Don’t you wish you could eat and eat,
And eat and eat and eat and eat?
Don’t you wish you could fade the fat
While you scoff and stuff and gulp and that?
Don’t you wish your craving bone
Could be disavowed, be disowned!
No magic potions and pointless praying
Just diet and diet and endless weighing.
Succumbing to photoshopped perfection
Comparing impossible to a too-real reflection.
Don’t you just wish that the need to be thin
Was more about you, than the size of your skin?


Finding Air

in the sweet air
of an ended storm
thoughts like
new babes born
ideas like excited bees
swarming like
a growing breeze
and towering truths
like towering trees
awake again
and moving dust
blown away in
a new day gust.

Manchester, my city

my city-like-no-other
she’s like a friend to me.
She laughs with me
she waits with me,
stays with me,
fights for me
and for all
when shit comes to call.

My city has those people
who live in their shoes
arriving at her breast
least dressed
with nothing left to lose,
in transit to a better life.
As if they’ve planned it,
they learn to live with her
learn to adore her
come what may.
Love her or not,
she may outrun you
even before
she’s done with you
some will fall
dancing their end.

My city lives her own life,
her nights never still,
days obeying the laws of
the treadmill,
rhythm and pace
and even as we run
she ignores our race.
in the sun
or ignoring the rain
her face is the same,
with me she is one
for richer or poorer
through days I’m her brother
in the night she’s my lover,
my city-like-no-other

The Profit Song

Like a soiled and sullied uncrowned king
The God of profit taints everything.
As a wasted Eden descends to ire
And man’s great promise is cast to fire.

Like the famine child with extant stare,
The feeble gaze of man’s despair,
As progress blooms with perfidious ease
Trailing its wake, the progress disease.

Where are we heading if we leave behind
The remnant tail of all mankind?
And how will we mark the day we arrive
With the wealthy living while the rest survive?

A highway adorned with lanes of gold,
The dystopian journey of the privileged fold.
To the gated Utopia that readies itself
For progress people with pillaged wealth.

No heaven resembles this hellish design,
No Gods within this vulgar shrine,
But contrived division of the common race.
Accept your lot, and know your place.


Sometimes it feels like we’re winning
But we’ve only been marking time
Barely leaving the bastard beginning
Or raising ourselves to the climb

It’s what we do: try to grow sunshine
Yet fall into the shadows instead
Leaving forever for a later sometime
Forever leaving the words unsaid

Take my heart and believe in salvation
Our end may never be written
We mustn’t give in to our own causation
The wounds where love had bitten

Made in Britain

she lives her lows
as stains on the soul
her lonely gains
for lying with unknown
living without hunger
so she fakes wild,
thinks of the child
she’s left at home.

without any love,
but approximation of
she lays kisses
on unacquainted lips.
to live tomorrow,
she salves her sorrow
for hope defiled,
thinks of the child
she’s left at home.

absent respect
expectations of sex
drives her fall.
life is right here
the necessity zoo
where you do what you do
even coming undone
keeps her smile wide,
thinking of the child
she’s left at home.


You start with
a place upon the driven isle
fingers finally feeling
paltry purchase.
The machine
starts to do for you
even as it sees through you
as you fall
for its foolish charms,
for the
cultured dreams
of success.
Feel the machine
begin to throb beneath you,
instil belief to
and ride
and ride
feeling the hours roaring,
days dawning like
an annual morning,
a time warning
the machine whirring,
thinking you’re beginning
to get there
it stops,
and you find
you’re sitting at
the same place,
different fucking chair.