Does She?

Does she know?

It is my name you spell

in the curvature of your tongue

as you try to uncover her name again

in the heavy breath on her neck

The soft gasp that escapes her throat

leaving her hip-shaken

lip bitten

unaware that her cum is my doing

that my memory is all over her cunt

a memento of a search

you made in the wrong place.

Can’t Speak A Word

I want to be the best of you

To beat my chest and cheat the rest of you

To the end goal of freedom found

In soft sheets

Hard breath

Pulsing hips

And heaving chest

To wayward mind my tongue

The words you said that came out wrong

The slipped solipsists

And recanted whoopsies

The blue off the lips

The fucks and oh shits


This is where I get off for a moment, bear with me here, I tend to lose myself in the words I want to say and forget regress regret? I’m not sure where I’m going with this yet,

But isn’t that why I am appealing to you to give me bits that I can use to bolster my words into something bigger than the lines I’ve written here,

Because I listen to you deliver this sermon this liturgy and find myself in literal ignorancy of the ability the capability of using rhyming words not so much religiously as with intent to perform a part of you that falls out of pages and into view

That rides the listeners jacked up on booze whose attentive ears are your cues to start your testimony your lyrical matrimony and tie the knot between you and your audience who buzz off the adrenalin of this verbal dalliance.


I want to be a known to you

A noun

a place

A rendezvous

To steal a memory I am not allowed

Instead of being lost in this

Crowd of people whose minds are blank

Who’d rather stay home watch porn and wank

Than stand on streets

Waving feminism and politics

The difference between equality

And cutting off dicks,

To say I did it and did you all proud

But most of the time I can’t read my own poetry out loud

I don’t like my tone

I hate the way I can’t zone

Out the people who coughed at me naTASHa

And laughed that unspeakable hormonal subject matter

Or stop the speed at which I’m talking

So that you’ll understand I’m not joking

About the lack of protest my legs have tread

Or the amount of time I’ve wanked in bed


Of being the best of you

I flail around and protest at you

I wine and moan and say sure maybe tomorrow

Which is usually followed by…

Night Populous – A Little Self Promotion…


Not normally one to self promote like this but I worked on a project with some very talented people and the final result is this poem short film that I think the guys have done a great job with.  Night Populous was written by me a while ago about homelessness in Manchester, and when my friend asked about doing a creative project together I instantly thought of this piece and the guys who did the film and sound ran with it.  The end result is something I am really proud of – my part is small, I provided the words, but the filming and sound etc was my friends’ great work.  Please watch this.


No Man Made

You think of me as soft wet clay

malleable under the warmth of hands found flesh

delicate mounds for fumbled thumbs

to dig at and scoop out of

and a part of you that wants to add pressure

to see me twist and turn

and ooze the innards of me

those most private of places

between your fingers

losing bits of me in the grooves of worn palms

sliding over knuckles

scraped under nails with sodden sounds

muffled from getting out.

But hands like yours are cold

and I harden against you

against the demand of your offence

the passivity you wish of my mouth

I will not be bent double of position

to a patronage I do not recognise as the better

nor will I be sent into the fire

to kiln the labels you give me

onto this body that is of mine own making

I will not be placed among your collection

where you believe my only stature to be

silenced to someone who believes that force of want

will put me in my place.

This Wind You Talk Of

I feel the winds of change dip

and miss their wizened whipping

against cheek

miss the stagger in my walk

Beaufort’s notice now absent.

The air



The leaves fall without cushion

hit ground that doesn’t differ

and lose themselves

under slackened feet

heavier step.

Sound echoes,

bounces its impudence off walls

bounces its impotence off shut doors,

peals off unseen ceilings.

Land cut off from sky.

Voice cut off from limitless possibility.

All of a sudden change means something old

not new

something unchallenged

not revolted

something saddened by an about turn in time

to a month before the showers that bring flowers

those symbols of peace

to the hair of people that believed we could

and has set trends

for the comb-overs to come over

all brash and branded

with weapon

with ignorance

to say we cannot.

I feel tongue thickened in mouth

like words’ power has forgotten its cause

because a louder voice,

one no one heard grow

from whisper

to shout

is talking over my monologue

is wagging its finger

is telling me things I know like I don’t

has been joined in choral strength

by those with unlined soles

and closed off souls

to silence those of us who loved that wind

and died when it was blown out.

“Perceived Invitation”

See me waiting on you

the hand

the foot

table leg and chair for you

to put

your heavy burden

of your father’s legacy

its misogyny

on me.

I feel the footprint

of all those before you

in the small

of my back

And taste

those lost to the cause

in the dirt

in my mouth

their fight

in the grit

between my teeth

their sacrifice

ashed into the dust

I breathe in.

I do not need to stand

– to make one

I do not need to say no

– to mean it

I should not need to school you

– in lessons you should already know