I’m not a poet. I’ve never professed to being one. But occasionally, I dabble. So I’d be honoured if you’d read some of my compositions, even if you think they’re terrible.

THE LIGHTS

The lights draw me to them, like a moth is drawn irrationally to a flame.
For a moment, my mind wanders;
Perhaps it even closes down, because it doesn’t seem to be thinking of anything.
It’s as though something flutters, like a loose connection, before my mind reboots.
I can feel my eyelids, desperate to close, lowering anyway,
in spite of whatever rational part of me still remaining demands to the contrary.
It’s as though they’re saying to me,
“Let us close, let destiny lead the way, you don’t need to see it.”
And it’s like they’re making perfect sense.
The lights mesmerize me sometimes.
Their starkness, it doesn’t lie to me, there’s no deceit in its enchanting luminescence.
Though I cannot see it, I know what lies behind them,
I know what waits for me;
but I don’t believe in destiny,
I believe in free choice
The lights draw me to them, but it’s up to me whether or not I choose
to let my lids slowly close,
to let my car drift slowly across the centre line,
drawn inexorably to the lights.
My lids are shut, my eyes see nothing.
Briefly, there is the violence of a collision …

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A FRIEND, ANIMAL

Even before I met you, they called you Animal, and I don’t know why.
I still don’t know, although I recall people telling me tales.
Those tales.
Some might’ve been true, others small-town apocrypha.
When I asked you about them, you just laughed.
You didn’t need to speak about the past.
I knew you as a giant.
In the physical sense, you were a giant to all of my friends, not just me.
I also knew you as the giant of a man who used to fall asleep at the bar.
And when you were asked to leave, it was never because you’d caused trouble.
It was because the pub was closing.
I knew you as a giant who read books.
You read a lot of books.
I would stand at the bar and get my beer
And from the bar, I could see you sitting outside in the beer yard reading a book.
A well-read paperback with a cracked spine.
But you’d still look up whenever I drew near to you.
You’d look up, mention briefly the book you were reading
Drop it down on the table.
And then you’d talk about other stuff.
Anecdotes, friends, and that was the way it was.
The way it was, but it’s like this.
I will miss you.
And I’m sure I’m not the only one.
Rest easy, big man.
You will always be a giant piece of my memory.

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THIS FASHIONABLE MAN

These clothes, designer labels, tee-shirts, by Bench, by FCUK, by DKNY,
These shirts by Dolce & Gabbana, by Ben Sherman, by Yves St Laurent,
These jeans, these trousers, by Jack and Jones, by G Star, by Diesel,
The contents of this wardrobe, expensive, no money spared,
Indicative of someone who cared.

These creases, these ruffles, these collars, cuffs and hems all frayed,
These colours faded, pink not red, no longer black but grey,
These jeans once new and fashionable, threadbare now,
Worn by a man once loved, a man now dressed by people paid to be there,
Now hidden away, forgotten, by those supposed to care.

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WHY ENGLAND LOSES

I like playing football, but I like driving Bentleys too
See, I like getting paid lots of money too
I used to kick a ball around for me school
But back then, it were a different kind of rule
Back then, we used to play for fun
We didn’t used to play for money
We used to like the glory
The idea of getting kissed by the girls from the school
But that don’t happen now
Now, we have WAGs
We have birds who ain’t just common, council estate slags
Well, they might be, but they’re more classy
But then, that’s the problem, ain’t it?
I’m not thinking about football
I’m thinking about all these other bits and pieces
Which probably explains why England always loses.

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