Dan Tindall





There are certain times of the night

When it’s alright

To drive high

They’ll tell you it isn’t

But they lie


And the car

This Japanese Jeep Suzuki thing

Is old

But it still goes

Although it is very slow

Which I don’t mind

Because most of my driving

Is done at night

When high


It occurred to me

That I should record this

On my phone

In case I forgot it

When I got


But the never ending feedback loop of

Being caught recording

A poem

About driving home stoned

Whilst driving home stoned

Was too much for me

When high

So I just drive





There is nothing inevitable

In history except

The need for persistence

In driving back the wolves



Nature is honest

But lives without a moral code

A mirror for man




In Politics

You get someone

Without dirty tricks










There’s nothing civil

About this society

It has forgotten about mercy





Logan's Run Revisited


In the modern coffee houses

Once the employees hit 30

Their wristband goes from green to red

And they're (metaphorically) dead

Off to some older hipster hangout

To sell cereal bars and sweetened milk

Under the watchful gaze

Of Charlton Heston in his final 7Os

Hip cool movie


Jesus McClay


Jesus McClay was a freedom fighter

But times were hard so

Business was the order of the day

Gotta protect the people

By taking subscriptions

Ten percent

Because if he didn't

Someone else would


Well it's there

It ain't screwed down

So it's up for grabs

It's a living

Not an ideology

Protecting the people from

His fistful of fools

Pay up or be made to pay

The Jesus McClay way


Mental Altitude


I am solely concerned with the relative mental altitude

of myself and the few folks I consider friends…


Yet I'm always fascinated by my beard

It changes my face


A few millimetres of extra

hair growing and it's

Another me



Actual Jesus looking rough


The sort of thing you think of at 4am

and insist on making a note of when

you think everything's alright

but it ain't

Just because

Eddie’s novelty gunship has a

New album out

With tour




The lights on the back of your car

Are facially bizarre

Spirits of the nothing I guess

But still freakin' me out

At 4.18am


How the day went...


(How the day went from the blissful early morning to sweeping sunset, without pause or patter, without sugar or smoke, without the benefit of a sudden departure from the script)


We boarded the caravan some little time ago

One door each way

Frosted glass panels

Dim light from outside

Illuminating the drab nylon covers

On the grey chairs

-          These magazines are about 100 years old

-          The pages are stuck together on this one

-          That must be for gentlemen only

She stares at the clock

She looks beautiful in this pale light

Cheekbones lifting her face

From the doldrums of approaching middle age

-          What are you looking at?

-          You

-          Well stop it, it’s annoying

Once upon a time

She wanted nothing more than my adoration

But now she has grown bored of me


Up she gets




To the door

Raps her fist on the surface



And again

It sounds curiously flat

There’s no sound from without




On the table there’s a magazine


I pick it up

Pleased to find it’s not sticky

It has stories of human tragedy

Heart-warming reunions

Cute photos of people’s kids

Doing cute kid stuff


She is called

And then gone


And beyond the limit of this horizon

I am surprisingly early

For an appointment

Of my own


I'd never heard of Osip Mandelstam


I'd never heard of Osip Mandelstam 

I guess that makes me a very bad man

To be unaware of the human cruelty 

Of the combination of police and poets

Slowly murdering a Silver Age

Of wonder at a golden future 

Until it's found 

Stained mud with blood

Beneath an ugly watchtower 


I'd never heard of Osip Mandelstam

Nor his Stalin Epigram

Produced as evidence of his crime


          How scared and bitter must someone be

          To punish a poet for poetry?


I'd never heard of Osip Mandelstam 

But I have now 

And so have you

No excuses 

You know what to do.






Half a floor

And a dangerous fool

Who will stop at nothing

To make himself your enemy

Make herself your boss

Steal your time







Beware the foul stench

Of a slippery


Slime trailed



Everybody knows one

Sometimes two -


That's why me and you

Stick like glue

On our life-raft

Of the daft

And no compromise

Keep it civilised

Old fashioned




Two Clocks Ticking


Two clocks ticking

One second alternating

Same make

Same mechanism

But no matter how you reset them

There is a temporal schism

That keeps them apart

Parallel seconds

In the same time and space

Racing to the end

Which will happen twice

According to the Accurate Time Company

And their high quality device




I once read that Belfast

Is built on the same

Sludge that

Gently holds up the

Most serene republic

A soft mix of sand

Silt, mud and

Salty water

Full of air and rotted filth

Slowly compressing

Sinking into the rising sea

Held back

For now

By a mechanical dyke


So while you can

Take a walk along

The Lagan’s side

Over the Royal Arches and

Go skip beside the angled

Railway pontoon

To find those guardian columns

Defending neither saint nor scholar

Just parkour on the holocaust memorial

And the quiet wall

Of half empty office blocks

And restaurants that change hands

But retain the lack of footfall

And look past the many houses

Of some little hope of justice

Along Chi-Chi Street

To the toy-town Imperial domes

And spires 

Of City Hall

Home of the Dukes of hazardous hate

Battleground between forgetful histories

Set against mountains

Such landscapes

Such a stench

From drains and slow underground rivers

A thousand years

Of collective waste


A thousand years of unwanted kings

And hopeful poets

Starving teachers

Blinded workers

Priests and thrifty counterparts

Lies and deadly close companions

Last gasp of the

Would be gods


Dream serene

That this floating


Adopted home

Should one day open its

Beautiful eyes

And be free