Hard Times

he thinks he remembers a time
before she chopped off his balls
and pickled them in a jar
with mustard seeds
and chilli oil,

somewhere a sense
of not feeling sleazy
or desperate
only wildly energetic
and wet,

vague recollections of
dirty promises,
black lingerie and blow jobs,
fuck me boots and thongs,
or were they just dreams

of a Billy bollock teenager
standing to attention, ready
for action—mountains of man-
sized tissues hiding under his bed…

She

now she is blackened ink
bled over starched canvas

her cursive forms whisper
elusive words

too many nights wasted
on
uncomfortable men

her eyes roll
mouth breathing
nicotine air

she beckons to me
behind locked doors

Maybe…

Don’t remember many nights in ’97.
Most washed away in Southern Comfort
and shitty house music. But I can recall
hungover mornings with Richard and Judy,

lying listless on a shapeless sofa
surrounded by fag-ash footprints
on their march towards sunrise,

washing down Marlboro breakfasts
with left over cans and Walkers crisps
as Gallagher sang about living forever,

stockpiles of Loaded magazines crowding
the bathroom, Begbie’s wild glaring,
Kelly Brook blowing kisses. Our manuals
on how to live badly.

Fractured years

All you heartless bastards,
what have you done?

housing estates spat
out for wasted generations;
a life sentence of
grey brick cells
festering in long cemetery grass

endless dead end roads lined by
garbage dump back yards,
playgrounds for fat black rats
and thin toad children

streets ripped empty of life
darkened shop fronts,
their faded names and broken graffiti glass,
those peeling Brexit stickers.
envelopes scattered on filthy floors

these are our fractured years
where we stare starry eyed and blind
as they stalk through the night,
like a black dogs, looking to fuck
something bleeding
and alone