days of wander

thumb in the wind

hitching 200 miles

go see if the ‘rents were in

could handle my face

hard rides of wandering hands

offers to suck my cock

pay to see it please

occasionally women

wanting to feed

take me home mother me

endless moments of

here will be fine drop offs

middle of nowhere

where even the horses stare

walking walking

in the rain the snow

sunshine days not caring

stopping to write thoughts ideas

slip slide the mask of bum

be the writer poet troubadour

until the world turned again

finding them not home

or no welcome today

walk out of there

begin the return journey

no shelter no love no feed

no recognition of journeys made

wishes hopes dreams left there

my only salvation the road


wha’da you do all day?

sit & polish fat words?

& the way he said that

yeah he was thinkin’ fat turds

cos that’s what poetry is all about

rhyming stinking blurbs all day

he got taught that in school

poetry gotta rhyme

& I gently tell him


riding his chariot into Rome

heading the victory parade

had a fella stood just behind


remember you are not a god

but just a man

& that my friend

is what poets do

all day

which was it to be please?

fifteen alone & lost

I found myself stuck

late in the mountain night

in Snowdonia

the cars had stopped

walking had ceased to get me anywhere

as my steps slowed in the dark

I slipped over a dry stone wall

huddled in a corner against the wind

& slept dreaming of giants a giantess

gold hair cascading on her shoulders

promising better days to come

if I would drink the water there

& woke in the dawn to silence

but for the crows cawing in the distance

I was powerfully thirsty with nothing

climbed back over the wall

put my thumb to the first truck

he stopped then asked me: which is it then?

I had no answer no understanding

he drove me into the local town

& drove away smiling shaking his head

as I went to buy water Dwr yr Wyddfa

drinking sitting on a low grey wall

later as I stuck my thumb out to leave

the same truck stopped again

& as I climbed inside he asked again

which is it then?

& as I shrugged he told me

of Idris the giant sitting gazing the stars

there on his mountain Cadair Idris

& if anyone slept the night on his mountain

in the morning they wake either

a poet or a madman

so which was it to be please?

Prison poet

writing poems for hoods

who had beaten their enemies

baseball bats or leaded gloves

telling their old ladies

those days were over for good

but already plotting

their next robbery

fixing alibis & drop offs

while wanting love letters

soppy soft operas of lust

hiding their illiteracy

behind you are the best at this

there were no gainers here

in the lives of I wanna’s

without the will to work hard

find the decent way through

just a life in the easy way

& my writing was a piece of this

another part in the one act play

You write then?

he says

looking at a rough

of a few bits n pieces

I was going to do

at a friends, family & foes night

can I take a look?

he mumbles a few lines

to himself

in that way we got taught at school

looking for a rhythm

always ending

with a last line rush

he’ll talk about scan in a second

not understanding

my lines don’t work out that way

you local?

I nod my head

I did hear there was a poet

out this way

bit hard on the ladies

drinks too much for his own good

& writes in the local pub

never got enough for a round

quick with the fuck off

the back of his hand

& I’m beginning to think

if he doesn’t mean me

i’d be happy to

be a stand in

cheeky wee fucker

has read the words

not suggested to buy a drink

or offer his own verbs

I think I just might have one or two

for him


I hear you’re dragging my name
my once group of friends
to say that I am
have poor manners
in all things
I hear these
and haven’t forgotten
it was you pulled me
from the crowd
where I’d slowly
been working through
the hows, whys
of life, love, work
everything that matters
what you forget to remember
with that background of privilege
you flaunt
is that for a while
we were
in the same place
at the same time
& that it was me
who called time
On you