Lamb? What Lamb?

 Superstitions  [thinking about next year] I’ll start the new year with a superstition Under the table, mouth full of grapes, I’ll emerge from my fake womb in a new nihilistic position  Embrace an air of faux optimism Leaving behind the forgotten year’s remembered acts of watered down barbarism I’ll drink to the ghosts of my past juvenile convictions Say my prayers and toast with hollow benedictions The calendar flips and year mirror cruelly won’t lie The same restless angered stranger looks back at me, eyes dead, asking  why? I’ll start the new year with a passionate kiss from a soon forgotten stranger It won’t matter much, nothing but a mechanical heat-exchanger I’ll start the year with something different Perhaps a glimmer of hope- I’m tired of believing in lack-worth superstitions 

  Union Jack [an ironic social commentary] British propaganda Union Jacks are all the range! Leftist London type gander Pint of Stella as a rebuttal to an accusation of middle class life- call it a soho short change “I’m a London creative, but not in a cringe way” “I listen to Berlioz ironically and prefer tapas over small plates” “I’m doing London but not in a Skepta, Stormzy, Dave type way” Call me Pete Doherty holed up with a guitar and Milk Models signed girlfriend in my London Camden gaff So what I don’t live pay check to pay check, I still pay Sip orange wine I don’t have time for that  I ❤️ wine  sort of riff raff Cool Britannia, Britannia rules the waves Nationalist chic in a post-brexit, post-BoJo, post-truth time Take pictures of the poppies on World War One soldiers graves The little black boys in trackies are roadmen, it’s not my fault their skin chose a life of crime That’s Daniel, he likes anime and basketball and has dreams of a midlands uni and a simple IT...

  POCKET PUSSY. [brand spanking new] Pocket Pussy is exactly what her name defines her Forget her real name, consider it a slur  Up there with the r-word, b-word, a-word, z-word Pocket pussy melts on the tongue like fine liquor She opens her mouth for sucking  Her legs for fucking And she doesn’t require any loving Pocket pussy is fun-loving, home-loving, peace-loving Her love means she doesn’t mind a little condom de-gloving *wink* She loves in the manic pixie dream girl type way In the I think I’m going to end it soon type way In the I’ll send you my tits and wank over your dick type way I’ll turn a blind eye to the smudge lipstick on your shirt type way The I’ll put up with the exhausted sigh from my mates when I mention your name type way The type ways, hip hop and throw shapes, into an idealised space I’ll be the Amy to your Nick don’t worry babe I’ll move from brunette to blonde, grab bleach, I’ll get it in one day Forget cool girl monologues, pocket pussy all the w...

  Glass. [gaz's rockin blues] I didn’t reach over the table to glass you A fright of great self restraint I know But as my anger and disbelief grew I didn’t want to be another story embedded between your ex wielding a frying pan and your time in Bordeaux I didn’t slam your face into the wall When I found out you tried it on with my best mate twice at the bar I didn’t say anything at all I live with the fact I know who you are I didn’t shout or flip the table Knowing my silence cut sharper than glass Your actions albit fatal Showed me exactly who you are Who you are can be summarised In a few quick words I should have glassed you at the table But I didn’t feel like being barred from the bar Plus I know you know I know exactly who you are 

  EROTICA . [save The George Tavern] I’m waiting to order a drink at the George’s tavern The bar is short, the crowd is panicked How else will they order their IPAs Transfer money from savings to checkings to pay The girl behind me has “ totally  written a cool erotica” Her friends gush and moan Thighs clasped as they chit chat about feminist theories I scan the pub for a suitor of the night Not too hot not too weird The type you have to have a second glance at And please no Guinness drinkers with beards  Admit the sea of baby bangs and ironic baseball hats I’m a critical cliche But not in their way, in a  totally  cool way The bar is humbling as I wait to order a drink Conversation has dried up Change the barrel- the keg please “So how do you find… the pub?” “No I don’t come here a lot” The band announce their last song And the crowd take it as an invitation to shuffle listlessly into the smoking hub I avoid eye contact with an ex I never really dated Get touch...

 Ode To London London’s cold in the winter time de ar Make sure to wrap up Chances of snow are low this year Sorry love God’s a bit backed up And I’ll say goodbye like ten more times And watch as you walk away And in the back of my mind I’ll scream- "I WISH YOU STAYED"

“What are they called?” [normalise writing poetry at gigs] They’re all trying to make it A terrible thought launched to the forefront of my mind A thought I can’t shake, as I stand behind- The merch stand, show a little bra to sell more of his merch The sound guy by me is in a bit of a lerch  Bassists gone flying into the drums Chaos rehearses itself, a soundtrack for ambition. They’re all trying to make it “You know Roze?” I know Roze “how do  you  know Roze?” Funny how a name becomes a meaning, passed around in dim-lit back rooms. But ironically  this  is how “the way things go” They’re all trying to make it I’m trying to ‘make it’ But for now I’ll stand by the merch stand Hoping these T-shirts would sell out The guitarist on stage has a kink for barking He’s in the green room hopes still sparking Wishing his dreams weren’t stitched to mine God I hope his merch sells He’s just trying to make it We’re all trying to make it  But for now, I stand here, battl...