Whole

Through cycles of growth and decay
we change
but never cease to compete.
Our myriad connections go uncelebrated
yet our minor contradictions are vilified.
The lonely hide in their paradox
yet the hostile thrive with mechanical ease.
Reductionism gives no answer
to the question of the city;
it must be swallowed whole
by wide open eyes
hovering like India 99
absorbing the thermal image
imprinting the human grid
upon the retina of our souls.

Technorati tags: Manchester, Poetry, Poems, Urban, Creative Writing, Writing

Heartburn

Another prototype rolls off the production line
and the condensation of my naked ambition
drips lazily down the windows.

I see all but the shadows of my own soul
falling across the path of my colleagues and comrades.

The stroke of my signature
dances in stupor;
as a thousand trembling fingers
touch a thousand nervous lips.

Bring me your wildest dreams for tasting -
sweet and salt,
the bitterest of bellyaches,
the warmth of urban heartburn.

Technorati tags: Manchester, Urban, Poetry, Poems, Creative Writing, Writing

Million

A million to one
the odds are stacked
assuring obscurity
My hopes and dreams
just tears
in a hailstorm
My soul’s true story
competing for expensive airtime

One in a million
the tables are turned
enabling intimacy
My cleaving prayers
leave lipstick
on your wineglass
My soul’s true story
celebrated by your celestial audience

Technorati tags: Poetry

Waking

The first squealing yawn
is the metal on metal
of the London train
waking the Eastern arches.

The first sticky blink
is the pneumatic clatter
of the 89’s double doors
disembarking in the Shudehill smog.

Did you once fail
to bring the light
out from its temporary storage?
Or leave the dawn
shuttered in the night’s dark premises?

Before the first footprint
on the dew-damp street you Are.
Every day
and
always.

Technorati tags: Manchester, Urban, Poetry, Poems, Creative Writing, Writing

you never miss

you never miss a skip or trip
of our asylum children
their jet black eyes you bless
with sparks of long lost eden daybreaks
you celebrate the courage of
each fragile sheltered housing smile
crowning well earned silver manes
with golden halo glory

and now through scent of spring you're beckoning
into sacred space - a plane of grace
where bricks and mortar fade away
like smoke into a cloudy sky
as the life that's truly life
erases every alibi

Technorati tags: Poetry

Bleed

I see a thousand shades of flesh
Wrapped in fibres East and West
Eyes and lips of painted fractals
Tattooed necks and booted ankles
All alighting and embarking
Eros loitering and stalking

Where did all the unfeigned words go?
True meaning mined - now life subsides
How will any divine light flow?
When wicks of faith fade into charcoal

Please
Bleed your living sacred ink
Be this city’s script and author

Technorati tags: Poetry

Terminal

Terminal distractions
Infinite refractions
The rattle and hum
Of blunt elbows
And sharp voices
You are here
In flowing robes of steel and glass
Through a million graffiti glories
Your tear-stained cheeks
Still smile
Always hoping
Ever loving
Your city and mine

Technorati tags: Poetry

Longing

This great plain
Was loved by your eye
Before any tower of Babel pierced its skies

Now through every circle
Of sun and moon
Your miracle newness
Longs for birth
In every passing headlight
In every neon cipher

The tribes are here
Gathered from the nations
Yet so colour-blinded
Scarred faces hide your family likeness

But through every crack
Of street and window
Your amazing grace
Longs to rest
On every daughter of this city
On every urban son.

Technorati tags: Poetry

99er.

Short tuft of
Neon verse
Blinks with
Nervous
tiredness
In a short
circuit
Through my neurones.
Synapse
Chicane,
Imprints on
retina beach.

Technorati tags: Poetry

Up/Down

I’m low
withdrawn
forlorn.

Strode up the
mountain.
The night became
a cliff from which
I tumbled.

A morning.
A harder surface
than rock,
I crash against it.

Shattered...
but for a hand
clinging to my Lord.

Lord...

You’re a shiny
Italian Lambretta
Carrying me invisibly
through the day’s traffic.

You’re a chunk
of fresh bitten apple;
Refreshing the teeth
of my soul.

You’re a rescuing
helicopter coastguard;
Winching my spirit
Out of the turbulent Benchill sea.

My England

What does the world know
Of my England?
British Airways intro movies
Set to classical fanfares.
Charles and bloody Di.
Maggie bleeding Thatcher.

00000000oooooooh

Look at the raw
Naked north.
My country.
Cut yourself on our
rough edges,
Then we’ll bathe you
In our spirit.

Going home.

Bold streaking sun
sneaking up on shadows
...silent crackle
.feedback.
itchy & stractchy
.:.fluffy shudder
.air just out of grasp
just out of gasp.
Temporary loudness
now back to the hum

I fear...

I fear the eventless day,
Its craning arms
outsretched.
Tormenting tomorrows.

I need the relentless moment,
Its sucking throat
moist.
Salivating sanity.

I yearn irresponsible calm,
Its cocky nonchelance
reclining.
Disowning duty.

Pop Tarts

Peroxide flavoured
pop tarts
daren’t speak to each other
for fear of cracking
their make up.

Nearly new
fairy lights
condescend their plump mate
with a tone of
opaque friendliness.

If I had one wish
I’d give them all
uncontrollable flatulence-
then quickly alight at the next stop.

Civic

Cold custard comforts
Ill advised concrete clutterings
Wrapped saplings in tarmac bandages
Whistle down my steel shutters
Please dispose of your chipforks
carefully
Never look up
The clouds are out of bounds

Brain Tac

If only I could get
A ROM extension
For my head.
So many things are
Running simultaneously
That I’m just clogged.
Right now I might as well
Have a brain
Sculpted from Blu-Tac.
AHA, that could be it.
Perhaps I have.
Maybe by some alchemic spell
Cast in my sleep
It’s gone and mutated.
Well, best look on the bright side.
Now I can pick my ears
And stick posters up in my bedroom.

Dusk

The best thing
about watching the sun die
and the blue sky
gasping in fleshy tones,
retreat to a distant land
Is
Staring up to witness
the fresh-born faces
of the stars
emerging
one by one
Effortless
But meticulous
from the womb
of the night.

Dusk

Pale menu.
Filter.
Gently extrude,
the pinkest sandbar.
No, coral.

Pale menu.
Filter.
Blur more,
almost a swallowing.
No, absorption.

Just this once it would be nice
if the sun stayed up late,
You know,
to surprise us.

South

Its like fog
but it shines.

Its pink
but you can’t quite see it.

The exit’s shrouded
with hair
and hot pants.

Fizzy sodastream women
shudder to half bubbly beats.

A bit like beer
but not quite as tasty.