You Called Me B*tty Boy

You called me “b*tty boy”
a word that tumbled from your mind
and out of your mouth

Would you have been so bold
had you not been with ten of your friends?
Because its always from amorphous groups
or from the window of a moving car
that that word – and others like it –

It’s cowardice.
It’s never one-on-one
that you target someone
for who they are;
target us,
for who we are.

But whether I’m wearing a dress or
whether I have a lampshade on my fucking head
do I not have the right to be me?
To walk the street,
unbothered by your hate.

Because its so boring, so uninspired,
and I’m so fucking tired
of your hate.

Maybe its just a word to you
but it sticks to me, like gum on the shoe,
like dirty grey gum on my shoe,
like dirty grey gum on my shoe.

The perils of online shopping

Let me tell you
a sorry tale
of a friend who saw
up for sale
a baby micro hippo.

They went and bought her as a pet
and they named her, Bernadette,
oh! and how they loved her so,
that baby micro hippo.

But Bernadette did grow and grow,
from teeny tiny to jumbo,
it’s then my friend did realise,
the “micro” part was but a lie:

Bernadette, was a regular, and absolutely massive, hippo.

This caused my friend quite some alarm,
as Bernadette wrought untold harm,
she stomped all over this and that,
she even killed the neighbour’s cat.
My friend knew not what they should do;
their lounge filled up with hippo poo.

They had to rid her from their maisonette,
poor, sweet, heavy-footed, Bernadette.
So imbued with sadness through and through,
they sent her to live, in London Zoo.

So friends, be cautious, be aware,
pay attention, and take care
of what you see online for sale;
You could end up, in hippo hell.

On The Tram

On the tram
the sharp tang of us all cloys,
like the smell of
mating in the Spring.

The tram trundles;
our bodies secrete sweat
into polyester mix.
Our odours mix,
our thoughts, apart.

East Croydon station.
We move together
across the concrete, and steel tracks.
The Sun blazes down upon us,
silent, together, alone.

mushrooms tomatoes scrambled egg

“Café Sandwich Bar”
written backwards across
the window
mushrooms tomatoes
scrambled egg

warm golden spread
on soft white bread
brown and red sauce in
brown and red bottles
Formica tables
and blue plastic chairs

“yeah, escalators are scary”
a man softly answers
his young son’s story
a fork oversized
in the boy’s small hand

extra beans – a pound
extra bubble – one fifty
and I want this moment,
to takeaway.


Since moving to london I have been an avid bus rider (which is a bit like being Knight Rider given that similar to KIIT buses do talk to you in a robotic voice via their announcements).

Anyway, here are some couplets I’ve composed over the years about the various routes I’ve taken. If anyone from TfL is reading this do feel free to incorporate them into the onboard announcements for each route.

Feeling naughty
On the number 40

In the mix
On the 176

I come alive
On the 185

So fresh, so clean
On the P13

Halfway to heaven
On the 197

Heroes unsung
On the 171

Beyond my ken
On the 410

Can you guess from the above whereabouts I live and have lived in London?

London I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down

Something for the fruit flies;

something for the pain:

a little pill – 20mg

to get me through each day.


Another rat has appeared

dead beneath the sink;

I sink into my overdraft

to get my round of drinks.


Now my body doesn’t look

like a young man’s does

from sitting in an office,

two hours on the bus.


So when will I grow up,

and what will I become?

Being twenty in your thirties

is not really so much fun.