9 unpublished poems


Feeling free in a public toilet,

breath rancid as camembert rustique,

he got up close to a well hung dairy farmer,

who looked so much like John Cleese,

that he felt the plaque from his teeth being scraped away

by the glans and foreskin of a man from rural Cheshire.

The taste of his conquest’s smegma

Was redolent of mature Red Leicester.

Sweating so hard in his nylon shirt

(He’d worn it all week),

there appeared to be a growth or encrustation

of mock Stilton under each armpit.

Later that evening, stretched out in bed,

idly picking at the dried jiz impacted in his beard,

crumbly to the touch like authentic Wensleydale,

he looked benignly at his cock.

Several hours loving treatment

with a steak tenderiser and power sander

left it spilled out across the covers

like raspberry fromage frais.

He squealed with delight as the dairy farmer

pointed a camera at him;

“say cheese,” he whispered.


  Cigarette haiku

Ta. I left mine in

the bookies and a

fucking good lighter as well



It is Tarah WHITEHEAD.

We meet in France.

I believe you don`t forget me.

 You look pretty, like king.

I will like to know you more.

 I am open-minded woman.

I am a very happy easy-going person with good heart,

I enjoy the company of good people

and having good conversations,

 I read your profile

and GOD I liked it.

 My sister Shayna transmit you kisses


    Love Song for a Teenage Boy

Opening the fridge, I pause to smile.

I’m celebrating a glimpse of heaven.

Your severed head lolls on an earthenware plate,

garnished with celery and black olives.

I watched you dance naked in my bedroom,

but this is better.

Your limbs simmer in a heavy pot on my untidy stove.

I chop herbs and cube onions;

dinner is almost ready.



There’s no way I’ll ever believe the analysts and head doctors

who say we all love our mothers and marry their replicas.

My mother is a whore, a moron and a liar.

My wife hates me because I’m not her father.

Our son has learned to accept women run families.

Fathers are either brutal or ignored.

Maybe he will grow up like me to hate his mother,

but as my wife is not a whore, a moron or a liar,

this is unlikely.

Being solitary is the only way

not to suffocate.


We are pleased and happy

and cheerful and glad

to be smoking cigarettes

whilst villages burn


hello baby.

i must confess to u that u looking like BRITNEY SPEARS.

when ever i looked at ur postures u gat me high

en i’m pensively disorganized.

if u don’t mind let us meet

en if u think u have any alternative for us chatting

pls let me know en i hope to hear back from you soon.

take great care of urself , ur health en ur beautiful white skin.

i love you…………..



The woman with the big feet

told me;

Power is 100% with the white man.

They have money, horses and equipment

which they use to kill and torture



West Yorkshire Nocturne

 Left the Leeds to Bradford train

stopped at signals near Bramley.

All I could see this was this pissed bloke,

beating up his pregnant girlfriend

beside a disused phone box.

Bleak Sunday;

car park deserted, except for broken glass.

Relief came slowly;

3 litre bottle of cider and six cans of Pils,

from Costcutter opposite Armley jail.

Darkness, rain and me, drinking hard.

Mused about that lass from Hebdon Bridge;

murdered when out getting cornflakes.

The inescapable truth is the lucky ones get killed;

the losers don’t.

Sadistic wind at a deserted bus stop,

I’m too old for this pantomime;

Living out a Ken Loach film.

The only certainties are Kev Thomas is a rapist of old men and

Wayne Nixon is going to die.

Wayne Nixon is going to die.


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