A Mouth Full of ‘Hood

A Colner called Nelson
opened that day’s saunter –
a roving tour of Forever;
Together, Again, Fallen –

past Farmfoods plastic and San Miguel past it
to Tansey, Shepherd and Deborah Kay,
Clark, Baxter, Diggins, Hartley.

Houghton, Nancarrow, Seel, Shutt and Gill,
Brunskill and Hassan, Waheed, Phelan –
the thurible of white sense,
see (it pored all minds of souls)
must now bed down in na flaithis
with umani chaat Jannah.

Farran, Afzal, Gildea with Bhakti,
Bracewell, Whalley, a Kelly and Masih.
Omerod, Collis, Heap then Peel,
Clive the Koppite near a Red Devil, Chris Lees.

Atkinson ‘entered into his saviour’s car’ – he did,
Kenneth Garlick, Swarbrick, Nazar.
Dorothy May Worn: your stone so small;
the Headlams larger, austere, unadorned…

Phyllis – as Samana –
has an ice-cream cone;
Clive his pool balls; Holland ‘the Scholar’,
seemingly at home.

Elijah 4 Taylor‘ Tony!

That was then, a Leeds deserted
’cept for your pen and those swazzed stones and
my Mum upset at your V’d tear-up
over Yorkie scum and their fascist fun.

Perhaps, this ground of Nelsoners,
please now be a sign of peace.
Of Popoweitz and Aslam before
Marian’s Deidre goggles
grinning strangely ever more.

All interred at Winewall,
‘God bless cock’ and Dr Malik.
Moses with Munro,
Tempest with Fanny.
Gus Am Bris La’
John Bazley.

© Pat Mellow 2018

To The Carpetbagger


To carpetbag: the theft of love.
Flag up this convenience if you
accept the steerage cost
and serve up
the plastics
to mall the steel wheels.


Every crook and nanny of this cove
brays ‘blow in!
therefore act fast to
secure their lines.


Hew a wage from vinyl;
crab what can be found
from the free-sheets; only free
capitals if final.


I am talking of you walking
towards a place
which could be ours.
Your steps they falter,
seem to slow, hesitate

© Pat Mellow 2016


Bad Do


All ‘huns‘ and ‘babes‘… dick pics and bums,

this coded language,

brazen tongues.


No antidote to real-life chats

this complicated drawn-in, faking,

meshed-meld: dreams

of cuddled love

fight raping jeers

and taunting…



A gain in interest

his fruit machined,

a reel of faces

prompting memes

within his mind

a kiss a-new,

perhaps this one…


…her too.


Her crow’s

feet match

his crooked


gated hatch.


You are the bottom barrel,

son you see?

More shoal than shark;

plankton, thee.



Nay bother mas,

nowt left to mine;

no mas, so long;

just words to find.

© Pat Mellow 2018



Great Weavers

This communique solemnly informs all concerned
that the PCCP will not tolerate
the conspiratorial tone and undoubted
chicanery of the aggressors who
attempt to face us down.

All provocation is met
with scorn, merely fuelling
the fire within
our literate
bellies this time, and every time,
and is ultimately futile.

The Great Leader (praise
be to LM and LKJ) watches over
our nation to ensure the detritus and doggerel
will be swept away thereby
guaranteeing a glorious and bountified
syllabic future for us all.

© Pat Mellow 2016


The BKs

Whatever you once thought precious
Was taken from you gradually
Some had a hand in its varnish
Though some will point accusing me
Though some were meant odd destinies.

In your absence, I bedded down
The three of us, invited to
A cause celebre – doughty daughter,
Poet nabob and
An Orhaned orphan
– poking and pressing armed intellects
With a back-up ball
Plus a greyed veiled pubis.

Deflating zeal was my
Pit pony, nosing a route
On a blind journey ahead:
Hip agus hop.
Swiftly, exhale out.
Halt, clamber, shin down
That daubed brick.

© Pat Mellow 2016


Of all the hate that was once caused,
To say I never took to pause
the later late effects on all,
bound down, within these sad said walls:
debasing snaps of midriffs, straps.
Alas – those shots hit, I got at.

The fog broke up, its blinkers off.
No need to wonder who had lost.
Gamble on gambol,
thou stupid boy,
you too colluded, so deluded
in collusion, with the poison.

© Pat Mellow 2018



Third Forty-five

Miles chases piano – follows stead bass,
coupled with that quick short cymbal patter, pinned
by fatter bangers, the powdered turn,
my now backdrop
to these broke bars of how
to take two tunes, say Hov
and trance, down pitched
at half-speed
merge gets third,
4B and like combine to throw across
straight Murphy, John, Yoko.

But are there any more breaks for thee?

No more a writer than Futura arranged flowers, phrr!
Soak in instead
a Germain germ
four-four from Miles: his harvest comes
then a note tulips gliss-
-endos twixt
black and white, a
counter points.

You gotta do the doo
if you wanna
get it done.

© Pat Mellow 2018



Pick up the pegs; avoid a bend
is my sole thought when I survey
these colours splashed outside her house,
this rained-down game, no box or rules.

Might next-door spurn this plastic vommed,
not corralled right? But, they, their backs
look well-broke scrat, corners ornered!

A scant chance of a friendly wave?
No. Each follows their own self-drawn
standard for flower tips afore
brought Eid meals – hasty greetings thrown.

Life is all narco-serene.
Tiempo bought, last brews took in.
A found array of old folk’s things
strewn willed-nil nice cross sofa’s style.

Instead of taking in a load
of odds and sods for ma and man,
my turn, quietened, to leave my scene
and tool noise kindly within clan.

© Pat Mellow 2017