From packet and clipper, from Royal destroyer,

with prayer and with hymn

and a rum-drenched Amen,                                                                              

goodbye to the matelot and captain;

so long to the boatswain and master.

We're chanting to ease up the passing.

The last one is sung in a million tongues.

Grief-soaked and lonesome

haul hard...

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Mavis had a room

that didn’t have a name.

You did not dine,

you did not live,

it was not kitchen,

was not front,

was not back or parlour.

Mavis had this furniture

that I had never seen.

It was not settee,

was not armchair,

was not pouffe,

for phone,

or couch divan.

Mavis had this massive room

full of golden sunshine.

Floating motes whi...

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Snakes don't kiss.

I know this because I used to be one,

in a former life,

long time ago,

biblically speaking.

Snakes don’t kiss cos their hiss gets in the way,

and that long long tongue you see with the V?

Gets all tangled when two snakes frenchie.

No, snakes don't kiss.

But never take a bet on it,

especially with a snake.

'Cause apart from not kissing, ...

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Fifty seven accusations.

Fifty seven lies. 

Fifty seven secret pleasures.

Fifty seven stolen lives.

Fifty seven invitations.

Fifty seven spiders waiting.

Fifty seven true intentions.

Fifty seven parlours entered.

Fifty seven aggravations.

Fifty seven silent gains.

Fifty seven violations.

Fifty seven acts of shame.

Fifty seven allegations.

...

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(to the tune of 'The Holly and the Ivy')

There's cameras in the holly

way above the line of sight,

and a neon sign on the roundabout

"One punch can kill tonight".

Well thank you for the warning

and increased security,

I'll be double-sure not to shoplift

now you're looking out for me.

It's nice to be surrounded

by markers of your greed,

and a lack of ...

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My hair is clean and brushed and smart.

Hers is drenched and dirty.

I am wearing cosy clothes.

She is bare and purple.

I'm inhaling bluebell air.

She is breathing fire.

I am watching pixellated subjects of denial.

I am strong and tall, unbowed.

She is weak and wailing.

I am fifty years of age.

She is but a baby.

I have biscuits on my lips.

She has frot...

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(to the tune of Que sera sera)

When I was  only 12 years old,
I shaved my armpits
bare as can be.
Will I be sexy?
Will I be fit?

Here's what they said to me:

'Oh the itch the itch!

Whatever possessed you, bitch,

to bulk-buy a load of Bics.

Oh the itch the itch'

When I grew up I carried on
hacking my arm pits
week after week.
Did it get better?
Did it hurt less?
H...

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She keeps secrets in me.

Lifts my lid for privacy,

blows bubbles in my guts,

leaving evidence inside

with full impunity.

I am discreet

rebellion.

He spits bile inside me.

Hatred for his mummy

and the baby

and the way the teacher treats him

like he's soft.

He's not.

I contain his scarlet ache safely.

I display names and dates,

scratched in...

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Remember watching Motorhead

in Bingley Hall in Stafford?

The time that fella's ears bled?

Lemmy's warts,

the wall of sound,

and Philthy going mad?

Remember where we stood that night?

And how that fella, six foot three,

came and stood in front of me,

so we just moved a step along

and simply carried on?

At every single gig for years

a giant stood in...

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He sticks the blinkers on

and blindfold, counts out the sorrows

of no one he knows.

Puts them in a drawer,

locked with a careless key,

kicking doors shut

on notions of equality.

His side of the seesaw hangs heavy,

unbalanced, biased towards

the full and sated belly.

Wallet and tongue keep close company.

Sees with one eye only one vision:

singular,

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Remember to look up at the stars

Not the kind who whine about their first world problems on a million different channels

always me me me

to look up at the stars and not down at your feet

and reach out to the universe with all your tiny fingertips

and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see

in a world where reality TV isn't real

a...

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You won't see Celia in silhouette on rebel chests,

marching over coffee cups,

diminished to an image on a tiny little badge,

on a backpack, khaki cap or six foot flag.

And you won't see Celia on key rings,

magnets, belt buckles, armbands,

black berets, red berets, playing cards or calendars,

bumper stickers, kitchen clocks,

acrylic blocks or lithographs,

writin...

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It's such a happy homely brand,

such a loving hand to hold.

Nothing says "forced adoration" quite the same

as an overpriced printed bit of Hallmark card.

Though I came in drunk last night

and all we've done is fight,

and we haven't actually spoken for a week,

this greeting card's designed to wipe out

all the battle lines and it's guaranteed

an armistice today.

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I'm in my prime.

I swapped my firm and tight-fit skin

for confidence and knowledge

that within this ageing frame

lies a body of experience,

a warrior of thought

who brings her wisdom to the table,

leaves her ego at the door,

and won't descend to bitter ends.

I'm not exactly Miss Jean Brodie.

I'm in my prime

and looking back at how it felt

to live withi...

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Sod wearing purple,

I’m gonna fake dementia.

Sup single malt in Tesco aisles

and Jose Cuervo Gold.                   

Steal Thornton’s biggest fuck-off box

of truffles, milk and dark.

Then stuff my face with Krispy Kremes,

leave fingermarks on magazines.

I’ll ride the roads in off-peak times,

rob Asdas far and wide.

A North West quest to shoplift shite

funded ...

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