There is just one thing which I be stannin'

And that's milky brown tea, rich with tannin,

Boomers, millenials, Gen X and Gen Z too,

Can all appreciate a basic, boiled brew.

Fuck your bubbles, fuck your ice, fuck exotic loose leaf,

Just give me a Yorkshire teabag or i'm causing you grief,

Yes, it's staining my teeth and it's staining my mug,

But it's worth it all for this hot liquid hug.

Frst thing at breakfast, end with one during supper,

Any time of day you'll see me cradling a cuppa,

But leave it for two minutes, or maybe even three,

Cos I'll cut you up if you serve me pissweak tea.

Too awake to sleep,

Too tired to move,

A masterpiece of ambivalence,

Belongs in the Louvre.

Buried, in a closet, under bric a brac and stationery

And weight and loathing and hate and masonry.

The militant caretaker diligently taking care

To bury himself in work and leave it decaying in there.

Too sharp to shut it out,

Too backwards to go far,

Without too much a doubt,

An apathetic objet d’art.

Framed, and tightly packed, lickety-split on a rickety boat,

Pounded against waves of a confounded, primordial sea,

Interrupts the endless, tedious water where it floats,

On an ocean of baseless, hypocritical morality.

Too despairing for plans,

Too reasoned to be hopeless,

As a work that is bland,

It is life’s magnum opus.

Washed up on shore; hope no more to be truly seen - obscene!

No artist impression can capture the canvas of depression,

Lost in paradise, under nature’s empty blue and unruly green,

Known to all the land the digits on one hand a work of pure obsession.

He’s really starting to get to me now. Four times he has appeared to me, and four times I’ve been left struck. He just stands there, with his fag in his mouth, grinning.

It happened first three weeks ago; I remember the moon was at its fullest and illuminated my room through the prism of my bare, curtainless window. For reasons I do not know, and wish I could explain, I found the exact shade of grey-silver light irresistible, and found myself almost floating out of bed, towards the window.

Looking out at the vast, grey sky, I found myself surprised at how dull the full moon looked, as wispy grey clouds wafted over it. Looking back now, I believe with my full heart that the magical light was not created by the moon, but the figure that I saw dimly lit by it.

Behind the two storey flats is a stone wall five feet high, encompassing the greenery below. Opposite the wall is a number of fences that guard the gardens of houses in a small housing estate. Between these two boundaries is a lane; a long lane of dark blue tarmac that stretches from my flat and winds towards and along the river for about a mile.

Stood - almost rooted - in this lane, no more than forty yards from my tired eyes, was a man, perhaps maybe a figure, squat and dark. He was surrounded in shadow but lit by the lunar light, giving him a greyish, foggy quality. Faint colours mixed around him and changed with every glance; sometimes reflecting the deep dark blue of the tarmac beneath his feet, sometimes incorporating (or emanating?) the moody indigo hue of a neighbour’s vibrant garden forget-me-nots, trembling in the breeze; sometimes the earthy brown and life-giving green of the nearby grassy soil or alder leaves mixed with him, giving him a mossy sheen or slime in the autumn mist.

I stood there, utterly transfixed with fear and anxiety, for a time that could not be judged by humanity’s precious attempts to gauge time: a brief eternity. The wisps of cloud thinned, and the increased illumination of the moon revealed a cracked, craggy, round face, weighed down by a strange nautical type of hat I’d never seen before – part top hat, part sailors’ hat. He stood thirty yards away, but I could make out a thick, oily, brown liquid leaking from the interior of the hat down the side of his face, revolting me. He wore a long, black mackintosh that reached down to his thick black boots, boots that seemed to almost sink into the pavement.

Somehow, perhaps by his design, I had moved from the safety of my room and out onto the balcony. I noticed immediately that there were no sounds, however slight, of the wind, or birds that regularly chirped even in the small hours. I felt that I was not awake, but in a vivid dream. I never know I’m dreaming, so I knew this was real, but not too real. The smells were slightly off, the colours were slightly off, the feeling of the balcony banister against my hand was slightly off. It is as if I had entered a different place but stayed where I was, or he had brought me here.

Then I realised, why? Why did this man, or thing, arrive here, stand there, and stare at me, with blurry eyes. As if answering my self-question, the figure’s face contorted in a bright, yellow-toothed grin, rummaged in a pocket and brought out a dark red cigarillo case. He flicked it open in his hand and inside were a dozen fags, led solemnly in their satin lined coffin, ready for cremation. He took a fag and put it in his mouth, returned the case, rummaged in the same pocket and revealed a dark red zippo lighter that dropped out of his baggy sleeve which landed delicately in his calloused hand. As though it was a part of him, the mackintosh man flicked open the zippo – embossed in white with the logo of a swan – and lit the object clamped between his chewed lips.

Suddenly, he gave an enormous drag of the cigarette, reducing to a beige stub in seconds; his cheeks inflated simultaneously. With a flutter of the lips, as though playing a magical woodwind, the pale cigarette smoke seeped out of the mouth. The gas like smoke looked lost for a moment, floating in front of the figure’s face in a gentle swirling motion, before slowly floating towards me. The cancerous vapor made me cough involuntarily, which seemed to offend the figure and the smoke. Suddenly, I noticed that parts of the swirling grey were flitting off from the main form, and as they did so they were themselves forming peculiar shapes.

Words. They were forming words.

I watched this painstaking process for an age, before the smokey sentence completed itself. To my horror, the words spelled out this:

If I were you, I’d be shit scared, boyo…

Made for speed,

Bred to bleed,

Tug the mane,

Break and train,

Gasp for breath,

Charge at death,

Bow and spear,

Run through fear,

Metal feet,

Human seat,

Blood is spilt,

Empires built,

No reward,

Just a horde,

War is done,

Now for fun,

Vilest curs,

Whips and spurs,

Placing bets,

Live assets,

Break a leg,

Cannot beg,

Behind shed,

Cold and dead

Hello everyone, I've written a poem,

I've titled it "Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem",

It's quite like me, to struggle for titles,

But this one, I didn't struggle with,

I said to myself "What would a pointless poem be called?",

I replied "Probably something like 'Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem'",

HA!

So I went with that, I went with the title "Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem",

While you read it, you may find yourself angry,

But let it happen,

Anyway, here is the poem I've written,

Titled "Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem":

You know that panda that eats, shoots and leaves?

Well, what about the community that grieves?

Thank you for reading my poem, called "Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem".

Merry Christmas everyone.

Humanity's curse,

We try to hide,

Unspeakable horror,

Bred within walls,

Cages,

Miles of bars,

Shit, piss, fear,

Unbearable pain,

No cluck, moo or bleat could explain.

Ripped away from mother's milk,

Mulched and minced for fat pigs,

Stuffed into buns, thrown onto plates,

We cannot help, it's our curse,

Witness to your suffering,

I hate them all,

All who do this to you,

Naive Cishet Steve couldnt believe,

That folk out there wished him grievous harm,

Simple Cishet Steve began to grieve,

As this was cause for serious alarm.

So Cishet Steve, he did conceive,

A plan as wily as it was daring,

Yes Cishet Steve, he'd earn reprieve,

And stop minorities and strangers caring.

Thus Cishet Steve, he did achieve,

This goal in a delightfully, dastardly way,

Yes Cishet Steve, on Christmas Eve,

Announced he was actually, tremendously gay!

Then Cisgay Steve, more cards up his sleeve,

Had one more rotten old fib to tell,

Cisgay Steve, on Christmas,

Said he was a woman called Ruth as well.

Yes transgay Ruth, it's God's honest truth,

Nothing you'd say could cast any doubt,

He's transgay Ruth, since his youth,

That's what his weird behaviour was about.

But transgay Ruth, followed by a sleuth,

Well, to know when to quit was a trait she did lack,

And transgay Ruth, hours in tanning booth,

Came out swearing blind she had changed race to black!

So blacktransgay Ruth, slightly tipsy on vermouth,

Revealed to a mate that it was all a crazy lie,

And blacktransgay Ruth, characteristically uncouth,

Said "I want to be a victim" when asked the reason why.

Again now Cishet Steve, in trying to deceive,

Is reminded of his privilege every waking hour,

And silly Cishet Steve, unable to perceive,

That in many small ways he has his private power.

Wake up at nine,

And on I sign,

Job centre rule,

Cos I'm no fool.

Keep up pretense,

That I've no sense,

Brave it outside,

No place to hide.

There's no real use,

I'm too obtuse,

I don't fit in,

I'll never win.

So play along,

It might seem wrong,

But no right way,

To earn blood pay.

Leipzig, Bucharest, Belfast, Milan,

Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan,

Red-eye to LA, bus to Nantyglo

Just some of the places I don't want to go.

Beirut, Bangkok or Bangor, Maine,

Madrid, the capital of sun-scorched Spain,

Even the clean streets of Japan's Tokyo,

Oh other fine places I don't want to go.

Tripartite of Tripoli; Tirana; Taipei,

Manchester or maybe Myanmar's Mandalay,

Dare down to Yemen, where Dragon Bloods grow,

Yet more perfect places I don't want to go.