What’s it all about, then, this poetry? Why d’you bother? To lloosen the noose of the lie of austerity To tackle the riddle of our own creativity; To get mortal hissing out of our head, onto a page then onto some stage a clumsy home-made arrowhead poking other people’s abilities. A weapon made of sense and rhythms, words and images in busy patterns making new meaning like noisy trees in empty forests, once unleashed, Once out and about and out of control, no longer mine but a Frankenstein, thought, limping off its slab, lunging at apathy, washed down with beer, wine or even cups of tea. We want this poetry. We want this poetry, badly. This poetry might keep you awake at 4am. This poetry might lead to mistakes, which then, in turn might lead to people you’d never have met. So, no regrets, no safe bets, and sometimes safety ceases to matter if your head’s already misfiring, in tatters, stressed, distressed, self-confessed misfits, mistaken for mischief makers, not chemical miracles in the image of a creator. We need this poetry. We need this poetry. We need this poetry, badly, Like a man needs a plan, like a band needs a van, like a light needs a night, like your dog needs a walk, like a nation needs compassion, like I need retro fashion, like Barcelona need a few more tankings, like Boris Johnson needs a spanking. We want this poetry. We want this poetry. We want this poetry to go deeper, deeper than an ocean trench, in search of life as we don’t know it, yet; or fun and shallow as an unplanned paddle; This is the job of the poet. This poetry might lift you, This poetry might gift you opportunities as yet unseen or unknown. This poetry might even make you so bold as to have a go. You. Yourself. Yes. YOU! We want this poetry. We want this poetry. We want this poetry. Now.

Mozart street has gone. No spontaneous hosepipe game, no kerbies in a cul-de-sac, no streets of open doors. I’d forgotten it all till a decaf latte in a museum café brought it back and the bubbles went. Black and white heatwave became red-amber-green on a spreadsheet. Mozart Street has gone, like that squealing child; gone like Mrs McDermott; gone like car-free gutters fishing for frogs; gone like all them kids; gone like the boiling smell of tap-water on flags; gone like boxes of half-price colour snaps, waiting weeks to find your mum had missed your head off and third place in that race, well, you’ll just have to take my word for it and write it all down because there’s only me and my sister left who were there, a big deal at the time but in a year or two it’ll dry up faster than steaming forgotten puddles. Mozart Street has gone, like who’s bright idea was it to follow the dustbin lorry? Who you fuckin lookin at? Who d’you think you are? Who was her with the hosepipe? Who can still see their toes without bending over? Who can stand pork-pie and Ocean stick funeral teas? Mozart Street has gone. The filthy nets were the last thing left when they knocked them down. That kid who squealed as his Dad’s time-and-a-half-on-bonus arms lifted him into the range of the spray died eating a fry-up in The Station. A shame, it was, he got out of breath even while driving that taxi, leaning out the window with his fag, at that age you’d hoped he’d just get one of them warnings like you hoped summers could always be like that one August heatwave when there was no school, and everybody seemed to have enough time, life time. Mozart Street has gone and Mr McDermott still has time-and-a-half on his hands, still not an ounce of fat on him, still likes Don Williams, still beats the chair arms when he laughs, still taps his feet to the beat when the staff admit defeat trying to get the words on the karaoke they bought, still the backing lights a light way back in his eyes to an awkward summer where he’d lost his mother but them kids didn’t half keep you busy. It was like that.

When Dylan dies, be advised, switch off social media devices get in quick, abandon pulpits remove his head with a crosscut saw transfer it to a vintage bowl, bottle some dregs of leaking soul kick weeping ghouls in the head whose tributes try to keep up with the Jones’ weeping and wailing on their phones copying and pasting virtual headstones scramble past the queue clinging to youth at the cemetery gates and stuff the fetish in a 10p bag for life. It’s all right if his soul’s succeeding. Take the fetish in a bag to the cathedral wall ignore all dead band t-shirt calls and off-the-peg goths who are too far gone watch like a hawk for anyone who might accidentally fit the bill keep scowling and scouring the precinct till you find some kid who doesn’t fit don’t explain just shove him in the stomach pit show urgency show clemency open his mouth, pour out what’s left of the head and hope the magic works . It’s all right if his soul’s succeeding Hope he doesn’t call the police hope we didn’t leave the ritual too late hope no- one spots you’ve gone to waste pickling and embalming fading grace hope he’s got the will the time to take it in at one sitting give obviousness a right old kicking accept the slowing of the clock’s ticking give up the ghost and slope off back to the graveyard. It’s all right if his soul’s succeeding

Salvation Army Man, rattles a plastic can in the doorway of an abandoned BHS branch. He believes in creation as a real thing; But not as dying documents of pub-dumb facts, but a faith foundation of belief in fairness and justice, just as the dream of Luther King didn't drink to the dregs from chipped mugs of hate which waste our wealth like the wages of gamblers. Here, dignity and discipline are dreams lived out; Faith and charity fight financial forces with soul forces, fight fascism with tunes and soup and a statue’s persistence. This resistance sticks around to pick up the bits after the shouting and slogans have all seeped away like seashell sounds on a lacklustre holiday. With this faith, baseless, you may say; With this faith, dangerous, you may say; With this faith, he hews hope from wobbling, cracked flags and flicked out fags; From verbal abuse and addiction to booze; From the needy nuisance and the non-stop, non-stop, non-stop, non-stop, non-stop nothing going nowhere going nagging, going begging going going going gone with the wind, Like the steam from Vapers and in greasy Greggs papers propelled down the precinct while he persists like discontent and drizzle, drinking from a dreamer’s cup. It’s nowhere near enough, but he gives what he’s got.

Taste the sweetest apple you ever had as you walk round this garden listening to your dad list every species by its name, lets you stroke a myrtle; rub your hands on pine needles that smell just the same as lemons then pause: let silence sink in, then through an old door to a garden walled in, filled with every fruit good for food, every leaf pleasant to the sight like the hundred year old trees which blew down that night the storms came from the West. Mum asks “how could you leave all this, flesh of my flesh?” But this isn’t really Eden, just beautiful and small, and you, like those who stiffly posed on endless creaking gangplanks, could smell the milk and honey across the wilderness and water, never really left at all or ceased to be a daughter.