Thursday, 19 February 2015

Generation Gap

There will be rust and bricks for all.
All art will cease to matter.
Taking offence will be a virtue.
We’ll stand beside the smashed glass front
of England’s last remaining High Street shop
and smile like idiots whose senseless adoration of the ego
is captured in an endless rash of selfies.
Of course I’d love to see another photo of
you looking studied, you fascinating child.

There will be bones and phlegm for all.
The virtue of the stupid
will be the latest must-have fashion item.
Love will be redacted from all novels, plays and poems,
and nobody will notice.
We’ll paint this land with blood and concrete;
half-sing its  National Anthem,
with flecks of spit, sandpapered fists, and bloodshot eyes.
As eloquent as like, whatever.

There will be petty cash and canned laughter for all.
Monochrome will be the new black.
Lack of self-awareness will be the new black.
And while we wait,
the ironed-on expressions of the surgically-enhanced
will provide a message for the world,
for those who care to read it.
Our best intentions will mean nothing in the end.
That wasn’t it.

Monday, 16 February 2015


Do not accept the things I say,
like, ‘Every picture speaks a thousand words,
yet poems paint a thousand pictures,’
because, although it sounds profound,
it isn’t. Poems are not pictures.
They are. Don’t listen to a word I say.

Poems are shooting stars: we miss them
unless we keep our eyes wide open.
So read. Pick up a book of poems,
or else you’ll miss those miracles of light.
Don’t listen. Poems are just words,
and shooting stars aren’t even stars.

Like truth, a poem’s best discovered.
Oh, sure, occasionally we stumble
upon such things we think insightful,
but usually that’s when we’re pissed.
When last night’s revelations reach
the light of day, they hide their faces.
No need to search for truth: it’s everywhere.

Things are, and they are not. A poem is,
and also isn’t. Hold those thoughts.
Don’t hold those thoughts. Don’t search for truth.
But be alive to shooting stars.
Bottom line? Work it out yourself.
And never listen to a poet.

Monday, 2 February 2015


For Adrian

The essence of musical sentimentality
Can be no purer
Than a twee, McCartney-esque

(NB Not to be read in public)

Storage Solution Aphorism Workshop (brainstorming session plenary)

Do not put all of your fruit into one basket.
Do not put all of your bread into one basket.
Do not out all of your baskets into one basket.
Do not put all of your Moses into one basket.
Do not put all of your petrol/ murder victims/ house/ past participles/ failures/ piano lessons/ legs/ fingers/ political opinions/ cats/ mice/ rainbows/ broken light-bulbs, etc., into one basket.

It was agreed that baskets provided a less effective storage solution aphorism than boxes, especially when it came to eggs/ soup/ hairstyles/ clouds/ people called Colin/ Biblical inconsistencies/ horse-whisperers/ marginalised outsiders/ recycled anger/ Popes/ baskets. 

Imperfect Employment Opportunities in the Age of Nihilistic Whateverness

Dave got a job working for "Mr Tyres", slashing tyres between 1 and 4 in the morning.

Jo got a zero-hours contract at the MoD, checking for spelling errors on the landmines installation safety instructions leaflet.

Trevor got a job sharpening crayons for the General Secretary of the NUT.

Cassandra got a job calming distressed horses by whispering threats to them in an embarrassingly racist Chinese accent.

Diana got an Arts Council funded job graffiti-ing impossible daydreams on the walls of the visitors' loos in Buckingham Palace.


Proferg, n - a short, obscure pithy saying, stating a nonsense or piece of completely unnecessary advice.

You can have gravy and custard in the same meal but not in the same mouthful.

A rich man may have money, servants, properties, land, an opulent lifestyle, foreign holidays, share options, a generous pension plan, power, influence, and fame, but a poor man has nothing.

If you follow your path, you will eventually find what you are looking for. Or maybe you won't.

Do not put all of your socks into one tumble dryer.

The last man standing will eventually have to sit down.

Two left hands don't make a right.

Sometimes, you can't help being a bit of a tw@.

Give a man a fish, and you feed him for one day; teach a man to fish and you give him the option of pursuing a really tedious and unpleasant hobby.

Rulers are made to be broken.

Sunday, 1 February 2015

What Can You Hear?

(buzzer sounds)
(lock clicks)
(door opens)
(door closes)
(Henning speaks indistinctly)
(door closes)
(door opens)
(sighs heavily)
(phone rings)
(indistinct chatter)
(laughs softly)
(phone ringing)
(door closes)
(door opens)
(engine starting)
(over radio)
(tyres squealing)
(agents yelling indistinctly)
(over phone)
(car door closes)

(sound effects subtitles for Series 2, Episode 7 of 'Homeland')