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Portrait: ‘The Beast’

A portrait – assembled from match-day programmes over forty hours-plus – of a former Burnley Football Club goalkeeper, Brian Jensen otherwise known as ‘The Beast’.

Poem: It’s begun,

the shun,
to think of Christmas.
Bands mime pleas
draped in an 
open fridge glare.
Curved glass balls
dot and blink,
snowy triads
filled with drink,
and glee'd receipt
presages meals
mixed with
rich stares.

Poem: just so you know

just so you know
the record you bought
came from Dublin
along with me
and I
have loved 
it dearly

although you 
might not
agree,
as I am
selling it,
it is your 
job to love 
it too   

Poem: From Me to Him in Rain that is Fine






	He texts
	about the weather.
	Cues a domino dropped of shops,
	their fronts make way for prows,
		with navy-grey erasing chimneys
		   and pools inches outside below gulfing
                            the building.

	Never a town or a storm
	or a pair's friendship shown – only
	weaving cloud monkeys. 
	Cocking glances at a perplexing now, 
	mowing it or a part
	into a universe flow-ended. 

	He texted
	if I'd seen the Capitol,
	   so our truthy shunting grew replies, 
	every unsociable faux-raging meridian 
	and order of something to suffice 
	for every place that we might call on

	untouched by wet indulgents, Yank screwlooses.
	It's a love chat born aside bars through years.
	Pain of a new word - internminable -
	makes a mind scatter to our struck
	standard from uncracked mouths 
	in search under thumbs: the ribald
	hard-blown, the shower, the spat
	from him to me. From me to him
	in rain that is fine and quenching.


For Mike.

Poem: Ultimate Breaks and Beats ode


	
         Nix

the subway train and
	ditch

its mid-air bounce.
	Flick

past the cover
with the Dassler three-leaves.

	Frame

SBR five-one-five
	hold

up the pensive breaker
	freezing

on a twelve one hundred direct drive.

	Black

the blue dancer, what's
	spied

in three-sixty,
	upside

down, his weighty one-digit salute.
	
         Falls,
a red duck-billed cap.
	Patched,
the four horns that meet it
	flare-
lit shellac is his shadow-blading map.
	
         Dunk,
Oz-Harriet
	cross
centre. A wrapped top-down
	dervish
nesting on a palm's heel.
	
          Throws
off a liberation
	past
comedic brick club strata
	shot
of the rap game's destination
	slam
impromptu tap of a street lamp for
	   party

instead New York's 
	   helter
skelter hunch
	  make 
money. Leave art
	strobe
lighting to the lone figure 
	caught 
tableaux of a true boogaloo punch.

Poem: Enervating (Volume 1)

Pink Floyd on the Hunt for a Melody Maker (2017)
Indian ink, cartridge paper.
	Side 1:

	The bombast! Growling energy.

	Lasting anew with surprise.

	Tint of mature scaled up for two minutes.

	Pace and pleasure foraged too besides.

	Blue menuet: rhythm and rhyme standing alone.

	Side 2:

	Familiar toast rack for all!

	This oestrogen fits in nicely

	With collected works of pogue McNulty mahone 

	For the benefit of those once young.

	Obliging cover (funereal pace got me slow).

	Last roustabout on theme of etcetera.

	Engineered by: outdoor rain, not seeing growing belly.
	Produced by: parents (A1); when AWOL (all other tracks).
	Guests: morning blue (A2)
	Engelbert Humpty Dance (B2).
	Made by: (the music) you.
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