SOUNDCLOUD: ‘Gas Pipelines And Greasy Palms’

Superpowers of the world battle to control the oil and gas on the planet, as has been evident during the conflict between Ukraine and Russia, beginning in 2014. This poem was written during my attempts to provide a commentary on the situation as it was unfolding back then, and it’s not over.

SOUNDCLOUD: ‘Somewhere Over The Post Apocalypse Rainbow’

So, my fixation on connecting the musical tradition with the political continues here. I seem to recall at the time my intention was to write something more cheery, and then this came out. At least it’s colourful I guess.

I’m retreading this material because there ‘s a new radio station about to start  broadcasting in the Sheffield area, Reform Radio, and with a pile of backing tracks hanging around on my hard drive, it was just a case of recording the vocal.


Droplets of Verse: ‘The Good Ship Armageddon’

It’s a quiet, small whistle of freedom
Only understood by animals and children
It’s the bastion of the disgruntled
Admired by aunties and uncles
Yes dear, they say, how lovely
While reading lines designed to be ugly
It might be perplexing but I press on
At the helm of the good ship Armageddon

Droplets of Verse: ‘WHAT Y’GOT TO TELL ME THEN EH?’


Who’s going to win the cup?
And have you got enough in your pocket on payday
I tell you what, if I won the lottery
I’d take an expensive, tropical holiday
You see, I’ve got exotic tastes
None of those millions would go to waste


What car are you driving these days?
I see you in Mercedes Benz
Cruising through your ends
Tinted windows, keeping it tasteful
Not showing off all your bling
Got to be careful with that sort of thing


How’s your love life, mister?
See that girl, over there, she’s gorgeous
You know you can’t resist her
Have you got the balls? To go and say hello
She’d eat you up for breakfast
But what a way to go


Stick with me for the best thrills
We’ll hit the nearest dance floor, I’ll flex my skills
Good times, the right rhymes, crushed ice, slices of lime
Feel good factor in overdrive
We could be dead tomorrow, so let’s live the life


Droplets of Verse: ‘Half Empty’

Empty beer bottles sing a hollow tune
A pinprick punctures a pink balloon
The door is closed, yet the key is lost
Icicles hang on tight to a thawing frost

The yellow of the sun can curdle cream
A bag lady unpacks her untidy dream
Congregations of germs find easy prey
Old gods said goodbye, only yesterday

There’s a new sensation, born this minute
Fishermen throw lines into the infinite
I’m holding a full glass, it’s got plenty
Observing a silence, it sounds empty

Droplets of Verse: ‘Empty Page’

Empty Page lies on the table
A light breeze caresses his shoulder
He waits for a tattoo of words
For the pen to smoulder

Empty Page is a sheet of paper
Where thoughts can’t hide
The prose might flow freely
But gets contaminated by false pride

Empty Page is a welcoming friend
He invites remarks to be made
Evidence, damning the scribe
A permanent record, it won’t fade

Empty Page lives in straight lines
Corridors where words can breed
The edges of the paper are a contraceptive
But the writer still ejaculates, at top speed

Empty Page grabs typos and mistakes
Exposes them in full glory, unapologetic
Seduces the writer and his wandering mind
The crumpled remains of a blank aesthetic

Droplets of Verse: ‘The Banker Who Became A Bookie’

Oh he liked a flutter
Especially when it wasn’t his money
He could get it printed
Any time he liked
The gamble got bigger
It grew to be a monster
At his fingertips
Was the potential
To back the biggest of winners
His clattering keyboard
Smoked as he clicked away
A glutton dreaming of a big pay day
He slurped at miky lattes
Ordered oysters at the bistro
He gorged, and his waistline expanded
Customers defaulted on loans
Deals collapsed, profits swallowed
His career died, cutting the cash flow
Inspectors hesitated, then procrastinated
A legal process, like the Chilcott inquiry
As many others do, he walks around free
They say money talks
It chatters incessantly
In the world of finance, he’s royalty

Droplets of Verse: ‘This Could Be The Last Thing I Ever Write’

My sell-by-date has expired
Feels like my rhymes are getting tired
This could be the last thing I ever write

I’m waiting around, hoping to get inspired
It’s like pulling teeth with plastic pliers
This could be the last thing I ever write

Asking myself questions, getting no reply
Sleeping through sunsets, a river runs dry
This could be the last thing I ever write

My magic powers don’t seem so strong
Empty Page teases me, poking out its tongue
This could be the last thing I ever write

Ink runs like treacle, but the words won’t stick
I’m like a taxidermist at a teddy bears picnic
This could be the last thing I ever write

A bouquet of roses drooping, wilted petals
A jeweller’s shop sold out of precious metals
This could be the last thing I ever write

I walk through this dark town, searching for the light
Shopkeepers refuse to sell me dynamite
This could be the last thing I ever write

There’s a dimmer switch wired into my soul
And somehow, it’s taking control
This could be the last thing I ever write

It’s getting late now, all the bars are closed
Lost inside a yellow glow, I misplace my lyrical flow
This could be the last thing I ever write

The page is filling up, but it’s hardly an epic
Words like bad medicine, can’t cure the sceptic
This could be the last thing I ever write

I never expected a fairy tale ending
Sentences like lumpy gravy, never blending
This could be the last thing I ever write

If I could break this curse, this wicked voodoo
I’d write something amazing, all brand new
This could be the last thing I ever write