The Accepted Oxymorons of the Bovine Masses

I’m a modern man, a man of the millennium,
highly in need of low-income housing,
a lowly employee in a high-rise flat.
I’m down and out but rough and ready;
an over-sized, undernourished
heavy-set lightweight
Drinking expensive beer in a supposed ‘free’ house.
I’m a premature poster-child of postmodern prehistory,
an introverted exhibitionist,
a faux intellectual;
a genuine, highbrow, middle-class, low-life.
A hypocrite.
I send an email from an Iphone
and use broadband to broadcast
the broad thoughts of my small mind.
My Facebook is kneejerk,
I over-celebrate understudied
private opinions on public forums.
But I’m small-fry in the grand scheme;
a long-term, short-stay, part-time, busy body.
An uptown, downtrodden, hyperactive, under achiever
that’s low-rent and high maintenance.
I drew the short-straw in the long-run
as my revenue stream has no cash-flow.
It’s fair to say, I’m psychologically, anatomically
And economically


There’s a church for sale on London’s roads

Cast-iron railings line the walls,
their sore tips black
in November Air.
The ‘To Let’ sign looms
above the door;
it’s been on the market now for years.
A procession of cans
line the steps
absolved from wind and rain.
The only ones who see the sign
can’t afford the sale,
we sit and drink
and rub our pennies
and know we
weren’t meant
to be saved.


Seeds of doubt grow
in the back of my mind
‘til I’m left with the thorny question
of why
Why now,
in a picture-frame of glass
as I’m staring out
to a garden we never sat in,
do seeds sprout?
Why are there ladders,
why do they climb?
I’m riddled with weeds and these creeping vines
are prizing apart the bricks of a home
that’s not mine.
I’ll find one soon
when the only thing that’s left to do is grow
I’ll plant my roots and wait by a phone
for a call that might never come.
Why do I sing?
Why do I write?
Why does my blood turn to ink before I turn to wine
like when I read the letters that you never wrote?
You said all you needed was me
and I thought we’d last
but maybe we won’t.
We’re fickle young things
speaking their minds
about things we thought we know
well, we don’t
and I’m sad.
I’m sad for the promises we broke
beneath the stars and the moon
and the thistles we’ve sown
that we cut back on weekends.
I’m trying to speak
but thoughts wrap round my throat
like fumes in the street
I can’t breathe
and I choke.
And then I see you
and wonder,
why we cut them back on weekends.