Short Trends – A Squence


I’ll never be famous

without upping

my hipster game

I don’t have one

or ruffled hair

or over using colloquial


here and now

last week I uploaded

something somewhere

caught the air

it’s not where we should

be going

blame me for your back

no matter how many times

I tell you

I’ve got your back

just type and let the world know



holding a foam hand

I could hear

song fill the park

I let planks fall

it made no difference

ruined the grass

all the same

once or twice

I saw someone

who might be someone

premiered my hand waving

in the rain



open up the guts

of consoles

mend them with paper

they live

but are never quite the same

I said if they keep

making buttons

the world will be full

of men in their


I said wouldn’t

you do the same

if you’d had a skin full



John Boorman

tried to make his son a star

make emeralds glitter

I mean there must

be enough trees left

somewhere at least

there aren’t that many tables

it’s not like

everywhere I go someone

has made trees into tables



I wrote a story once

about a frog becoming

a man

I’m not making a comparison

but when he croaks

he reminds me

of my childhood

of the clubs I couldn’t

get into

I told my sister

I might vote that way

she said I didn’t

give a damn

about liberty

I said I just didn’t

like France



it’s not quite negative

but I don’t rate it

there’s a hole in the front

door and a hollow

in the living room

sometimes I find a boy

at the front door

staring in

he asks me why I bought

the place

I tell him I like hollows



put a man

in a long leather coat

and give him a northern accent

then you’re asking for trouble

I had both once

now I barely have the accent

they were drunk

and violent

they told me I wasn’t

from Liverpool

I described the streets

of my childhood

I told them I played

Pooh Sticks

with Steven Gerrard

they kept getting more violent



it hangs behind her bedroom

door still

a zip too often unzipped

I try to remember some other time

like ice on a hill

or fog at the river’s edge

step forward

let the freezing water

take memory



we got a letter

about price hikes

I said if we don’t read it

it won’t exist

just like Atlas Shrugged

and all of Kipling

she asked

why they don’t add the scent

of strawberries or sandalwood

I said those are scents

stuck in childhood

scents of lips barely kissed

and rooms never entered



they dance because they have to

not for rhythm or with purpose

it’s this or oblivion

when I watch her dance

she stops dancing

waits for me

to look away

then her arms start to flail

and her legs kick out

sometimes she sings

but if I tell her I know

the song

she makes me

give up on hearing


I’m writing a story about foxes for you

I’m writing a story about

foxes for you

and the baby

I mean for children

it’s harsh

I saw the sky darken and blamed

Comet Ison

the sun is turning me over

the sun is turning over

a new leaf

there’s a man in New York

moving too much

apologising for accents

there’s a man on the radio

his voice being eaten

by static

saying Pluto isn’t Pluto

I mean Venus isn’t Venus

this is all on our horizon

in the west

I made the fox lose his tail

I made the baby some macaroni

and porridge

they look similar

when I asked you if you’d read

my fox story

you said yes

but I know you’re lying

because you don’t believe in foxes

do you

that night in Glasgow

I showed you a fox

but you only saw Venus

thought it was a star

it’s an easy mistake