Larkin 25 - Larkin With Us By Gary Clark

The Hull you knew has long since gone, How could it remain the same? That deep sea port you wrote about, The town you wouldn't name. The grim faced, head scarved northern wives, With Kathy Kirby lips. Dusty Springfield peroxide blondes, And Elsie Tanners tits. Teddy boys in sky blue suits, Winkle picker shoes. Three day millionaires with cash to flash, All part of the Hull We would lose. You could be right about the Chatterley ban, That's when the rot set in, According to you, that is, For me it was, The day I left Endike Lane. Me? I'm just a raggy arsed working lad, Born on Holderness Road. Amongst the dirt and grime, the chimney stacks, and factory walls, And rabbits in back yards. Back to back terraces, once neatly in a row, Red bricked rented houses, Hawkers with horse and carts, Rag and bone scavengers, Bobbies on the beat, Little kids with tear-full eyes, And sandshoes on their feet. A wonderous place of mystery, Honest to the core, But that Hull we loved so dearly, Went a long, long time ago. The Hull I love and the Hull you knew, Could never be the same. Spring Bank Cemetery impressed you though, As the dead centre of Hull, A place of beauty to stand and stare, So tranquil, so still. I would have liked to have met you Not much chance of that. Factor fodder for the masses, Like everyone in my class. But we served a purpose for blokes like you, Us ordinary folk, Gave you something to laugh at, The butt of all your jokes. I was wondering why you came to Hull, That northern town, on the river bend. At the end of the line, With the cut-price crowd, And heavy fishy smell. The chattering crowds of urban folk, Was that the appeal to you? They fuck you up your mam and dad, I know that's what you said, So don't lay the blame on us, in Hull, Blame your middle class upbringing in Coventry, instead. We have enough crosses to bare, With our residents from raw estates, in cheap suits, And red plastic cutlery kitchen ware, Tattoo shops, statues, spires and cranes. That surprisingly large town, Where it always seems to rain. So we are a bit alike, I don't suppose you'd agree, But you know why this is? My librarian friend, Blokes like me were fucked up, The day we left Hedon Road Maternity.

Copyright © Gary Clark 2010

Poetry - Kowalski's OGM - With audio download By Brindley Hallam Dennis

So, ya got through to Kowlaski's number. Well, Kowalski ain't 'ome. Mildred, that's his old lady, she ain't 'ome either. Ya see, that's what ya get. That's what ya get fer callin' such a dumb-ass hour. That means you Hank. Ya wanna leave a message, talk to the machine when it beeps. Read more...

Poetry - The Gap By Chris Culshaw

He lives in a bedsit now, in a house peopled by footfalls, piles of junk mail on the mahogany hall-stand where a broken umbrella hangs like a snared crow beside the pocked mirror. His room in the eaves looks out over sooty privets, to a gap between Read more...

Poetry - Handing Down By Trevor Matthews

She was sitting at my kitchen table looking at her hands. These, she said, are my mother's hands. She had big hands like these. Every time I look at them now I see her, and she held them up in front of me. Bright sun pierced the thinning flesh. Inside I saw the shadows of her bones Read more...

Poetry - Harrogate Bedrock, 1899 By Sarah Hymas

What I love about you I have yet to quarry. Your worn granite face holds the promise of mica and buttoned sandstone, a cladding for our home. As limestone is local diamond, Read more...

Poetry - Don't Know How To Put It In Words By Dayne Coyne
	Don't know how to put it in words But I'm wanting to thank you For being so honest with me And though it might sound absurd: But, apart from myself, It is you who most helps me to be So excuse me if I seem pedantic Read more...

Poetry - I Don't Know What To Do By Zachary Brannon

I don't know what to say, what to do; all I can ever think about is you! Not sure what you think about me never have been; But in the end it's your heart I hope to win! I Will always be around, always here; My heart, I'm sure, even skips a beat Whenever you come near. Read more...

Poetry - This Is Not A Love Poem By Mike Watts

No She didn't Punch A hole through My breast bone Rip out My still beating heart And then volley it Out of sight Somewhere Read more...

Poetry - Since You Came By Bronwyn Ellis
	Is it a chore? And nothing more A phase you killed off years before? A painful bore? An anger cure? An 'I can't be bothered anymore?' We're both so young Love should be fun As good as when we'd first begunRead more...

Poetry - Acres Wide By Terry Ireland

Come sleep with me she said Bring some warmth to my bed That seems to spread acres wide Now that it's empty on his side Just for a while hold me tight Shorten just one endless night So full of hours that I have wept Until exhausted and finally slept Read more...

Poetry - Larkin 25 - It's Good Innit? By Catherine Scott

This is Hull - wot we got? Sanitization, deprivation Unemployment, no motivation Teenage mums, no inspiration It's good innit? This is Hull - wot we got? Beggars on street Coppers on beat Read more...

Poetry - The Last Great Adventure? By Laurenceaux.

An 'end-game' of addiction, the despair of a life only going one-way: some people are pre-disposed to drug abuse, as they are to alcohol abuse, quite possibly because they are 'bored', but more probably because they have lost essential feelings of self-worth or have become detached from mainstream society, a society with ever increasing demands for total conformity. Read more...

Poetry - I Lost a Girl and a Car By John Dervishian

You shit on my car because I was immoral but that's alright I was days shy of getting that thing repossessed anyway Read more...

Poetry - Another Night Out By John Dervishian

She pours my drink As often as I request And she pours It well No questions asked A Jack on the rocks Read more...

Poetry - The Nearly Men By Terry Ireland

I am one of the nearly men Never quite the best Not really of the crowd Not quite one of the rest. You see us in every photograph When the prizes are handed out Making up the numbers yet Read more...

Poetry - Persecution Express By Mark Walmsley
	A full head of steam, to fulfil one mans dream, The train leaves the station, with recognisation Bellowing black smoke, as the cargo does choke The heave and strain, of the departing train Carriages all broken, blindness no token, The screams and the wails, at the stories and tales Across field and valley, does not dilly-dally, Read more...

Poetry - An Old Vets Christmas By David Delaney
	He shuffles down a quiet darkened street, alone, he always dreads this time of year, cause locals, he just does not wish to meet. He eats collected scraps and drinks warm beer. Now as the rain begins to softly fall he crawls beneath a long deserted shop, and hears the singing from the nearby hall Read more...

Poetry - Dreams By Dino
	These are the things I'd like to call dreams These are the things That are just dreams Rocking horses Running nowhere Big glass heads With eyes of despair Read more...