The Block

LOBBY:
Aloof from vulgar tarmacadam
the polished chamber of soles
is listening suspiciously
careful not to breathe a word

101:
Anatomy of aspiration
Turning plastic into paper
Guaranteed happiness in cold green glass

201:
Telemetry of tragedy
Flash burn and exit wound
Crimson shadows creep across beech laminate

301:
Juxtaposition of Joy
Blue dot means green light
Ecstatic voices pillory their Rumplestiltskin

401:
Serenity of sloth
Press red for instant pleasure
Caustic fantasy severs humanity from personality

501:
Immanence of ideas
Grey carbon traces a footprint
Conjured opinion regards unnecessary future

ROOF:
Ruling sand and quicklime
the panoptican of metropolis
is watching flirtatiously
hoping to catch a wandering eye

Mass

Latin octaves rise to sculpted arches
then fall into the creases of lime-starched robes
and incense seduces our nostrils
with Mrs. Robinson allure.

At all points of the compass
I am surrounded by sons of Adam
and daughters of Eve;
Yet each one cocooned –
suspended on a gossamer axis.

Choral voices glide like drunken bees
through the sandstone honeycomb
whilst October sun invades the hive
with its golden promise.

Do I resist – decline this Holy meal?
Should I critique – in righteous suicide?

I reach, partake.
Mix hope and memory.
My first my last.
My one and only.

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

Grace

As she moves through the crowd
her theramin footsteps
leave the palest impressions
on the York Stone slabs

A brown child turns to see
and his ice cream drips
a raspberry vanilla tear
upon the place she paused

But she’s in flight now
not omnipresent
yet swift to aid
- a darting, dancing Starling

She sings contralto reassurance
to the city’s dizzy minds
her promiscuous kiss
is balm for all our guilty lips.

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

Avalon

O noble, enigmatic Tor,
robed in rumours of mystic mischief.
Has the friction of new centuries
worn thin your ancient spell?
Does your silhouette still impress the skies
in ways that tar-etched city grids cannot?
Are you really more sacred now than the
poppy strewn cenotaph?
And how can your static loneliness
fill the earth beneath with currents of electric soul
that are not eclipsed in an instant by playground voices,
chanting and dancing in primal chorus.
What do you know of enchantment Tor,
aloof from human vice and virtue,
guarded from the dark arts of urban industry?
Are you perhaps a mere folly Tor,
To the dream of a transcendent elsewhere?

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

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