NOTHING HAPPENED

It was a usual evening in early October.
John was upstairs sitting at the computer
and Anthea was downstairs watching Casualty
and playing Pet Rescue Saga on her iPad.
Nobody had been to the house that day
and they hadn't been anywhere else
because it rained. At one in the afternoon
the telephone had rung, but no-one
had answered in time. It did not matter.
The answer machine confirmed it had been
a sales call on behalf of a double glazing agent.
For lunch they had eaten cheese
and pickled onion sandwiches and afterwards
John had made them both a cup of tea
with milk. The dog had been walked
before it got dark and was sleeping in his basket.
Anthea completed a level. John read news.
At 11 p.m. they went to bed.

BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE WHIRLOWDALE

for JA

Peter's son is an eminent eye surgeon
who drives an Aston Martin. Peter is dead
and his house is for sale. I have only ever seen
the Aston Martin once. A taxi is parked
outside Peter's house. Gypsies have taken
lampstands and stud partition walls
out of Peter's house. Decent curtains
have gone up. Douglas says, looks like
we are getting more of our coloured brethren.
The woman from next door but two
who is older than she dresses;
I don't know how young she is,
trundles down, any news? Big Toj has reckoned
there must be a large family. Next door says,
as long as they don't play drums or build
an extension. They go back to their newspaper.
Last week we ate a disappointing Duchy Original
chicken and tarragon soup. Prince Charles.

KIRKGATE

This side of town that town forgot.
None of that po-mo
single accommodation flats and shops,
just car dealerships.

A bulldozing ring-road churns aside
abandoned industrial estates
and burnt out brick warehouses
stuffed full of pigeon feathers and shit.

THE REVOLUTION WILL BE ADVERTISED

For MF

The Gulf War will not take place
The Gulf War is not really taking place
The Gulf War did not take place

This tastes like the real thing,
says our man in the cotton shirt
from a desert jeep near Tripoli
on the trail of the Arab Spring.

The freedom frighters have skewered Gaddafi
and Union Brand bombs made it possible!
Scotland votes No!

In other news the central highway
is closed in Hong Kong.
Commuters are advised to make alternative
travel arrangements to avoid
the sit-ins protesting our glorious executive.

We want more democracy,
says the Sprite drinking man.
We want freedom to make more money
and buy luxury foreign goods,
to be the captains of our own industry.

Even the President wears
V for Vendetta.

In Tripoli things have taken turns
from Baghdad to worse.
Militant ISILamists have damaged
the corporate image.
IEDeas tremor under the asphalt.
Scorpions scramble.

DO NOT ADUST YOUR SET!
This is reality breaking through.

After the following messages and beheadings
blanket coverage will resume.

THE NIGHT ECONOMY

He sprays cologne on yesterday's clean shirt.
Another three squirts. Another can't hurt.
Downstairs the punters are bustling in.
The lads are oiled. It'll be packed by ten.
He fingers fibre through his hair and rubs
the scruffy clumps to peaks and tufts. He scrubs
up well, he does. Turning out the hall light,
he fantasizes the fanny tonight.

2 p.m. The bottle bin's crash echoes
in the deserted yard. The last drunk goes
singing out the back gate. He sparks a fag.
Spits at the wall. She looked like a right slag.
A cool breeze stirs. One more shift in the bank.
He imagines her tits spilled beer and wanks.

A USED COT ON EBAY

Barely used wooden cot
in teak effect colour
originally from IKEA.

Disassembles
and assembles easily.
Instructions included.

Buyer collect
or prearranged freight
costs.

Dimensions:
137 x 66 x 100 cm.
Weight: 33kg

THE NIGHT ECONOMY

3 a.m. The striplight winks
a saucy eye at the chef turning hot dogs
on the hot plate. He shuffles onions
with a spatula. It's just me
and two other guys drifted in
from drinking. A television in the corner tells
in hushed voices, gunfights overseas.
The world never sleeps. Coffee. Teeth
filled with grease and ketchup,
bread and onions spilling down his chin.
He is three sheets. From here streets
take a taxi over the river
Flights are rising out of the water 
coming down.
A lump of mucky sugar plops. A barge horn
blows the door ajar. A bell rings.
The lads are getting bolshy with each other.
I fix my face
in a teaspoon the wrong way round.
Nothing doing. The lads leave off.
It's just me and the chef. He is frying eggs.