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Standing at an ATM
Card in hand,
Machine accepts it
With a automated sigh
As coked up rich cunts
Canter by, laughing,
Smoking, high five

Fag hanging from
Acrylic nails,
They go from bar to bar
Bathroom stalls.
I type in the PIN –
Four digits
To deny me.

If, a big if, a massive
Fucking improbable if,
I can get cash
Then I can crash
On the lash
Off the leash
Drunken British
Baring darkened,
Crooked teeth.

I type in a sum
Something small
Hopefully enough.
A pregnant pause –
An aborted cause,
A secret clause
Is you have to wait –
The machine spits out
Pictures of the Queen.

The missus and me
Hit the street
Another bar
Where the rich cunts meet,
I get our drinks;
She finds some seats:
Is this seat free?
Is this seat free?
For me fella and me?

The difference between
Them and us,
The missus and me, is
Those rich gets
In their
Suits and boots
With their expensive
Hair and clothes,
And drugs, and
Plastic tits
Is simple.

Me and my proletarian
Ideals hanging onto
Poetry like it’s a
Nursing mother
Dancing to the low level
Corporate drum is simple.

They are rich and I am not.

The Perfect Family

I watch people, not in a crazy way,
That is to say – in the bushes, hiding away -
No, quietly, when I have a moment to spare
And I wonder about their worries and their care.
Most of the time, I think, they don't know I am there.

I wonder about them and keeps them going,

Whether they are hiding more than they're showing.

Things like that, nothing much, nothing much.
I spend a lot of time in waiting rooms, so to keep touch
With the world, I do, this. Kinda like a rabbit in a hutch.

I remember one family, quite clearly,

In Wetherspoons sitting opposite me.
They looked so perfect, like an advert on the Telly
Beautiful kids with no wires, no tubes in their belly.
Both looking happy, both looking healthy.

They laughed, they joked and they said it was great
The way that little Timmy pushed peas around his plate.
Then they’d leave, get in their new car, new mobile phone,
And drive to their clean and expensive home,
As I still sit here alone.

I sit here thinking about the lot I was given,
The many miles that I have driven
To get to hospital wards, clean sanitised hands,
Yet everyone acts like they understand
But they’re just grateful their kids are grand.

While my girl lies awake in pain
As I clumsily fumble with another chest drain.
And I wait and weep as she goes under the knife
And think to myself: “so this is her life?”
I struggle to be a mother, woman and wife.

Some nights I feel so broken
I crumble before a word is spoken.
To me it seems so unfair,
A pained angel, lying prostrate there
Sometimes I wonder if God could care.

But I snap out of this self pity
To count the blessing bestowed on me.
There is no such thing as the perfect family
But I have this hope and love to surround me
In this realisation we are safe, and, we are happy.

"I take so much and offer little in return"

I take so much but offer little in
Return, but, then again doesn't everyone?
All things seem doomed before the begin.
You wake with the feeling you've been done.
Although, words that men say to their women
In the stillness and solitude of night
And the words that she will say back to him;
Offers, or seems to, something right.
A hope, a unity between two souls.
In this darkness many lights have been re-lit.
People, before they fall into the holes -
These self made holes fill'd with hate, doubt and shit.
They are together, not by the stars above
But are because of an enduring love.

Debt

We, the dutiful emasculates,
Stifled under the growing
Interest rates and late payment fees,
Attached to Government approved
Remortgage and relending schemes
Shiver in the cold light of insolvency.
To me, the need, to break through to
The place beyond
The consolidated glass ceiling.
Somewhere without the demands
Of incessant scrimping and saving.

The apparatus of debt:
The bills, the calls,
The men in suits knocking on the doors,
Walking down halls,
Coming at dawn
Like a Financial Gestapo,
Don’t mean a thing
As the women on the other side
Of the call centre divide will
Agree a fee free payment plan
To get you back on your feet.
For a while at least.

But, we work, the hours
Pass and the salary
Is gratefully received
As we strain to believe
That after tax we can almost
Reach the idyll –
The solvency dream.
The Dàil takes more,
Two percent won’t hurt,
Unless your working class or poor,
But are we, you and me, love,
What are we?

Debt accrues debt
And they pile on each other,
You work to pay one
And then there is another,
It’s not that I am
Not happy.
Far from it really.

Stephen James Smith's Open Mic Night at the International Pub... Downstairs in the lounge

Late last night, in a drunken haze, I sat at this old laptop. Reflecting on the evening, the music, the poetry, the ambiance and the whole point behind Open Mic nights.

Stephen James is an engaging host, rattling of poems from the depths of his mind, creating an atmosphere where even the most shit scared amateur can feel comfortable.

If I went through the acts one by one I would miss someone out. I would also probably be offensive unintentionally. The guy who played the banjo was awesome, would not have expected that voice from that man, sort of like the singer Anastasia.

There was the first poet, who read out four or five short poems, had a rather fantastically sculpted beard - not unlike Craig David.

This one guy, who dressed like a Teddy Boy made everyone applaud his girlfriend/ wife/ carer. But the sentiment of the poems was powerful all the same, even if he did elongate the last syllable of his line endings.

I did some of my own stuff and was shitting bricks, I did an anti religion one and wasn't glassed or stoned as a heretic, so I was rather pleased about that. It is difficult to judge your own performance, so I won't.

Various recited a poem from scratch, which fair fucks to her (to steal a Lancashire-ism) I couldn't do it.

Another singer did an interesting version of "Don't You Want Me Baby". And I suppose that is the point, as Stephen himself says, "to create a place where people can express themselves safely". Even if ye never perform or are like me totally tone deaf you should attend.

Anyways, I am off.

New Poem and other thougths.

Firstly, I should be cleaning. I am off work as my ankle is buggered but I have an impending parental visit, so I must clean. Cannot have my mother in a dirty house, what will she tell my brothers? Probably: "Matt's house is nice, but he couldn't even be arsed cleaning."

Secondly, Journal for Plague Lovers came out today and it is a really, really good album. Not a patch on The Holy Bible but it would sit comfortably between that and Everything Must Go. I like it and will inflict it on anyone foolish enough to come to my house or step in my car.

Thirdly, before I clean. Honestly, I have all the paraphernalia just need the application. But, to this poem. I do not think that one should spend too much time explaining poetry as it is all about personal response. How the words effect you and how the sounds roll through your mind. However, I feel I should explain it somewhat.

I grew up in a small former Mill town in Lancashire. It sits somewhat awarkwardly between Blackburn, Preston and Manchester. It is the kind of town that is far more pleasing to leave than to return to. It is dominated by Pendle Hill, the tallest and most domineering of the Pennines. Also, in the sixteenth century several poor, elderly women were excused of withcraft and hung. So the Hill becomes a Halloween hotspot for people with a mistaken belief in the afterlife.

In the late 90's, 1999 to be precise, a series of violent riots between the town's White and Asian communities erupted and became newsworthy. They were not riots in isolation as Bradford had race riots. However, they were marked out by the length of, and damage caused by, the rioting. "I remember when the town burnt". As a result of these riots, the British National Party (BNP) a far right and barely disguised facist party, descended on mass during elections. The leader Nick Griffin (a man with as many ideas as eyes, and a former Holocaust denier - in public anyway) singled Burnley out as a prime example of how multiculturalism isn't working. And every election year they gain significant results, with councillors being appointed (and then fired).
Some people in Burnley claim that the riots were caused by the sale of drugs, and this is a reasonable assessment.

The peom is a response to a childhood there, and Channel Fours belief that if they get a group of mixed race teenagers to "make art" it will change things. It won't. I have friends who work in the community and their hardwork and dedication is more likely to solve things that a gimmick for a Television show.

Also, as a caveat, and a blatant piece of self-protection, it is a work in progress and all comments will be appreicated. Negative or otherwise. Feel free.

“Deprivation is for me what Daffodils were to Wordsworth” Philip Larkin

Burnley, a reflection

Disused factory chimneys
penetrating the sky.
Once they shot out black smoke semen
now they rest impotent.

My Grandfather pictured this whole area.
The history was his, in glossy photo books,
in thousands and thousands of discarded slides.

The boarded up windows
of terrace housing,
the dog shit filled back streets
and pissed up teenager dominated town centre.

The places my father played as a child,
are mostly gone, concreted over
for another McDonald's or
24 – hour Tesco's.

I remember when the town burnt.

The fascist billboards
near local round-a-bouts,
as the town became a battle
cry for Nick Griffin.

The shops in the centre,
close and fail,
Bernard Manning was banned,
Bernard Manning became an idol,

I am just from a small town,
I am from where the
history outweighs the present.
I am from the nowhere in between.

I remember when the town burnt,

TV is coming to fix everything,
Thank fuck for Channel Four,
Art will show that racism isn't pervasive.

The town is an animal,
lying prostrate on the vets table
pining to be put to sleep.

Nothing is going to change.
I remembered when the town burnt.

Super Nova

A famous Artist
Takes his life.

He leaves a short note
For his estranged wife

He points a knife
Towards his chest,
Sighing, he pierces
His pampered poets flesh.

His body is found
Several days later,
Propped up against
A broken bathroom radiator.

Several of the broadsheets
Will run a feature,
The TLS will run a cover,
He will be added to the Syllabus
For bored teenagers
To pretend to discover
His meanings
And dissect his rhyme schemes

For the most part,
He is forgotten
To be resurrected, rarely,
As a Sunday supplement
In The Guardian

A Reality TV Star
Catches something terminal,
Leaving her doctors
She calls Max Clifford
To get her a Chat Show deal.

So to Richard and Judy
She will tell of the lumps
She found under her towel,
To Paul, she talks about the
Obstruction in her bowl,
On Phil and Fern
She will learn how to
Flambé correctly.

Hello, Chat and OK
Will let her have her say
And take photos of the Chemo,

Her condition will
Consume every edition
Of all the Tabloid Magazines
And when she weds
They will all exclaim
How her bald head
Compliments her dress.

When she croaks,
It’ll be all over the news and
Taxi driving blokes,
Will pause and say:
“She meant the world
To the missus and me,
She was the fucking
Queen of Bromley”

Tribute editions
Will fly from the shelves
As the population
Become beside them selves
In grief that is intense.
And brief.

Her diary will sell,
He house will as well,
Her husband will
Give seven exclusive
Interviews a week
Then go back to Jail.

But another star will come,
And it will all be redone.
Another bleached blonde
Girl will sell the world and
It will all be redone
And redone, and redone.

And the Artist is dead.

And the Star is dead.

And I am bored of it all.