angels dancing.

Succession

a street corner angel
still tasting violation
squeezes a floor splinter
out of her knee

sunshine shone
through the window casting
a shadow of bars
unto his appeal papers

Strangeways

Strange days in strange ways
Never pays times ticking
Choose your type believe the hype
Or become ripe for the picking
There’s big fella’s little fella’s
Beggars and sellers
Ball breakers rule breakers
Takers and fakers
Door bangers and hangers
Even paid avengers
There’s lifers and knifers
Taking lives for fivers
Weed smokers teabag tokers
And the practical jokers
Pill poppers
Wing hoppers
Telling everyone whoppers
The grafter the shafter
Who all wanna pay after
Strange days in strange ways
Never pays stay away
Enjoy our life
And wife and your
Slippers and pipe
Sunday dinners
Forgiving sinners
Watching your kids
Grow up winners
Be content
Not bent
Life’s not meant
To be spent
Wishing for more
Than you need
No need for greed
If you can feed
Your hunger
Your getting older
Not younger
Strange day’s in strange ways
Never pays

Sonnet for a Cretan Tree

Outside my window there’s a foreign tree,
Each morning it’s the first thing that I see.
I often wonder how it came to stand
Upon this very piece of no-man’s land.
Those who planned the prison let it grow,
And built this place around it years ago.
the R.H.S. have blessed it with a plaque.

But does it every dream of going back?
Across the years, the miles, across the sea?
Does it long for friends and family?
Although its leaves dance on this English air,
Does it yearn to blossom over there?

It has no choice. It is a refugee.
My fellow prisoner, the migrant tree.

Scribo Ergo Sum

In his introduction to ‘The Illustrated Man’, Ray Bradbury says that he writes “so as not to be dead.” And that is it. When you have been in prison for as long as I have, and you have no concrete release date, you begin to wonder if you even exist at all. Surely the whole point of existence is to have an effect. To leave something behind perhaps. Even if that is just a thought or an emotion within someone else.

Jail is like purgatory. You are still around, but you have no impact. No effect. The point of your existence is void. You slowly begin to die. But there are two ways out of purgatory. One is a torturously meandering and slow death. The other is to fight back with an all-consuming desire for life.

Remembering the Gay and Bisexual Men That Changed the World

10th January, 2016. Planet earth was blue and there was nothing we could do, except mourn the loss of the late, great David Bowie.

“I’m gay,” he declared some 44 years earlier, in 1972, while married to Angie Bowie. Bear in mind the world was a much darker, colder place to be gay in the early 70’s; homosexuality had only just been decriminalised in Britain in 1967.

In the years that followed, he’d out himself as bisexual, and then a “closet heterosexual”. But whatever he was, one of the greatest gift’s he gave the world was teaching us that it really didn’t matter. He inspired millions to embrace their sexualities and genders while rewriting all the rules of pop through his LGBT identity. Whether he was playing the androgynous, bisexual alien Ziggy Stardust, or embracing his laissez-faire attitudes towards hedonism and gender norms, David Bowie has woven himself throughout the rich tapestry of LGBT representation – and all in glorious technicolour, no less. The mark he left on the world is one that’ll never be forgotten. And, with his passing, we’re reminded of just some of the other gay and bisexual men who’ve long since left us, but who changed things for all of us – and for the better.

• Michelangelo (1475-1564)
• Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)
• Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
• Marcel Proust (1871-1922)
• Edward Carpenter (1844-1929)
• John Maynard Keynes (1883-1946)
• Alan Turing (1912-1954)
• Brian Epstein (1934-1967)
• EM Forster (1879-1970)
• No√´l Coward (1899-1973)
• Harvey Milk (1930-1978)
• Rock Hudson (1925-1985)
• Mark Ashton (1960-1987)
• Andy Warhol (1928-1987)
• Divine (1945-1988)
• Robert Mapplethorpe (1946-1989)
• Albert Kennedy (1973-1989)
• Keith Haring (1958-1990)
• Howard Ashman (1950-1991)
• Freddie Mercury (1946-1991)
• Rudolf Nureyev (1938-1993)
• Craig Rodwell (1940-1993)
• Derek Jarman (1942-1994)
• Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)
• Justin Fashanu (1961-1998)
• Matthew Shephard (1976-1998)
• Quentin Crisp (1908-1999)
• Mark Bingham (1970-2001) a 9/11 Hero.
• Harry Hay (1912-2002)
• Willi Ninja (1961-2006)
• Alexander McQueen (1969-2010)
• Eric James (1925-2012)
• Allan Horsfall (1927-2012)
• Lou Reed (1942-2013)

34 NAMES

If you let yourself be whoever you are, and love whoever you love, you’ll find life so much less stressful.

Registration Card 1940

It tells of men in shiny double-breasted suits
And of pipe smoke and fingers stained with ink.
Of women’s legs with gravy browning lines
And fingers tired from typing and mending and death.
It’s as silent as the sky before the long low hum
Of planes and the cheerless whistling bombs.
It lay hidden beneath eighty years of stuff.
Just stuff stuffed in with a load of other stuff
Kept unknown in a box of long extinct biscuits
At the back of a cupboard in the corner of a room
In the house where my father had lived as child.
Just a piece of folded card carrying a warning:
“Do not lose,” which would have been wasted
On my two year old Dad. But not on me.

Promises, Medals and Heroes

Did they tell you when you went to war
There’s nothing that’s worth fighting for
Did they tell you when you signed your name
You would never come back the same.
What did they tell you, what did they tell you, what did they tell you?
What did they tell you, did they promise you medals?
Did they promise you heroes?

Did they tell you when you got on the plane
You would never come back the same
Did they say you’d kill women and children
Whose eyes have seen too much pain
What did they tell you, what did they tell you, what did they tell you?
What did they tell you, did they promise you medals?
Did they promise you heroes?

They gave you a helmet and a rifle
A pair of boots and a uniform
You’ve got a photo of your mother
She hopes you won’t come to any harm
She hopes you won’t come to any harm
Did they tell you when you got on the ship
That this was going to be a one-way trip?
What did they tell you, what did they tell you, what did they tell you?
What did they tell you, did they promise you medals?
Did they promise you heroes?

Poem for World Book Day

I read a book,
It made me cry.
I read a book,
It made me fly.
I read a book,
And laughed out loud.
I read a book,
My heart was wowed.
I read a book,
It set me free.
I read a book
And it read me.

Plum Blossom (unswept)

There shall be no evil happen unto thee:
Neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

I tell you how these past few April afternoons
the inner courtyard has been anointed
by three hours exactly
of quince-coloured sunlight.

You say
Point the laptop out the window so I can see.

The plum tree is in blossom
alb white
and the daffodils run riot
as if they’ve been coloured in
by a young child
who’s lost his beautiful heart
to yellow only.

All in all I’m fine –
I sit in my kitchen
and watch the people
in the opposite flats
going about their mundane business
in these unusual times.

And quite a few watch back
and now and then we wave
like passengers on passing ferries.

*
Springtime has marched nonchalantly in
past all the checkpoints we set up.
The season has occupied us.
Birdsong amplifies itself
and daisies and dandelions grow
in the city parks
in defiance of our regulations.
Warmth hangs about in the streets
like frogspawn
and laughs at us –
squatting
in our brick and glass containers
serving our indeterminate sentences
like rubbish anchorites.

*
It’s said it will be OK
a lot
but of course it may well not be.
And for many elsewhere this is just
another one of many years
of broken parts –
breakages over and over again.

So among the several lessons
this spring is reading us
here’s one –
the unswept blossom
and the smiling unthinned daffodils
tell us benignly
that the earth will not negotiate
(cannot negotiate) with us –
that it would exist
quite happily without us.

It would have time and space enough
in fact
to start to lick its wounds –
to start the slow business
of mending itself
in careful quiet.

Phobia-D

Jacket on as I rush for the door
My feet won’t let me as their nailed to the floor
I’m So scared of spiders, big crowds and clowns, also am a germaphobe so no hospitals or gowns, I’ll eventually get out and go to the shop “but wait” what if there’s a dog then oh well my head will just pop
As the room I’m in starts to get smaller and I start to cringe its terrifying as my besties a ginge
And she thinks am strange cause of my phobia that I don’t like change I just got over my fear of going too the park as long as there’s light cause am scared of the dark
At least its normal and no feart from a banana well not as much as my other mate Hannah who’s brothers only fear happens to be his mother and her fear is not to choke on food oh and she has a fear of ghosts electricity, people and nets around goal posts also what’s weird is the fact that my girlfriend is scared of my beard it’s all mad and it’s a bit of a riddle I’m glad that we came to realize that we meet in the middle


1. Arachnophobia – The fear of spiders affects women four times more (48% women and 12% men).
2. Ophidiophobia – The fear of snakes. Phobics avoid certain cities because they have more snakes.
3. Acrophobia – The fear of heights. Five percent of the general population suffer from this phobia.
4. Agoraphobia – The fear of open or crowded spaces. People with this fear often won’t leave home.
5. Cynophobia – The fear of dogs. This includes everything from small Poodles to large Great Danes.
6. Astraphobia – The fear of thunder/lightning AKA Brontophobia, Tonitrophobia, Ceraunophobia.
7. Claustrophobia – The fear of small spaces like elevators, small rooms and other enclosed spaces.
8. Mysophobia – The fear of germs. It is also rightly termed as Germophobia or Bacterophobia.
9. Aerophobia – The fear of flying. 25 million Americans share a fear of flying.
10. Trypophobia – The fear of holes is an unusual but pretty common phobia.
11. Carcinophobia – The fear of cancer. People with this develop extreme diets.
12. Thanatophobia – The fear of death. Even talking about death can be hard.
13. Glossophobia – The fear of public speaking. Not being able to do speeches.
14. Monophobia – The fear of being alone. Even while eating and/or sleeping.
15. Atychiphobia – The fear of failure. It is the single greatest barrier to success.
16. Ornithophobia – The fear of birds. Individuals suffering from this may only fear certain species.
17. Alektrophobia – The fear of chickens. You may have this phobia if chickens make you panic.
18. Enochlophobia – The fear of crowds is closely related to Ochlophobia and Demophobia.
19. Aphenphosmphobia – The fear of intimacy. Fear of being touched and love.
20. Trypanophobia – The fear of needles. I used to fear needles (that and death).
21. Anthropophobia – The fear of people. Being afraid of people in all situations.
22. Aquaphobia – The fear of water. Being afraid of water or being near water.
23. Autophobia – The fear of abandonment and being abandoned by someone.
24. Hemophobia – The fear of blood. Even the sight of blood can cause fainting.
25. Gamophobia – The fear of commitment or sticking with someone to the end.
26. Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia – The fear of long words. Believe it or not, it’s real
27. Xenophobia – The fear of the unknown. Fearing anything or anyone that is strange or foreign.
28. Vehophobia – The fear of driving. This phobia affects personal and work life.
29. Basiphobia – The fear of falling. Some may even refuse to walk or stand up.
30. Achievemephobia – The fear of success. The opposite to the fear of failure.
31. Theophobia – The fear of God causes an irrational fear of God or religion.
32. Alurophobia – The fear of cats. This phobia is also known as Gatophobia.
33. Metathesiophobia – The fear of change. Sometimes change is a good thing.
34. Globophobia – The fear of balloons. They should be fun, but not for phobics.
35. Nyctophobia – The fear of darkness. Being afraid of the dark or the night is common for kids.
36. Androphobia – The fear of men. Usually seen in younger females, but it can also affect adults.
37. Phobophobia – The fear of fear. The thought of being afraid of objects/situations.
38. Philophobia – The fear of love. Being scared of falling in love or emotions.
39. Triskaidekaphobia – The fear of the number 13 or the bad luck that follows.
40. Emetophobia – The fear of vomiting and the fear of loss of your self-control.
41. Gephyrophobia – The fear of bridges and crossing even the smallest bridge.
42. Entomophobia – The fear of bugs and insects, also related to Arachnophobia.
43. Lepidopterophobia – The fear of butterflies and often most winged insects.
44. Panophobia – The fear of everything or fear that terrible things will happen.
45. Podophobia – The fear of feet. Some people fear touching or looking at feet, even their own.
46. Paraskevidekatriaphobia – The fear of Friday 13th. About 8% of Americans have this phobia.
47. Somniphobia – The fear of sleep. Being terrified of what might happen right after you fall asleep.
48. Gynophobia – The fear of women. May occur if you have unresolved mother issues.
49. Apiphobia – The fear of bees. Many people fear being stung by angry bees.
50. Koumpounophobia – The fear of buttons. Clothes with buttons are avoided.
51. Anatidaephobia – The fear of ducks. Somewhere, a duck is watching you.
52. Pyrophobia – The fear of fire. A natural/primal fear that can be debilitating.
53. Ranidaphobia – The fear of frogs. Often caused by episodes from childhood.
54. Galeophobia – The fear of sharks in the ocean or even in swimming pools.
55. Athazagoraphobia – The fear of being forgotten or not remembering things.
56. Katsaridaphobia – The fear of cockroaches. This can easily lead to an excessive cleaning disorder.
57. Iatrophobia – The fear of doctors. Do you delay doctor visits? You may have this.
58. Pediophobia – The fear of dolls. This phobia could well be Chucky-induced.
59. Ichthyophobia – The fear of fish. Includes small, large, dead and living fish.
60. Achondroplasiaphobia – The fear of midgets. Because they look differently.
61. Mottephobia – The fear of moths. These insects are only beautiful to some.
62. Zoophobia – The fear of animals. Applies to both vile and harmless animals.
63. Bananaphobia – The fear of bananas. If you have this phobia, they are scary.
64. Sidonglobophobia – The fear of cotton balls or plastic foams. Oh, that sound.
65. Scelerophobia – The fear of crime involves being afraid of burglars, attackers or crime in general.
66. Cibophobia – The fear of food. The phobia may come from a bad episode while eating, like choking.
67. Phasmphobia – The fear of ghosts. AKA Spectrophobia. Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters!
68. Equinophobia – The fear of horses. Animal phobias are pretty common, especially for women.
69. Musophobia – The fear of mice. Some people find mice cute, but phobics don’t.
70. Catoptrophobia – The fear of mirrors. Being afraid of what you might see.
71. Agliophobia – The fear of pain. Being afraid something painful will happen.
72. Tokophobia – The fear of pregnancy involves giving birth or having children.
73. Telephonophobia – The fear of talking on the phone. Phobics prefer texting.
74. Pgonophobia – The fear of beards or being scared of/around bearded men.
75. Omphalophobia – The fear of belly buttons. Touching and looking at navels.
76. Pseudodysphagia – The fear of choking often after a bad eating experience.
77. Bathophobia – The fear of depths can be anything associated with depth (lakes, tunnels, caves).
78. Cacomorphobia – The fear of fat people. Induced by the media. Affects some anorexics/bulimics.
79. Gerascophobia – The fear of getting old. Aging is the most natural thing, yet many of us fear it.
80. Chaetophobia – The fear of hair. Phobics tend to be afraid of other people’s hair.
81. Nosocomephobia – The fear of hospitals. Let’s face it, no one like hospitals.
82. Ligyrophobia – The fear of loud noises. More than the instinctive noise fear.
83. Didaskaleinophobia – The fear of school. This phobia affects kids mostly.
84. Technophobia – The fear of technology is often induced by culture/religion.
85. Chronophobia – The fear of the future. A persistent fear of what is to come.
86. Spheksophobia – The fear of wasps. You panic and fear getting stung by it.
87. Ergophobia – The fear of work. Often due to social or performance anxiety.
88. Coulrophobia – The fear of clowns. Some people find clowns funny, coulrophobics certainly don’t.
89. Allodoxaphobia – The fear of opinions. Being afraid of hearing what others are thinking of you.
90. Samhainophobia – The fear of Halloween affects children/superstitious people.
91. Photophobia – The fear of light caused by something medical or traumatic.
92. Disposophobia – The fear of getting rid of stuff triggers extreme hoarding.
93. Numerophobia – The fear of numbers and the mere thought of calculations.
94. Ombrophobia – The fear of rain. Many fear the rain due to stormy weather.
95. Coasterphobia – The fear of roller coasters. Ever seen Final Destination 3?
96. Thalassophobia – The fear of the ocean. Water, waves and unknown spaces.
97. Scoleciphobia – The fear of worms. Often because of unhygienic conditions.
98. Kinemortophobia – The fear of zombies. Being afraid that zombies attack and turn you into them.
99. Myrmecophobia – The fear of ants. Not as common as Arachnophobia, but may feel just as intense.
100. Taphophobia – The fear of being buried alive by mistake and waking up in a coffin underground.

Orpheus in the Bureaucratic Underworld

“Good morning! I am here to fetch Eurydice, my wife,
From Hades’ dismal prison shades back to the realm of life.”

“Oh yes?” Hell’s Porter scrutinised the roster on the wall.
“I’m sorry, Sir, it’s Training Day, no one gets out at all.”

“What time tomorrow”, Orpheus said, “should I recross the Styx?”

“That very much depends – you see, a lot goes in the mix.
I open up at eight, unless the day ends with a ‘Y’,
As most of them have tended to since Hell began to fry.
Sometimes it’s nine, or thereabouts, but seldom on the dot;
Nine-thirty if one’s fortunate – but then, in Hell, one’s not!”

“Is there no method in this place?” cried Orpheus, despairing.

“Of course!” snapped back the Porter, “but your logic has no bearing.
Once entered, Hades’ rules apply, which are most strict and certain,
The strictest being, no one gets to look behind the curtain!”

Opportunistic Downfall

I tried to dodge the bullets, but it didn’t work.
My messed up life’s drivin’ me berserk.
Knowing my luck things will just get worse,
Until I break down and cry.

The people who once knew me in the olden days,
Are bound to remark on how much I’ve changed.
But knowing my luck they’ll hate me all the same,
So I’ll leave them behind.

Opportunity knocks, they say.
But no-one raps on my door these days,
And though there’s light at the end of the tunnel.
Somebody’s changing the bulb.

I ask myself how I got into such a state,
If only I’d tried harder to communicate.
Knowing my luck I’d still be god-forsake,
And wondering why.

Should I have put my faith into something divine?
Surely that would have saved me from a life of crime?
But knowing my luck my life was predesigned,
And I’d end up inside.

Opportunity knocks, they say.
But no-one raps on my door these days,
And it’s no use waiting for dreams to come true,
When all you have are nightmares.

Things could’ve been different had the time allowed.
I could have achieved much and made my family proud.
Knowing my luck they’d likely throw me out,
And leave me to die.

I’ve tried to blame my problems on the alcohol,
I know it had a part to play in my downfall,
Maybe knowing my luck comes armed with claws,
Will save me next time.

Opportunity knocks, they say.
But no-one raps on my door these days,
And although they claim that hope springs,
Mine has lost its bounce.

All my life has been plagued by psychology,
Assuring me I’m still pinned to reality.
But knowing my luck has the authority,
I’m sure that’s just lies.

Nowadays I’d like to think I’m much improved,
A better man focussed on a path of truth,
Yet knowing my luck you won’t see the proof,
Cos my life’s too contrived.

Opportunity knocks, they say.
But no-one raps on my door these days,
And whilst the future might be bright,
It’ll soon be nightfall.

On Knife-Edge Glazing Bars & Other Matters

When in a 1969 television advert, Ted Moult dropped a small, white feather in front of an Everest, double-glazed window, I was waiting – somewhat impatiently – for Monty Python’s Flying Circus, to start.

I was completely uninterested when jowly lugubrious-faced Ted, attempting a degree of jocularity, shouted to the bloke in the helicopter to “Take it away!“, and the rotor blades started while the feather fell vertically, utterly unaffected, it appeared, by the power of the air turbulence created on the other side of the glass.

The three-minute ad successfully demonstrated the effectiveness of the new window’s draught-resistant properties but there was an added bonus. The clever design, pioneered by Everest, was to create a vacuum held between two sheets of glass which were permanently sealed and this feature helped to prevent warmth in the house leaking out through the cold glass interface that ordinary windows possessed. This sealed unit was the main component of the new double-glazing. Each unit was fixed into its aluminium frame with a tight rubber seal. When installed, an Everest double-glazed window kept the cold out and the heat in. I think there was also a ten-year guarantee – perhaps even longer – available with them. However there was one single feature above all others which really sold those windows to the public – no more painting. No more up ladders every two years scraping away at the frames and sashes getting rid of all that flaky paint before applying the two, new, top-coats. No more of that!

“Look how attractive our enduring, aluminium frames are“, beamed Ted, encouragingly, to me; his face reminded me of a genial coypu. “No more painting, ever!“

Two things happened after that advert: I began to see Everest window installation vans all over the place, and as I made my way to college and everywhere else, students were demonstrating silly walks to each other.

Ode to the Birds

When I noticed the birds, I saw freedom
I remembered what that felt like
I had forgot who I was
I had lost all hope
Until the moment I watched the birds through the bars on
the window.

Nana’s

I sat by the fire
but that wasn’t the warmest place
in your home.
That place always moved.
That place
was you.

My Pandemic Party

Well it’s a party and I’m well happy
It’s a party and we’re gonna have fun
‘Cos of Covid I’ve been here on my own
And restrictions mean I’ve seen no-one

I’ve got bottles of Coke and Bacardi
Whisky, Gin and Beer
But O.M.G. it’ll be no fun
If nobody else is here

I’ve got loads of crisps and peanuts
Sliced up lemon and ice
But no-one’s here to share them with
‘Cos of Covid I’m paying the price

There’s a playlist on my smartphone
With Wi-Fi headphones for all
So no-one outside will hear us
And give the Police a call

I don’t want to get a ten grand fine
Nor 200 each for my guests
We’ll all be quiet and wear our masks
And tomorrow we’ll all take tests

Well it’s getting late and no-one’s here
I hope they’re on their way
I’m getting close to giving up
And putting everything away

I’ve just given up and I’m going to bed
I’m not gonna lie, I’m not chuffed
If I hear from those I invited round
I might tell them to go and get stuffed

Well that was no kind of party
No kind of party for me
The sooner this Covid’s gone away
The happier we all will be

Now all of my friends have called me
I know why they missed my do
They didn’t want to risk all those fines
Nor spread the virus too

It would have been a foolish party
And risky for them and me
So we’ll wait ’til we’ve had the vaccine
And off to the pub we’ll be.

We’ll have bottles of Coke and Bacardi
Whisky, Gin and Beer
And I’m not gonna lie, we’ll have great fun
When all the Covid is clear.

Jail Break

I’ll not come back to jail
Simply because
There are not enough hours in the day
Not enough days in the year
And not enough years in a lifetime.

More Than A Dozen

H Hunnid I’m worth more than a dozen I’m priceless,
Man tryna block my blessings suttin that I sense,
But I spy with my eyes suttin that’s gon shine,
So you think I’ve got time, for a red eye,
Memories I was tryna block, bruddahs with a jehdi,
End game i’m en route, distractions getting blurred out,
Temptations from gyal that are tryna get merged down.

H Hunnid I’m worth more than a dozen i’m priceless,
So priceless record labels can’t sign me,
I swear i’m a busy man until i’m lifeless,
I’ve got many plans and many men that wana try me,
But I be cruising down my lane, thinking bout my end game,
Remember I was thinking where to get cane,
Yeh them days, them days I was doing too much,
How many baskets I’ve got for each egg too much,
Cah I can’t put all eggs in one,
I’ve got too much problems but a bitch could never be one,
A lot of shit that I’ve prioritised since my freedom,
Packs used to get taken like they were all Liam Neeson’s,
Smile on my face when the re comes,
Let’s get them hunnas we juggin all season,
I was in jail wearing trackies, shit don’t feel right in denims,
I used to think that a bruddah like me couldn’t reach 7 figures,
Now I press on these avenues like they’re triggers,
I want my bank account happy,
Noone can take from me the fact that I was too damn trappy,
Just done a whole day daring, no L’s, clean sheet,
I love the tap but I love my freedom more,
The increase in police is more,
I’m tryna walk in peace but it won’t do a lot for you when you walk the streets,
I guess the only answer is to leave but I can’t leave my team,
The courageous live in danger and in fear,
We ain’t ignorant we know that death is really near,
But we too ambitious, I know some humble bruddahs that can be too malicious,
Violence, better pray the predators don’t eye you,
Cah what they’ve done they won’t pet to do again no Ryu,
Glides been on bikes, motorbikes and cars, Imagine if a glide was birds eye view,
Bruddahs ain’t woke like they need a third eye too.

Miracle

The bus-driver gave the man his ticket and gunned the engine. The passenger was thrown forward and almost lost his footing. He resisted the urge to turn back and confront the driver. He took a seat next to the window and shook the raindrops from his jacket. An elderly lady sat opposite him scowled at him as the water hit her forehead. Her terrier barked at him. He looked the dog in the eye and it stopped barking immediately, curled its tail between its legs and cowered into the lap of the old lady who had suddenly turned to look out the window.
Two teenaged boys three seats back were snickering and the man felt something bounce off the back of his head. His heartbeat quickened and the angry voices in his head began to scream again. He heard his father’s voice ‘Ignore them son, they don’t understand.’ The breathing techniques, the advice from all those therapists and psychiatrists; all those faces and words and techniques flickered and echoed in the chaos of his mind like a movie on fast-forward. He closed his eyes, placed his hands on his lap (face down) and concentrated on his breathing,felt his chest heaving,slowed it down.
The man turned to look out the window. Rain was streaming down the panes and the last light of day was fading. The orange glow of streetlights reflected on the umbrellas of the people rushing home from work. An old Labrador sat at the edge of the pavement waiting for a break in the traffic. The old dog’s sandy coat was soaked but the man thought the dog looked happy.
His gaze refocused on his own reflection. He looked pale and blue eyes looked deep into their own soul. Frown-lines creased his forehead above bushy black brows. His ears looked exaggeratingly huge and made him think fleetingly of the taunts of classmates at school ‘teapot,F.A Cup,Dumbo.’ Breathe Simon,Breathe.
His stop was next. He could feel every eye on the bus staring at him even before he stood up to get off the bus. More giggles and rude noises followed him all the way down the aisle and only stopped when the door of the bus hissed shut behind him. He knew he shouldn’t have looked back when he saw one of the teenagers stood staring at him and circling a finger at the side of his head. The boy was sneering and Simon read the words ‘looney’ on the boy’s lips. He turned and walked away into the heavy rain.
All the way down the pavement he was careful not to step on any cracks or lines on the paving-stones. He and his brother Mark loved to play that game when they were boys. He kept a framed picture of Mark on his bedside locker; proud and handsome in his army-uniform. He missed his brother terribly.
From a warmly lit caf� an old man smiled and waved at him. The old man had friendly, knowing eyes. Simon wanted to smile back. He tried but couldn’t.
The chapel was warm and candles cast swaying shadows on the walls and statues. The air smelled of flowers and wax and frankincense. Simon knelt at the altar, blessed himself and began to pray one last time for a miracle.

Men Don’t Cry (A poem for my son)

Everyone has ideas of what makes a man,
Be tough, be strong, be stoic if you can.
But deep down I really don’t agree,
There’s more to a man, as far as I see.
It’s totally fine to show us your feelings,
Let your emotions fill up to the ceilings.
Someone once told me that men don’t cry,
That’s a sad thing, I’ll tell you why.
It takes a real man to follow your heart,
Sometimes it’s the thing that sets you apart.
Show how you feel, it’s who you are,
And brings us closer, when I’m so far.

Maybe, Just Maybe

This is a poem lexicologists will think great
Maybe if I can develop some kind of rhyme
A sporadic metre down in emotional haste
But it’s not like I’ve ,,.,, got the time

Poems should use fancy language that you adore
Maybe I should use something like a simile?
No, this poem is an extended metaphor
Conveniently using made up words like ‘dimile’

But what subject covers this word alliance?
Maybe I need some enjambement for these kind
of words or some super satisfying sibilance
Click! The onomatopoeic lightbulb on in my mind

Maybe a vignette, for it would better illuminate
Only if I could count a sonnet, this’d be great.

Low Tide

And the slime-thick shingle
On the Southbank
Side of the Thames
Baked in the sun,
You could find
Stem or the whole bowl
Of a clay pipe,
Barrel or handle
Of a flintlock gun,
A Roman
Dagger or coin.

There was lots
Of rubber soles, old shoes
By the sunken ship-full,
An armada of condoms
No priceless heirlooms,
An ocean of sludge
Over Dickensian rubble,
Wrappers from pills
And a sodden tenner once,
No sight at all
Of Wordsworth’s daffodils.

Look at Me

I get out of a bed that’s been shaped by men before me,
I wear the clothes of a thousand men before me.

I eat food I would not choose to eat,
I stand in a shower where thousands have stood.

I walk in a way I no longer recognise,
I am not me I am you.

One of the thousands of men before you,
So I look in the mirror and they all look back at me.

Loch Lochmond

“Hi there! Can I help you?”

There was something about the tone of the voice, the raised walking stick, the stern expression, the Barbour jacket, the Hunter wellies and the black Labrador, that made me feel that this was not an absolutely genuine offer of help from this very posh looking lady.

We were stranded, we were trapped, we were shipwrecked on an island. We had set off two hours earlier from the calm shores of the loch and set sail, in out three man rubber dingy and one and a half horse power outboard motor, for the island of Innis Murrin, the biggest island on Loch Lomond. We did not make it.

Our insubstantial little vessel, laden with camping equipment and enough food and beer to sustain a small arm, and crewed by three very inexperienced crewmembers, soon succumbed to the Scottish weather. As the wind got up and the waves crashed our gunwales, we started taking on water faster than we could bale out. We were sinking.

Our only option was to make for land on the closes island. We just made it, but at a cost. We pulled out boat onto shore and started unpacking our sodden cargo. All our gear, including our sleeping bags, was soaking. We set about the task of wringing everything out and slinging them over trees and bushes as best we could to try and dry them out.

We had just about finished our laundry duties, and were sitting down to a well earned beer from our adequate provisions, when the lady with the dog approached us.

“we’re so sorry if we are trespassing on your island, but you see we were..!” I wasn’t able to finish my sentence.

“Island? What do you mean island? The A82 is just over the wall.”

Last Train to Lovesville

The stranger’s face upon the wall says,
You reap just what you sow,
And the last train to Lovesville
Pulled out years ago,

Rattling across the dusty plains
Of loneliness and sorrow,
Hauling broken dreams toward
Another bleak tomorrow,

Chasing down the sunrise,
Sweeping line of light,
Forever in the shadows,
Always in the night,

Once aboard the juggernaut
That journey never ends,
Rusted nails run arrow straight,
A course that never bends,

Broken bodies line the tracks,
Jumpers to their fates,
For God’s divine deliverance,
Or burning through Hell’s gates,

There is no driver on this train,
But coal will always burn,
Smoke will always billow
And wheels will always turn,

No carriage will run empty,
No passenger walk free.
There’ll be no yellow ribbon tied
Around the old oak tree.

Land of the Silver Birch

School is a drag
We are here for three
reasons

To get judged
To get strapped
And to sing the Canadian National Anthem

And one day
I got it wrong; and ‘O Canada’
Became a totally different song

And I stood there
In all my patriotic innocence
pride, welled up in my chest
like the kind of love that is
Insanity-for-no-reason
And I sang:
‘Land-of-the-sil-ver-birch’

And I sang it for At-ush-mit who lives in
the woods
And I sang it for Ko-ishin-mit who flies
everywhere
And I sang it for Paw-quin-mit who lives
in the sea

And I got five straps on each
tiny hand
And I couldn’t feel my fingers
for a good hour and a half

And although I cried some
I never told Momma ‘Jack’
Because it wasn’t
her
business

Killie Bus Tales

(The Number 11)

Ah’m sittin upstairs oan the number eleven.
Ther’s four neds behind me – two men, two wumin
drinkin cans a Super n Frosty Jacks
(ah wish ah hudnae sat sa close tae the back).
The men – in identical trackies, trainers n hair
ur bad-mouthin mates who urnae ther
n squeezing the cans tae get aw the dregs
n moanin aboot the queues in the chemist n Greggs.
The wimin are talkin about due dates n lib dates
n the’ve crumbs oan their chin frae yesterday’s steak beaks.
Wan’s visitin her man who’s in the jail
the dad’s his best mate who’s oot oan bail
(Nothin tae worry aboot fur a while
then it’ll aw get sorted oot, oan Jeremy Kyle).
Ther’s a commotion noo comin up the stair
some guy wae a baseball cap n his burd wae red hair,
him in Crosshatch, Voi n fake Stone Island,
her cerryin 6 carrier bags fae Farmfoods n Iceland,
eyes hawf closed n skin colourt leggings
fu’a the blues n Gappapentin.
Tho’ her haunds are full n she’s in some state
she still manages a mouthfa of her Frijji milk shake
as she barks oot the order ‘Mk me a roll up Steven’
n a voice fae behind shouts
‘here mate, yer burd looks like Ed Sheeran!’

Junktown

Welcome to junk town. Plug in and change your mind. Wash your hands.
Hygiene is a,coffee pot. Just add fuel. Smoking seriously harms you. Probably
that or that bad cheese you ate. A craving only lasts three minutes. What’s for
dinner? Food poisoning,Changing nappies #unhappy

It’s that type of fudge you need to have. Every little helps. Aw that stuff like stuck
you know like stuck in yae. Say it with,Rice Krispies. Mouthwash, jukeboxes
and gasoline. Irreverence is my disease. Money is nature. That’s why Judas wept.

Silly pointless, self-obsessed. The rise of the v-loggers. Can you take it all away?
Up to 60% off. Do you think you could minimise? Piracy will never die. From
air-bed to world domination. On the trail of forgotten typewriters. It’s so special
and unique. I can give you five good reasons to punch a dolphin. There are dying
ogres and pixies too. This is not like the future but I sense it’s right up there.
Moon pic,what a time to be alive. But you can’t water a camel with a spoon.
Swallow but nothing’s forgiven. Balderdash: noun. 100metre race for the follicly
challenged. The grey chapter. You can plug it into your phone. Switch that sound
that we didn’t know was there and turn it into a distant hum. There’s no leaving
now. Look up!

Jist tay let yi know

(inspired by William Carlos Williams
and Tom Leonard)

Jist tay let yi no
the bujys deid
ye left thi caje opn
thi cat goat it
so doant feed thi cat
its hid enuff thi day

Interlude Haiku

A damaged childhood.
Prison’s peaceful interlude –
Then, back to chaos.

in the 15th year of prison

does the coalman
suitably retitled
still struggle the snickets
weighed down by straining sacks

does the rag and bone man
suitably retitled
still call incomprehensibly
while the horse plods on
and the rose growers – suburbanly
wait to pounce

does the Avon lady
suitably retitled
dingdong her way through doors
where the man of the house
suburbanly away – is justifying
his breadwinner title

does the milkman
suitably retitled
still deliver sterry
in brass capped
and thin necked bottles

I asked my mother – please
check the yellow pages – and she
paused confused – before calling out
Alexa – find sterilised milk

IF

A prisoner’s perspective
with apologies to Rudyard Kipling

If you can sleep in bed while tannoys beckon
A long and seemingly endless list of names,
Keep a strong, tight hold on your possessions
Whilst others try to win them with mind games,
If you can stay out of other people’s business
And ensure others stay out of your own,
Think “It could be worse, in some ways we are lucky”
Whilst everyone around you wants to moan,
If you can cope with having no say in decisions,
Nod and smile, although you don’t agree,
In your room, display your chapel calendar
And not mark off the days until you’re free,
If you can put up with clothing going missing,
And wearing the same shoes daily on your feet,
Gulp down heaps of potato, rice and pasta,
Feel blessed to find a single chunk of meat.
If you can watch friends leave and not be saddened,
Knowing that it will be your time soon,
Return to your room and dance around wildly
To the latest over-played pop tune,
If you can keep your head held high
Through all your times of hardship
And leave, a stronger person in the end,
Then this is your cell and everything that’s in it,
And what’s more you can do prison, my friend.

I Know How Judas Felt

I know how Judas felt.
He wanted Jesus all to himself
when that didn’t happen,
and the five men
Matthew, Mark, Luke, John
and THE ROCK Peter
were getting preferential treatment
It really upset him

What was Jesus’s problem?
Hadn’t he dropped everything
to follow the Messiah?
Admittedly he’d taken time
to change his substantial
bank account into travellers cheques
at a decent exchange rate too.
These were now stuffed
down the front
of his designer boxers,
hidden from straying eyes.
A thought had occurred to him
that the all seeing Jesus
may be aware of this transgression,
but dismissed it as too fantastic.
So there was Judas
on the periphery of this holy gang,
worrying about his empty unguarded house.
His girlfriend
who he hadn’t told
he was leaving,
Just in case
This son of god thing didn’t work out.
As the weeks went by
NOT ONE WORD OF ENCOURAGEMENT

It became intolerable
He’d show them.

Hunger

Jake was running, running for his life. To make matters worse he was running from things that shouldn’t exist. Zombies for god sake. Real live, or not live he supposed, zombies. Driving through the wilds of Yorkshire he’d stopped at a petrol station in some village, he hadn’t noticed the name, to get some caffeine and directions. When he went into the shop he’d been confronted by three people gnawing on a bloody corpse! Staggering out he found several other people heading towards him, some between him and his car. It was at this point he realized they were zombies, the man wit h the huge hole where his heart should have been was a big clue. He ran. Cutting left into an alley without looking back. It wasn’t fair, weren’t zombies supposed to be slow and shambling? His breath was coming in gasps and his muscles burned.

“Over here, quick!” The shout came from just ahead, a young man stood holding a door open and gesturing franticly. Gathering the last of his strength Jake sped up and ran inside. The youth pulled the door shut and locked it just as the first zombie slammed into it. Jake was on his knees gasping for breath. “No time for that mate, this door won’t hold them for long.” His rescuer said heading for a flight of stairs. As if to emphasis his point there was a crash and the door bulged. Jake leapt to his feet and followed him up the stairs. They pounded up three flights. The sound of the door collapsing when they were half way up the second spurred them on. They burst through another door onto the building’s roof.

“Come this way.” Jake followed as the youngster ran to the edge. A plank of wood had been placed to span the alley to the building on the other side. Climbing onto it the youth turned and smiled. “It’s easy if you don’t look down.”

If Jake had needed convincing the arrival of the first pursuing zombie onto the roof would have been enough. As it was he was already scampering across. He jumped down onto the other side.

“Quick, give us a hand.” The boy was pushing at the end of the board. Two of the creatures were already trying to cross, one fell off but others took its place. Jake threw himself at the board and their combined efforts pushed it sending it, and the zombies tumbling into space.

“Come on, my sister Sarah is inside she’ll be getting frantic.” The youth ran to a door and Jake followed him into a bare shadow filled corridor. “I’m Dave by the way.”

“Jake thanks for rescuing me man.” Jake said as they moved further into the building.

“Don’t mention it mate. I couldn’t let Zed’s tear you to bits,” something grabbed Jake from behind and spun him against the wall. He caught a glimpse of a pale, pretty face with eyes that seemed to glow red. Then the mouth opened to reveal fangs which plunged into his throat. Over the pounding of his heart and a disgusting wet sucking sound he heard Dave say. “Especially when my sister was so desperate to feed.”

Homeless Donkeys

One thing for sure about donkeys, they can stand and stare.
‘Look’ at one place for hours and they shout ‘Hey Ho Hey Ho’, farting at the same time.
My neighbour used to have this donkey whenever he took it to fetch some water
Donkey didn’t like to cross the bridge so it used to cross the river without the bridge.
Hard work, it was to pull him out of the mud.
In this picture the owner of the house doesn’t look impressed with the donkeys feeding on her plants.
Are these donkeys homeless?
Maybe one of the donkeys got wounds all over very disappointing.
Nice house.

Hero

February 9th. I forgot to buy the chicken
for your dinner party.
I told you a chicken joke
and you forgave me.

April 7th. I broke your favourite vase
during a bout of resented dusting.
I found another one online.
You cried when it arrived.

June 19th. I came home drunk
while your mother was visiting.
I bought your mother flowers and
you kissed the top of my head.

April 20th. The dog ran away
after I’d forgotten to lock the gate.
I found him at 3am in the rain.
You called me your hero.

November 11th. You died.
I don’t know what to do.

Halloween Chocolate

Oh, no, it’s that time of year again! Here we go, let’s see who gets left on the shelves again! I’ve been recycled that many times, I’ve lost count. I’ve been chocolate witches, scary faces, pumpkins, actually anything to do with Halloween that can be made out of chocolate, then that’s me.

Gone are the days where you go to land fill, like our ancestors did. I don’t know which I prefer to be, left on the shelves, reduced and recycled or to be snatches as of the shelf by some spoilt brat! Well after saying that they don’t have to be small! You ge the big grubby rough hands of builders grabbing hold of you like you’re going out of fashion, or those posh ladies that do lunch, poking you all over with their freshly polished nails. Then you get grumpy granddad with lovely sweet granny preparing for trick or treat and not actually knowing if they are buying for this year or buying in advance for next year! However, which ever year they are buying for they have actually forgotten that my siblings are in still in their pantry from 2 years ago!

So, I’ve finally been poured into the mould and my O my am I scary this year! Kids, adults, grannies, and granddads you’re in for a real treat this year! So let me take you back some 50 years when we had that guy running Britain who didn’t know what a comb was let alone what to do about terrible COVID 19 virus. Open schools, close schools, go for a walk, don’t go for a walk, open the restaurants, and don’t open them! Wow! Yes, you’ve got it, Boris Johnson, he’s the one. So, imagine a cross section of his face and that of his American counter part good old Donald Trump, yes another one with a hair problem. Well that’s who I am this year! Do you know what I’m flying off the sehlves this year! Why, I hear you ask? Well there’s always someone wanting to kiss, hug, or give on or both of them a nasty bite! Now they have the ideal opportunity!

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is “Be careful what you wish for!”

Grandad’s Shades of White

Sea blue with white horses
White-Grey clouds with driving rain.
White gulls, feathers flickering over white fishing boats
A Cloud of white hair wind-filled on top Grandad’s head.
Home is the smell of wet Labrador dog,
Black Betsy. The two of us staring into white-gold flames on
a peat fire.
Waiting for freshly toasted peat cakes.
The smoky smell of peat fire,
And of ‘Smokies’ fresh from the quayside
Cairs pink fleshed potatoes,
White inside,
Steeped in white salt
Grandad loved his Salt
And sugar; 1 sitting, 1 flask, 5 heaped white sugars.

Graduation

My chest tightened faster than a hangman’s noose around a condemned man’s neck. Crushed lungs struggled for oxygen when they needed it most. Furtive fingers encircled then grasped a bottle of vodka. I plunged it into my inside pocket of my overcoat. My march towards the exit was a mixture of nonchalance and panic.

“Excuse me … you haven’t paid … ” The security guard’s hand reached for my neck.

“Don’t touch me,” I warned. His snake-like fingers just missed my collar.

I ran like a startled gazelle with a starving lion in pursuit. My uncoordinated limbs must have looked amusing, if you consider shoplifting humorous. That’s how my life of crime started.

I graduated to theft; basically if it weren’t nailed down I’d steal it. I nicked from my parents: gardens; sheds and cars. A ‘fence’ purchased my ill-gotten gains. I bought cheap alcohol that tasted like boiled socks. I’d endure the taste to get to the feeling. Getting smashed changed everything.

Being arrested was an inconvenient consequence of crime. The authorities huffed and puffed but did little to stop me. Then they inexplicably sent me to a Detention Centre. What a culture shock? Strangers were yelling at me and they weren’t even drunk.

Ghetto Life

I wanna drag a lyric from the streets
One with which you brethren can’t compete
A tale to pour dirt on the souls of your feet
Where joy and corruption do so equally meet

Yo sisters must tell of what yo see and hear
Of de places that are not what they appear
Where the smell of blood is not your only fear
And hungry boyz hold you in their leer

Chorus
Ghetto life is not the only life to choose
One spin of the loaded dice means you always lose
Rules are not made
By gun and blade
Within you is the courage to refuse

Your hopes lie in your children’s hearts
It’s time to turn your back on the past
Invisible barriers were not built to last
Don’t hang around, it’s time to act fast

Hold onto your dreams, don’t let them go
Don’t hide away the feelings you wanna show
Raise yourself up when you’re feeling low
It don’t pay to rush, just take it slow

(Chorus)

Speak out sisters with one true voice
Never forget that you have a choice
It’s time to sort out the women from the boys
Grown ups don’t mess with loaded toys

Read the graffiti, the message is clear
Take it on the chin, don’t shed a tear
Never run away, give a listening ear
Stand up for the principles that you hold dear

(Chorus)

Four Seasons

Winter is a frozen shroud
Covering the landscape
Epitomised by ice and snow
While most wild things lie dormant

Spring is the morning of the year
When the buds start sprouting leaves
Woodlands carpeted like a vivid rainbow sea
Dawning of new life begins

The warming of the summer sun
Bright with gentle breeze
The bees are having a busy time working hard indeed
Farmers work until sundown tending to the vital yield

Autumn season is the setting of the sun
The year’s twilight act is just beginning
The squirrels gather their acorns and the antlers of the red stags lock,
the cold winds rise and the cycle begins anew.

Flotsam

I was picking whelks with a friend. It was one of those murky late autumnal days and the temperature was a little on the cool side. The wind had picked up and the wind chill on wet hands was enough to make the work more of a chore than a pleasure.

I found this old light bulb between the rocks, still intact and unbroken. Its metal base virtually all rusted throughout. Most glass objects you find on the shore are usually of the smashed variety, especially something as flimsy as a light bulb.

My friend wasn’t far away and I shouted her over. We both pondered how long it had been in the sea and on the shore. By the way the glass was scuffed it had certainly been rubbed by sand and rocks for quite a while.

The bulb stayed on my mind for the duration of the tide and after we had finished and filled our sacks I went to retrieve it. A voice shouted after me not to go and smash it. She didn’t believe me afterwards but I already knew it wouldn’t smash. It was as though I was meant to find the unbreakable bulb and be one of many to put it to a further test. I threw it as hard as I could at the biggest rock that was near. It actually bounced off four rocks just like a rubber ball before once again lying unbroken. I wasn’t going to test it again.

I like to think it’s still out there bobbing on the waves and bouncing off rocks on the shore.

Evening in the Desert

One ride the Bedouin resplendent in their colourful robes
ignoring the harshness of the bright scorching sun,
slowly swaying to the rhythm of their camels gait
on ride the Bedouin striving, to get the day done.

Free spirits wandering around endless shifting sands
not tethered by the reins of a fast paced world,
surveying their vast kingdom as they roam
not confined to a street or brick built home.

Watching the sun as it sinks in a sapphire blue sky
lurid scene portraying bright oranges and reds,
retreating in glory beyond a far distant hill
natures fascinating imagery designed simply to thrill.

The evening quiet now floods inner soul
whilst dust devils dance in a whirling stroll,
slivers of light from a rising crescent moon
casting its shadows on a windswept dune.

Darkness falls upon the cooling desert sand
quiet and solitude grips the mood of the land,
peace and tranquillity in these vast open spaces
breezes lapping gently on well weathered faces.

Constellations and galaxies pass silently overhead
with no pollution to blight the milk way glow
the theatre of the Universe as it puts on a show,
shooting stars streak across the sky at night
children handed down tales by flickering firelight.

Sitting underneath the majesty of the Cosmos
for this is how it is ordained to be
dwelling in these sands of hardship
unashamed in their simplicity, simply to be free.

End Game

The silence was deafening, the atmosphere intense. Neither man dared to breathe. Nathan’s heart beat faster, he locked eyes with his opponent. The look on the man’s face was challenging, just daring Nathan to try. There was only one move to make, one chance, one killing blow to land. If he was wrong or had miscalculated, his opponent would finish him.

Sweat beaded on Nathan’s brow, his hand seemed to move in slow motion. His opponent’s eyes widened in shock as he realised all too late what was coming.

Nathan slid his chess piece into place and said

“Checkmate”.

empty chair

empty chair, warmth of sun
cold beer, the clink of ice in mum’s spiced rum
barbeque smoke mixing with skunk
tapping of feet to Fool’s Gold Funk
children laugh splashing without a care
daisies and bluebells in their hair

but no-one mentions that empty chair

Dizzy

A Japanese tanka

I see a circle
So I draw a circle
365 days later
I will ask myself
Do I feel content?

Dirty Laundry

We all arrive soiled, some more than others,
the source of lost pride for so many fathers and mothers.
The wash programme selected by the judge and jury;
But so often injustice – the cause of much fury.

Locked inside the drum, the cycle begins,
The theory is simple – to wash away sins.
Clean once more, the rinse cycle starts.
Time has been served, a cleansing of hearts.

Freshly laundered, the washing is aired.
Inside for so long, many are scared.
The final task; it is time for pressing.
Iron out the creases, the fresh start is a blessing.

Delayed Service

Platform
train
wrecked tracks
missed
fallen through the cracks
through the crack
skin pop
whack
barely a glow
one mil
blocked flow
blow
blown
addiction
all alone.

Conversation

I met the Loch Ness Monster
Whilst strolling near the lake.
He expressed mild irritation
that some might think him fake.
I said ‘You’re too elusive
to be considered true.’
He replied ‘That’s not my problem.
I’ve got better things to do
than frolic on the surface
like some performing dog.
I’ve got my pride and besides
they’d just say that I’m a log.’
I couldn’t decide what was stranger
and you might just agree:
a talking prehistoric beast
or a camera-shy celebrity?

Comrades In Arms

There was a funny smell in the air and once or twice I got a faint whiff of rotten meat. It was known that the Hercules was used to carry troops and equipment and was a great workhorse for going into a battle. For that reason I knew it was also used to casvac the injured or at the worst returning the dead back to the UK for burial. I don’t know if it was the smell of the dead but there was something not right with us going into a combat zone inside a large hearse.

Chip Night

I was born in the late eighties and grew up with my sister and my single parent working mother. Predictably when the time to feed us came around convenience food was going to be the order of the day most nights and it was here my relationship with chips started to form. You know the sequence; oven chips and pizza, grilled chips and burgers, fried chips eggs and beans and of course not forgetting the classic: Chip Shop chips, there’s nothing quite like the stench of a house whilst chips from the Chippy are being consumed.

Cigarette smokers have often spoke of and highlighted the unwrapping of a cigarette packet or the first spark and pull of a cigarette as being just as enjoyable as smoking the cigarette itself, I can completely understand that type of outlook when it is applied to chips from the Chippy.

It all starts with excavating of the slightly damp chip parcel from the steamy plastic bag. Then there is the opening of the white paper packaging to reveal the light golden treasure that you just want to eat so badly simultaneously the pong of chips attacks your nasal passages. Salt and vinegar are then applied with vigour and smother the chips which exaggerate an already intense odour from the hot, crispy, steamy portion. To finish a big dollop of tomato ketchup is glugged on the side of the white paper staining it purposefully in the process. A chip hasn’t even been consumed yet but it is already box office.

In the British takeaway market, I would not say the Chip Shop is one of the most exciting options available to us. There are countless fast food chains that would leave a Chip Shop in their wake. McDonalds, Chinese, KFC to name but a few but without doubt the Chip Shop has a loyal fan base throughout the country and the prison is no different in this regard.

Chip Night in any prison you go to is also known as a ‘Big night’ and it is where pleasures and pains are felt frequently.

Let me explain, if you are lucky enough to catch somebody who maybe on a diet or has just come back from a chocolate munching visit or incredibly doesn’t like chips then it is your lucky day, you have doubled up on your chip portion for the night. A plate full of chips with a golden-battered fish and green mushy peas, DELISH. All the dish needs now is a squirt of red sauce and mayonnaise. The night is now looking good with many cravings satisfied and the tone for a happy weekend has been set. All you need now is EastEnders at eight and the night is complete.

Reversely if you get to the servery too late and they have run out of chips or the prison kitchens send 100 portions to feed 150 or the chips are over/undercooked then let me tell you there is a sinking disconsolate feeling that follows and it feels as if somebody has just punched straight through the stomach, though that feeling could partly be down to hunger pains. In any case frustration is what stands out to me as being the overriding emotion and I have seen many unseemly incidents over this type of inconvenience.

In one instance, I came back from the gymnasium one night and as part of the gym goers we had the thankless task of being fed last as the dinner service starts some time before the gym session finishes. I and the other gym goers approached the servery line in hot anticipation of our chips having just worked up a nice appetite from a strenuous workout. Unfortunately, we were met with the horrendous news that the servery had run out of chips. To add more disappointment to us hungry henchmen the cleaning officer said the kitchens would only substitute the chips with the infamous boiled potatoes and not more chips.

This was a piece of information that deeply saddened us all. It was like a queue of 20 people in a state of mourning. Faces that 5 minutes ago were happy and energised by a good workout were now angered and devastated. Everybody was angry and frustrated and when violent offenders are angry, frustrated and not to mention hungry negative behaviour soon follows.

One of the inmates two spaces ahead of me shouted “The servery lads are hiding chips!!” in a tone every bit as accusing as his statement. He then shouted, “I will jump over this servery and start going mad you know”. This was a 6ft 2in, 15 stone tipped 27-year-old with a host of tattoos so as you could imagine the look alone was menacing. The officer present then said, “come on there’s no need for that lads, just calm down”. The inmate then hollered “calm down, calm down, I want my fucking chips. Get me my chips and then I’ll calm down how about that”.

The angered inmate inadvertently spotted some of the servery workers giggling in a condescending manner which heightened him to a level beyond. He then responded to the giggling by audaciously taking a step up on to the servery counter saying, “You think this is a joke, you think it’s funny”. Meanwhile all bystanders looked on in shock and fear, even the giggling servery workers now looked scared as they must have feared he was going to attack them. It’s funny because 24/7 prisoners give it the big I am but the moment any action happens their mask slips for a second or two and they look petrified.

Amazingly as the inmate got on top of the counter he just paused, looked into the eyes of the stunned servery workers and aborted his plan returning to the ground on the correct side of the servery. At this moment, I think we all felt that he had seen sense but that wasn’t to be the case. Upon returning to the ground he started walking around in small circles saying, “you think I’m a dick-head, you think I’m a dick-head”. As his back was turned on one of the circular routes that he prowled in a servery worker whispered “Yeah”. The inmate heard this so he then rushed towards his blue chip less plate containing beans and a Chicken Kiev alone and launched it at the servery lads. The four white suited servery workers ducked down in unison with their white servery hats dropping off their heads due to the speed at which they ducked. With beans, everywhere obscenities were then exchanged between the servery workers and the raging inmate but he then made himself scarce. When he left the scene, I remember thinking ‘Don’t ever play with prisoners’ chips’. I assume some punishment for the inmate followed but I didn’t keep tabs on the story.

I remember back in my early days of prison I quickly became acquainted with the mundane cuisine on offer. The carbohydrates heavily consisted of boiled, new and mashed potatoes and all seemed to be cooked to a laughable standard. As you could imagine I was not best pleased with the diet I would be adopting for now and many years to come and a pain inside me began to ache.

For the first couple of weeks I did not eat with any anticipation of keenness like I usually did pre-prison but the ‘Ground Hog Day’ feeling did not carry through the whole week. I noticed that on certain days of the week I would feel lighter and happier and at first, I did not know why. After a couple of months, I recognised that it was on Chip Night that my mood would be lifted and I made the link that my feeling happy was down to the very fact that it was Chip Night.

I would regularly receive portions of chips that were very small but such was the relief to be getting something other than potatoes and because I was new to prison life I still managed to get in turn with my grateful side.

To make up for the minuscule portions of chips I would attain four slices of bread laden with butter and stingily apply approximately 4-5 single chips per slice. If I got a really small portion of chips I probably would only use three out of the four slices of bread as I always liked to finish the meal with half a handful of chips with the meagre piece of fish.

Nowadays I have learnt various tricks of the trade to ensure that Chip Night is a good night. Over the years I have had to become adept at the art form of Chip-raising as Chip Nights generally occur twice in a week throughout the prison estate and one of those nights is universally on a Friday. If you have a bad Chip Night on Friday it will kick your weekends off in dreadful fashion and you cannot afford bad weekends because they can turn into bad weeks, bad months and so on. Here are a few tips into the art of Chip-raising.

1. Be good friends with the servery workers
2. Bribe the servery workers
3. Spot a fellow inmate who does not like chips and do the same to him as the servery workers
4. Spot a person who is going for a visit early Friday afternoon and make the request as he comes back from the visit
5. Never fall out with your chip donors
6. Work in the prison kitchens so you get fresh ones and plenty of them

A part of me does feel a sense of guilt when asking the servery workers for favours/deals because I do empathize with the struggles and pressures that they endure on a daily basis and especially during Chip Night. A chip server will experience heat like no other and I do not envy his position. In many jails prison officers serve chips to stop the arguments but even the sturdiest of prison officers’ fear chip serving.

Being in prison is huge test in itself but surely serving chips on the servery has to be the toughest test of them all. I have witnessed even the strongest of inmates succumb to the pressure of chip serving. Let me make an observation. If you see a prisoner serving chips, and he has been doing so for some time in perceived comfort then that is an indication that he is underworld connected. I speak no more and move swiftly on.

In an attempt to make the prison cuisine better over the years I have attended many food forums. A food forum is where a couple of inmates from every wing have a meeting with the kitchen manager and the governor and discuss the catering in the prison. The inmates put forward their issues and ideas of improvement and they are discussed and solved or revisited at the next forum. You always manage to get some idiot on the forum asking to introduce more soup to replace crisps or biscuits. What a mug!

The readers might say “what’s wrong with a bit of soup?” That tells me that they have never tasted prison soup. Prison soup is so bad that you could feed 100 people with 30 portions because 70 won’t take any. I prefer to call it flavoured water. As you could imagine during the forums I am always the one to say, “There is not enough chips being sent to the wings”. Irrespective of whether there are enough chips or not I always argue for more. My philosophy is ‘You can never have too many chips’.

I wouldn’t consider myself a ‘putting in a complaint kind of person’ however, if chips are undercooked or over cooked then I have no qualms about putting in a complaint without hesitation. I have often questioned my affinity with chips and asked myself, is this even healthy? I regularly come to the conclusion that clearly it’s not for the body and it’s clearly not healthy for the mind to have this level of craving for anything. At the same time chips are one of my mother’s favourite foods and when I eat them I think of her. My jail experience has taken me away from her and I think subconsciously the chip thing is my way of staying close to her. I yearn to eat a portion of chips with my mother again.

I have come to realise that nostalgia is a very powerful tool. A simple thing like eating chips with my mother has ended up becoming a very significant experience that would not have been expected to make such a mark on my life. I remember being on a visit with my mother and somehow, we got talking about food. She then made a comment like ‘Yeah I love my chips man.’ And I started to chuckle. She thought I was laughing at her but in my head, I was thinking ‘I knew I got the chip infatuation from you.’ I remained silent and another thought popped into my head ‘if my mother was in a women’s jail would she be the chip addict like me?’ I can see it. This made me chuckle again.

I often joke with fellow inmates if we were in certain American states we could be receiving our last meal for the crimes we have committed. I then asked them what their last meal would be. On a personal note, I would be spoilt for choice because I love so many foods but I know that the carbohydrates would definitely be chips.

After all this chip talk, I don’t think I want to talk about chips ever again and just eat them instead. However, there is no getting away from chip talk in prison. In every prison in the country you will know when it’s Chip Night without fail because you can’t go anywhere in the establishment without hearing someone saying, “It’s chips tonight”. They say your never eight feet away from a rat, well in a prison your never eight feet away from somebody on Chip Night saying, “Its chips tonight”. I mean I love chips just as much as the next man but even I get sick of hearing people saying, “Its chips tonight”.

Chemical Cash Cow

The pink one keeps me happy and stops me feeling sad
The red one keeps the pink one from making me go mad The white one helps me sleep and the dark blue one helps me think
Though I sometimes think of suicide if I take it with the pink
Two green ones keep me calm and help me not to panic
But I do not take the green ones if I think that I am manic
My orange one, it has side effects they make me feel quite ill
So I told this to my doctor who gave me a yellow pill
Now I’ve got a rainbow which I swallow when I’m told
And the makers of this rainbow? They earn a pot of gold.

Bubble Wrap

It’s three weeks since we moved here
And three years since we met
Some times I remember
Others I forget
We’ve emptied all the boxes
One more remains unpacked
It’s labelled precious memories
And stuffed with bubble wrap

Maybe it’s the memories
All spinnin’ round your head
Maybe it’s the dust that made you say the words you said
You said “Lately I’ve been wondering
Just what you see in me
Should we put an end to it
Should I set you free?”

What’s the best thing to say at this time?
We seem fine
The love has gone but you’re still mine
I don’t know why
I don’t just say the words I know
You want to hear
Let’s face the facts
And let’s face our fears (cos I think,)

Chorus

You to me are like the bubble wrap
The empty box and other crap
I like to keep
Some day I might need you
I like to play with you some time
Like to know that you’re still mine
I like your face
You’re here just in case

Like an empty jam jar
An old car battery
Or complimentary sachets
Of decaffeinated tea
Like the bike you tried once
Then put back in the shed
Or like the night time garments
I wore when we were wed

I like to keep you close but that don’t mean
I’m close to you
The love has gone but don’t you feel
The way I do
Is it so wrong to string along
A safety net
I’ve never fallen
You could catch me yet

Chorus x2

Black Dog

I survey the area,
It appears to be clear.
So I allow myself into that space,
A psychological place.

I hear a rustle in the corner,
I try my best to ignore her,
But she soon comes bounding in,
As I let the black dog win.

Beard Haiku

Shaved face
No
More

Scary look
Maybe

But Dad
Don’t
Look like
Me

Baggy Skinned Tangerine

Gifted a Tangerine
the size of a fat orange
plump dimples presaging
juicy tumescent sacs
an inviting nipple of peel –
motherly not loverly –
offers itself as the gateway.

The less than gifted, gifter
waits, expectant eyes
eager to vicariously consume
the exotic prandial pleasure –
emotional onanism
masquerading as altruism.

The pliant peel
willingly succumbs to
impatient digits sliding between
firm, but supple
fruit purses and velvety pith.

As luscious skin is shed
loose gaps between pipless portions
selflessly present themselves
for immolation: evolution, designed
for reproduction, de-engineered
for impotent consumerism.

The giftee
carefully separates the eight
segments, laying them
as a smiling face on a
1968 Penguin edition of Nausea.

The gifter
ogles this dismemberment
and post a shameful
pre-prandial completion
nods and walks away
satiated but empty.
Baggy Skinned

A Home Cooked Meal

The sensational smell of a home cooked meal floating through from the kitchen, perked up the sense of the domesticated canine.

Slowly, he creeps through the living room, following the scent trail of the perfectly cooked roast. Standing in the kitchen, the wannabee Master Chef is preparing dessert.

“one cup of flour, two eggs” he says to himself.

Unbeknown to the indefatigable cook, the dog creeps up behind him, quietly liking the crumbs left on the floor.

On the askew window ledge, a curious cat sits perched precariously, spying on the dog. Suddenly, a loud bark is heard percolating through the brick work, followed by a bang, as the dessert is dropped on the floor and deeply in trouble dog retreats to safety.

A Sentimental Poem

Trying to get to Bala
in the snow
and brilliant sunshine.

The Welsh lane
a trench, car deep in white
and on our left a rising wave
of snow blow stretching up
and over us
arched and frozen
in the iar
skitter scattered as we pass through
a crowd of brilliant points of hoar.

Silent frosting, brightful white
our shared delight
such a sight

privy,
to just us two.

3am

The words will barely form.
There is turbulence beneath me.

The plazas, torch-shadows,
weaving samba rhythms,

ripe red fruits, swollen,
goading, drooling from lips

quixotic shimmy-steps.
once guarded secrets unfurled.

the world web-woven.
Eros fatter, taller, permissive.

I stretch to unfathomed corners,
intimate knowledge, personal sin.

Love has caught my tongue:
by any other name Medellin.

A More Adequate Me

Verse 1 – D/G/A/D:
I look at my reflection, but don’t know who I see
I’m lost in a world that wasn’t meant to be
It’s the storm before the sunshine, dancing rainbows to the sky
The puddle, a reflection of the hurt we leave behind

Chorus – A/D/G/A:
Serenity is what I need, it fills my soul with joy
My heart reflects my feelings, my body feels bliss
Looking in the mirror, what do I see
A star, a stronger, more adequate me

Verse 2 – D/G/A/D:
As I look at the sunrise, the dawn of the day
The colours are stunning, let me take you away
I’ve waited for this moment, to bring you into my dance
In the morning I will call you, let’s take a chance

Bridge – Spoken words:
Possibilities are endless, don’t you agree
Where could they take you today?
Take those possibilities, grab them by the hand
Let them take you on a journey to a more exciting land

Chorus x 3

A Prisoner’s Manifesto

Justice is served as the sound of silence comes rushing through, beating on your ear drums as the devil gasps the air of emancipation. The hands of time burst into a thousand rain drops and follow every step as you tiptoe amongst the puddles that never seem to end. Step and breathe, step and breathe, as you are systematically reduced to a goldfish with timed food and restrictive movement. Your own yard stick of good dissipates faster than a stick of dynamite whilst you swing it wildly, fighting off the hum of the encroaching war dance. Your time is up and the crash of the hammer starts the tired old conveyor belts, which stagger into momentum, hissing, creaking and screeching as it lets out the churn of an incinerator. The airport is empty; it’s just you, your baggage and a set of sliding doors.
Another breath takes you away, hands bound, mummified as you watch yourself float horizontally through the cosmos, each peering star challenged by their own definition of time. You’re gripped by Mr. Past who breathes thick smoke of unwavering honesty, standing tall as his broad shoulders stretch far beyond. He’s your biggest champion and most avid foe, intrinsically fragile as he continuously dissects his anatomy plagued by disease of the young. Yet through all the knocks and episodes of doubt he remains ever present, a reminder clamped to your foot as you drag him along the way.

As always, the addictive Ms. Future is never far behind with a perfume so loud and hypnotic that it has you in paralysis since a young age. She dances with your ego, leading every swing as her starry eyes are fixed like a mannequin. Your ego is a laborious puppet to her fluid strings and frustrates her as his steps can’t keep time but the music plays on. She is the absolute opposite of Mr. Past with no tolerance and her wand is vicious; controlling the calm and creating the storm.

They’re familiar people, always appearing unexpectedly; each time their face more distinctive than the last, and each time leaving you with an extra cent of understanding, which is still not enough.

The passage continues as you are transported amongst a caravan of flick books, yours is wonderful but cumbersome with pages that make you laugh, chuckle, doubt, worry and question. You’re a pillar of the free world, writer of the grandest novels with stories of self-fulfilment and escape. You embrace a moment of resignation on the strip of departure as you are skinned and your soul discarded like the seed of an avocado; the only part with power and life to grow. The old you still lingers with its common smell less potent amongst this foreign air, each shut door telling a story of burnt planets, shattered dreams and walls covered in sweats of decree. Tomb like dwellings rich in hieroglyphics create the framework of reality that shrink into the here and now. You think back to the avocado seed, forgotten and misjudged. Its immense power buried in this concrete wilderness teaches you a vital lesson; even though we are told to hold on, we only truly learn by falling down.

You fast realise that not since infancy have your vulnerabilities and the truth been so inline. With these internal struggles on pause, you take in each plate of food as elixir to your oneness. As time passes you can see the depth of the universe, and through these locked doors you better understand the scope of the mind. You can converse with the greats, whether in person or on the page and redefine your own axis of thought. This is because we create our own world, like a house cat that never leaves or 7 billion people that have never flown to space. You can eliminate the barriers of social class that create a world of artificial doors and a nation of window shoppers, helpless, as corporations bombard our most cherished perceptions. These thick walls served as armour, a university of spiritual equilibrium as you reconstruct yourself, piece by piece, plate by plate.

Safe from oceans awash with piranhas, you step and breathe, knowing that you are lucky to be alive. As you glance out the window, a blue BMW catches your eye, and then in a flash the piranha re-appears, teeth bare, chopping at the protective glass. Often we don’t understand the value of sacrifice during the most powerful moments of our lives, and searching for the truth day by day only restricts our scope of realisation. The death of millions of men, to free women from thousands of years of oppression may take a hundred more years to fruition and these young men that died for humanity only highlight the regression by today’s young men dying for vanity. We are cognitive creatures with rapidly expiring desires, caught on the brink of Armageddon with fire breathing dragons leaving carbons of death as the media slams our soul at every turn. Trends sweep through our society like schools of fish as the weird and clinically insane derive their own path only to be gobbled up by sharks and predators alike. In this period of papered cracks and smart phones undertaking the largest experiment in the history of mankind, the question to ask yourself is: Is anyone really free?

You think about your life and your meetings with Mr. Past and Ms. Future, and as the sun appears behind your smog riddled view, you notice Mr. Present and you smile to yourself as you finally discover the last piece that fits. They were nothing without Mr. Present, although he’s not what you imagined. He’s timid, the ultimate listener who is easily impressionable. It’s clear that Mr. Present is powerless to his surroundings as he’s drugged, beaten and abused, but he still goes on relentlessly, hidden behind closed doors. You stare at him and he stares at you quietly, his dark ghoulish eyes sunken in as veins bleach his skin. He stands there naked with a look of resignation and shame, uncomfortable during this time that he knew would eventually come. You expected more than this, you expected metallic teeth glistening behind an omniscient wink and not this tragic flick of existence. He cowers as you drum the beat surrounded by an army of men and women, cheering in designer frocks with their thumbs down, sentencing him to death. The sun creeps further up and engulfs this mighty crowd as you switch your gaze and look towards them, squinting as the god like beams spread and reveals the truths they cannot hide anymore. The crowd is vile and beset with evil, each of them with long ugly noses and tongues that whip at every slither. “Kill, kill, kill” they chant as they have you on the brink. You’re facing Mr. Present and the crowd goes quiet as you prepare yourself for his destruction, and it is then that he lifts his head up, his eyes pierce your soul and you bleed a tear you can’t control.

So you contemplate this sentence of epiphany, which for most is a short burst but for you a whole fucking movie. You can smell it, touch it, feel it and understand its mystical mechanics. It can be a mental fast or a spiritual freeze, each pill awaits the start of your day. The control you crave has never left as your headlights illuminate the tunnel on your journey through. You’re on the way as your foot tempers the pedal, the stretch can be lonely but that’s why the air smells fresh. The rain doesn’t stop and the puddles grow large, but now it’s awash as your soul takes a bath. Take more from prison, then prison takes from you and revel in this moment of serenity, sip tea and find comfort as you may never be given this moment of solace again.

A Quiet Interlude in a Hectic Day

It is 13:52 hundred hours. I am anxiously anticipating the events to come. I have been here, in the hospital, for a while now and this is the first time I actually get to leave this building in a long and yearning wait. I am not going to lie, no, It has not been easy, but with a little perseverance and time, it is happening. I am finally getting to go out! I feel like a bird that has been just released from its cage. This excitement makes me want to fly! I just cannot wait!

It is 13:54 hundred hours. Everyone is currently running around trying to screw their heads back on whilst I am sat here trying my very best to be patient, and contain my overwhelming excitement. Everything around me is just so loud. The staff have lost the plot, and the patients are to be the ones who comfort them. It is a rather strange day I must say.

“Where on earth are all the staff?!” Jennie cried.

Mark turned towards the observation area, (that is the place where checks are done); he sat himself on the green sofa and sighed. It was clear to see that something was not quite right on the ward. The staff were even stressing out and when they are stressed, we patients sense that and know that something is wrong.

It is now 13:56 hundred hours. Only four more minutes until I finally get a break from this looney bin. The wait has been exhausting but I am pretty sure it will be worth it. For a split second, the ward seemed to have calmed down for a little but it did not last. Margaret came with the sign-out papers. (It is something we always have to do before going out on leave). Writing our signatures is so common for us patients, but for me, it feels like I am signing my life away and that never feels easy. So it is official. I am going out. But then it hit me. Like a brick to the head. I was going out,. I am entering the unknown and the unknown terrifies me.

It is 13:58 hundred hours. ‘Two more minutes, Two more minutes!’ I keep on thinking to myself. The same phrase keeps on rolling around in my head like a heavy ball in a bowling alley. Rocking back and forth like a crazy person, I soon glance up to hear a nearby voice calling my name.

“Charlee it’s time to go!” Jennie cried out impatiently waiting, as I sat there lost in my own safe world.

“I’m sorry. I’m back. Let’s go.” I replied.

So it is time. All that I need are my shoes and jacket and off I go I suppose,. I shoved my shoes on and tucked in the laces. I really cannot be bothered with them. My jacket is on the side and now I’m ready,. Sort of.

It’s 14:00 hundred hours on the dot. I am now leaving the building. I can see the doctors and psychologists in the meeting room; probably plotting a new admission, I expect. We have not had one in a while. I am walking down the cosy cave like corridor; well I think it is cave like. It is so dark and once you enter, it is no picnic coming back out. Jennie and Mark are the ones to take me on leave. They opened the door to the waiting room. It was an unnerving suspense as Jennie slowly unturned the key to open the door. Only two more doors to get through now. It is a bloody nightmare trying to get out of this place. So many doors, locks and keys. Thousands upon thousands I reckon.

5,..4,.3,2…1,

I am out! I am actually out! This cannot be real. I am looking at my surroundings for the first time in months. Rather than moping around, I am marching, up the hill with my head held high. As I walked, it turned into a skip and as I skipped, it turned into some sort of strange dance. I swayed along with the wind like a true hippy. This just feels amazing! The sky is a crystal blue and the clouds have gone on holiday with their good friend, the rain. I hope they are having a good time up there. The grounds are small. There is just your basic green grass field with tall lonesome trees and buildings surrounding them. There is a caf� but it is only open until 2pm and they do not sell much. Like I said, it is not much, but for us patients, it is all we have. It is all we know, for now. I do have hopes and dreams for the future. I would do anything to become an aspiring writer. I want to share my experiences with mental health and make a different towards other people’s lives. I hope that one day I can make a change, and to be able to make people understand. I just want to help people so they do not fall as low as I have. But for now, this will do.

I have been sat on the bench for around forty minutes now. The overwhelming excitement from the beginning is slowly beginning to disappear. I am beginning to get used to the fresh air. I am not afraid anymore. I am one with nature.

It is 15.00 hundred hours and my leave is now over. It has been amazing. I have made some daisy chains and lambs tails with Jennie. Mark did not seem overly interested. But he did seem to enjoy the fresh air. I could see the contentment in his face as the sun shone down on him. I hope for one day to be permanently on leave. But for now, I will take every day as it comes. It may only be a small break but it is better than nothing. I cannot wait for my next interlude in a hectic day.

A price on your health

I only see them now and again, my closest most distant friends
The sort you value most of all, who’ll tell you what they really feel
In March fifteen they told me: that lump on your nose has grown again
Get yourself to healthcare, you can’t take chances at your age, man

Next day I was there, panic in eye and voice, booked in the next week
Oh I don’t think you need worry about it. Not his nose, is it?
I’ll refer you to dermatology. When might I be seen, then?
No idea. There’s a waiting list, you know. How long? I dunno.

Next month I was back. I thought these things were meant to be important?
Urgent? Early treatment vital, all that? When will I see someone?
No idea. There’s a waiting list, you know. How long? I dunno.
And three and six and nine months on the same question, the same reply.

At last. Lump gone. Some strangely named carcinoma,that scary word
No cause for worry. Non-malignant, not the sort that spread elsewhere
But keep a watch out for any new lumps, OK? Damn right I will
How’s that for a new chat-up line: just check my back for any lumps?

An interlude, just fifteen months,

Just play music
Make a cup of tea
Make another cup of tea

Same friends, same concerns, a lump now on my forehead. Different doctor, different town, but hey! Some things don’t change.
The dermatology lists. How long is it? I dunno. All I know is, it’s long. OK, can I go private? That’s different. Like American Express, that will do nicely sir

Two weeks later I am there. My worry was no worry, he said
but my no worry was some concern, and what about this one here?
What one where? I hadn’t seen anything, still couldn’t see a thing
But he said he was concerned, so let’s deal with all of them, shall we?

Another fortnight. One chopped, one scraped, and one biopsied. That hurt! One grand-sized bill. That hurt just as much. What about those who can’t pay? And soon the test result. Another one just like last year’s, he says. I’ll do it next month, best to be safe. The cost? About twelve fifty.

I asked my own doctor: what if I can’t pay? It’s a lot, you know?
I’ll refer you to dermatology. When might I be seen, then?
No idea. There’s a waiting list, you know. How long? I dunno,
But you know, these things won’t kill you, they’re not the sort that spread elsewhere.

Dear Doctor. This is just to let you know I have decided not to come back to have the invisible lump removed. It’s not that I distrust your diagnosis,
or resent your bill. A man has to live!
But I will take my chance amidst my ever-patients fellow men and women who, like that wonderful man the late A A Gill, on our NHS across seventy years -my seventy years – have always been able to depend ,

Ah’m Eighteen ‘n’ Av Goat a Passport

I’d never been anywhere but…

A’ve jist turned eighteen and a’v goat a passport; so…

Oor usual Friday night – when ah say oor, a mean, me an ma mate Duddy – dragged into the wee small ‘oors; well a lote intae the early ‘oors, and them some mare. We goat aboot an ‘oors sleep, he crashed eht mine, he aye did oan the weekend. A quick scrape doon in the shower, ‘n’ a can fae the fridge and I wiz is right is rain fir mare. It wiz seven o’clock – in the moarnin that iz – ‘n’ we were aff again.

‘You goat yir passport?’ I always checked the wee man hub his I.D. wae him; he lucked aboot twelve. We goat oor passports last March as we were convinced we were gawn abroad this year, ‘Aye Ibiza’ wiz oor intentions, but really they were only gid fir getting’ us in pubs ‘n’ clubs:

A’m eighteen noo and a’v got a passport; so…

‘Last oarders lads’; even though it wiz still only ten in the moarnin.’ Saturday wiz always competition day at the gowf club. Names were supported to be in fir ten o’clock fur the ballot: tae see who yid be playin’ wi. The captain – who hid seen it awe and done it awe – came ower – ‘You boyz best just get yir arses inate the clubhouse, best no be drive the day’ he winked. He wiz talkin’ aboot the golf baw ‘n’ wiz politely tellin’ uz we wir a bit tipsy: club etiquette ‘n’ awl. ‘Away ‘n’ sit yirsels doon ‘n’ enjoy the clubhouse hospitality; efter awl:

Yir eighteen noo ‘n’ yiv goat a passport; so…

A couple oh rolls ‘n’ sausage wi onions ‘n’ rid sauce, doon the hatch; brilliant. Washed doon in two gulps wi a gorgeous pint oh lager; again, the business. That wiz me ‘n’ the wee man sorted fir the day. Other non-started and early finishers gathered roond the caird table, at the back; away fae civilised folks: oot o’sight oot o’mind; know?

Thir eighteen noo ‘n’ th’ve goat thir passports; so…

Busy table that day; three caird brag wiz the Saturday game; it wisnae that complicated so everybody kid jine in. Efter a couple o’ ‘oor ah hud tae check ma shoe; a must a’ve stood in a dug shite: three threes; the best hawn in three caird brag. Right stay calm, this iz ma ‘Casino Fuckin’ Royale’ av seen the film; ahm the next Bond, efter awe:

A’m eighteen noo ‘n’ a’v got a passport; so…

Come oan, at least wan oh yi huv ah gid hawn tae go wi me; or at least try ‘n’ bluff that yi huv. Hawf a dozen went, the bets were gawn roon ‘n’ roon, drapping oot wan b’ wan; till there wiz only two o’ uz left. The pot wiz huge, thir must’ve been a tona ton there easy, ‘n’ everybody wiz gathered roond the table: ‘Call yi’ he said ‘n’ ah turned ower ma caird:

Ah wiz eighteen ‘n’ ah hud three passports; so…

‘Right boyz y’ill need ti go; yir gettin’ a bit loud, come back the morra: club etiquette ‘n’ all’ said the Captain wi hiz three aces flung oan the table. Me ‘n’ wee Dudz goat a taxi intae the toon: we wir drapped aff right outside the travel agents. There it wiz in the windae, late flight, departing tonight fae glesga at seven o’clock tae Faro, returning tomorrow morning at seven, two seats left; twenty quid a pop. ‘Where’s Faro?,’ ‘Who cares wee man.’ We went in ‘n’ the lassie said yiz kin pick yir tickets up at the airport. ‘Dae wi no need peso’s or potatoes or summin?’ sprouts the wee man. ‘Ower there yi kin change yir money.’ Nae bother hen coz:

We wiz eighteen ‘n’ we hud oor passports; so…

Nane o’ uz hud ever bin oan a plane afore but it didnae matter we wiz buzzin. Faro duly arrived ‘n’ we goat a taxi tae ‘oanywhir.’ Whit a night, the bars wiz open right through; we jist went oan a pub crawl aw night; of course there wiz plenty dancin’ ‘b’ loads oh fawrin burds, which wiz great coz they couldnae understawn a wurd we wiz sayin’, which wiz just asweel; mind you they might huv been English! Taxi at six back tae the airport:

We wiz eighteen ‘n’ we hud oor passports; so…

A couple of ‘oors kip oan the plane back hame, straight hame, showered, fresh kecks oan ‘n’ back tae the club. ‘Two lagers please ‘n’ wan fir yirself Lillian.’ The Captain came ower, well boyz wiz it ah quiet night? Sorry a’ hud tae ask yi tae leave yesterday but nae herm done! It’s gid tae see yiz luckin’ a bit fresher the day; early night wiz it?’ Ah wiz aboot ti pipe up when the wee man kicked me in the shin. ‘Listen lads a wee bit o’ advice, even though yir eighteen ‘n’ yiv goat passports, watch whit yi dae wi thim.’ ‘Aye Captain, a quiet night in.’ But little did I know:

We wiz eighteen ‘n’ we hud oor passports so…We went tae Faro…

We wiz eighteen ‘n’ we hud oor passports so…
We went tae Faro ‘n’ drank till dawn

We wiz eighteen ‘n’ we hud oor passports so…We went tae Faro ‘n’ drank till dawn ‘n’ danced aw night…

We wiz eighteen ‘n’ we hud oor passports so…
We went tae Faro ‘n’ drank till dawn ‘n’ danced aw night like eejits, wi burdz that couldnae unnerstawn a wurd we wiz sayin’…

We wiz eighteen ‘n’ we hu door passports so…We went tae Faro ‘n’ drank till dawn ‘n’ danced aw night like eejits, wi burdz that couldnae unnerstawn a wurd we wiz sayin’ ‘n’ then we came hame. So see next year, ahm gawni get a new passport, ‘n’ even though a’ve been somewhere:

Ah’ll be nineteen ‘n’ ah’ll huv a passort so…

Ah’ll be nineteen ‘n’ ah’ll huv a passport so…

Ah’ll be nineteen ‘n’ ah’ll huv a passport so…

Ah’ll be nineteen ‘n’ ah’ll huv a passport so…


Ah’ll be nineteen ‘n’ ah’ll huv a passport so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so…

So, the moral o’ this story iz, maybe a should’ve listened tae the Captain, coz ah’m fifty-two noo ‘n’ a’ve seen the world, ‘n’ fur sure the world saw me. Noo, they’ve taken ma passport aff mi, so…mah advice to you if your aboot tae turn eighteen is:

Go ‘n’ get a passport, then y’ill hae a passport; so…???

Animals of the First World War

Finishing the letter took me more time than I thought it would. Rodent watched my every movement like a sharp-eyed teacher looking for something amiss. He sits back on his hind legs, stumpy half-tail swishing back and forth. His little dish-like ears twitch at every sound. I look over the finished letter, my cramped writing filling pages. It seems impossible now that I’ve crammed all my life for the last few months onto those small sheets of paper. Carefully, I fold the paper and slip it into the envelope: all under the watchful gaze of Rodent. His little ratty head bobs as though he understands what I’ve done and approves. He scampers away into the night. I can see the glint of lamplight off his small eyes as he looks back at me.

At The Back Of Our Minds

It wasn’t so much the weather
which spoiled the holiday
although it could have been kinder,
keeping us off the beach,
forcing us to waste our money
in the endless arcades.

It wasn’t even the hotel
with its petty ‘visitors park
at your own risk’ signs,
or the pool table which refused
to release its balls
after we’d fed it with 50 pence pieces.

No, it was more the feeling
at the back of our minds
that something else was wrong.
The way he refused to walk long distances.
The way his balance seemed off-key.
The way he leant over the railings
on the central pier during his last day
and was violently sick.
And the way the doctors
wouldn’t look us in the eye
after he’d had his scan.