Gig

April 11, 2010

I’ve got a gig, April 12th at The Looking Class, Leicester.

For more details click here

For more info about Nine Arches Press:

http://www.ninearchespress.com

Leicester Shindig! open mics will be running at The Looking Glass throughout 2010, on every second Monday of every other month, on 14th June, 9th August, 11th October and 13th December.

Hope to see you down there if you’re around.

http://www.ninearchespress.com

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spreads out it’s streets like mechano,

train station, subway, shoe store, car.

Dirty Old Town

drinks in a bar

swims through it’s dreams

like chlorine and emeralds.

Dirty Old Town

watches TV

Dirty Old Town
drinks coffee, another coffee

Dirty Old Town

wonders should it move

but doesn’t have the money

and doesn’t know the rules

Dirty Old Town

sleeps with the moon

gives money to charity

buys the Big Issue,

sucks saxophone,
blows guitar


percussion skins,
blues bizzarre


Dirty Old Town
dirty old you


dirty old me
dirty old fugue


the sun rises
the night reels


but the evening’s made
of magenta


the evenings made
of sound


there’s a man with an accordion
and pigeons on the ground

Dirty Old Town
Dirty Old Town

it could be worse,
Dirty Old Town.

Dirty Old Town (draft)

April 4, 2010

spreads out it’s streets like mechano,

train station, subway, shoe store, car.

Dirty Old Town

drinks in a bar

swims through it’s dreams

like chlorine and emeralds.

Dirty Old Town

watches TV

Dirty Old Town
drinks coffee, another coffee

Dirty Old Town
is a three legged stray

Dirty Old Town
is battleship grey –

TK Maxs,
mini cab taxis

stick no bills and
close circuit TV.

Dirty Old Town

wonders should it move

but doesn’t have the money

and doesn’t know the rules

Dirty Old Town

sleeps with the moon

gives money to charity

buys the Big Issue,

sucks saxophone,
blows guitar


percussion skins,
blues bizzarre


Dirty Old Town
dirty old you


dirty old me
dirty old fugue


the sun rises
the night reels


but the evening’s made
of magenta


the squares are made
of sound


there are pictures in the puddles
there are mermaids in the clouds

Dirty Old Town
there’s Sunday morning buttered toast

and sunbathing pigeons
and lights shining on the road

Dirty Old Town,
Dirty Old Town

there’s a man with an accordion
playing for a pound.

Dirty Old Town
buys another round

it could be worse,
Dirty Old Town.

The worst thing
about having pink hair
and being in a painting
is that at the opening evening
of the exhibition
everybody knows who you are.

You can’t look
at the painting.
Looking at the painting
looks like standing in a room
and gazing at yourself
in a mirror

You can’t stand
near the painting.
Standing near the painting
looks like you’re seeking
attention.

When other people
are looking at the painting
you have to keep a respectful distance.

If they see you
standing within earshot
they clam up
like they are mussels
and you are daylight.

You’re a bad smell
or a strong perfume.
They look around
and if they see you
they move on.

And you don’t know
what they were talking about
while they were standing
and pointing
and gesturing and murmuring
silently
with their hands.

You don’t know
what they were saying
out loud
with their mouths
moving and their clothes
russling secret sounds.

And their words curl
into the canvas, sink
into her paint shut eyes.
Her hair threads like a salmon,
falls like flamingos
fades into pink
like the edge of the night.

You stand on the edge
of their talking,
and they talk to her.
And three’s a crowd.

Dirty Old Town

April 2, 2010

spreads out it’s streets like mechano,
train station, subway, shoe store, car.

Dirty Old Town
drinks in a bar

swims through it’s dreams
like chlorine and emeralds.

Dirty Old Town
watches TV

Dirty Old Town
drinks coffee, another coffee

and goes to the park
goes to the mall

goes into work
goes back home

Dirty Old Town
wonders should it move

but doesn’t have the money
and doesn’t know the rules

Dirty Old Town
sleeps with the moon

gives money to charity
buys the Big Issue.

Dirty Old Town
sucks saxophone,

blows guitar
percussion skins,

blues bizzarre
Dirty Old Town

dirty old you
dirty old me

dirty old fugue
the sun rises

the night reels
but the evening’s made

of magenta
the evening’s made

of sound
it could be worse,

Dirty Old Town.

after the Pogues/Ewan MacColl

Woman by the Chairs

April 2, 2010

She dances a polka
is beautiful.
denim jeans
ebony top
up at 7
out at 1
she’s ruby lips
and pointing to a man
giving requests
to the guy with the guitar
she’s something hard
to understand
wants to be friends
doesn’t know how.

Man at the Bar

April 2, 2010

His movements are small
eyebrows like
Jack Nicholson
they arch with suspicion
he wears a jacket
leans on the bar.

There’s a woman dancing
with a black bob
and a tweed coat.
She jigs in jeans
drinks vodka and coke.

She looks at the man
with the black leather jacket
she tries to catch his attention.

The man
with the black, leather, casual jacket
stands with his back to her.

He stands with a whiskey
he knocks it back.
He lost something
a long time ago.
His face is a map
of woven calico
he hasn’t recovered.

Talented Guy

April 2, 2010

He plays in a pub
He strums a guitar
He clings to the strings
He opens the doors.

A saxophone plays
like a distant ocean
The music they make
is the sound of a lover.

He picks it up
He talks about a woman
a pretty woman
stay with him baby

Pretty Woman
don’t walk on by
And the guy with the saxophone
has the sky in his eyes

Before she starts
She looked like the girl at the front of the class
Like she packs her lunch
Like she brings a flask.

But she talks about putting her heart in a box
She talks about letters she never sent off
She sings like this is the last day on earth
She sings like this is all that she’s learnt.

Night’s like this
I don’t know what to do
body moves,
arms are glue

In my head is every pub in the world
Tiny pumps, velvet chairs
She sings like this
is the last day on earth.

A black horse gallops,
The landlord turns.

Brian

April 2, 2010

I can’t remember the last time I saw you
I can’t remember the last time we talked
was it the end of the day, or a Tuesday morning?
was I saying hello, or collecting my mail?

You always waved when I was leaving
You always noticed if I’d cut my hair.
When I went to Jamaica I told you.
When I came back home, you were there.

I wish I’d sent you a postcard on holiday
I wish I’d brought you some coffee
from the Blue Mountain coffee store
You were seeing a woman from Poland

You told me one day in the laundry room.
The letter said there was no pain
it happened on a Saturday,
in a hospital.

The other guy said it was bone cancer
you didn’t tell anyone,
just carried on coming into work.

I wish I’d known
when I was doing my washing
I wish I’d known,
when I was collecting my mail.

This evening I smiled
at the woman in the stairwell
I said goodbye
to the consiege.