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     Real Writing, p.1

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Real Writing
Real Writing
Copyright©2017 Stanski
Discover other titles by Stanski
Crawling Distance
In Decline
The Night Jasmine
Elephant Small Vol 1
Elephant Small Vol 2
Elephant Small Vol 3
Elephant Small Vol 4
Elephant Small Vol 5
Elephant Small Vol 6
Cover photo © Stanski

Real Writing
1. Real Writing
2. Halfway To Southport
3. Dad Dancing In The UK
4. Wake Up…! And Smell The Cider
5. Cunts
6. Last Gasp
7. Condemned
8. Isan Chill
9. No More
10. What Are You Like
11. Smartarses
12. Pros & Cons Of Witch Hunting
13. (((SFX)))
14. Non Existent
15. Penultimate
16. Thousands And Thousands
17. กินข้าวหรือยัง…/ Did You Eat Yet?
18. Ego
About the Author

1. Real Writing
Biscuit biting
Tater blighting
Shakespeare Citing
Kung Fu fighting

Chinese kiting
Birthday knighting
Christmas lighting
Wrong ‘un righting

Friday nighting
Second sighting
Outhouse shiting
Hand-eye sleighting

Heathen smiting
Facial spiting
Getting right in
Squeezing tight in

None exciting
Or delighting
As a night in
Real writing

2. Halfway To Southport
Halfway to Southport from Oxford Road
On an upload primed for second-class carriage
No ballast attached to a carefree passage
Just sanctuary; self-assured Refuge
From that overboard, crude and huge stiffy
A bit ‘iffy’. Coming straight in the mouth
Of innocent (till proved guilty) babes from east and south
Hard to swallow is that phallus at the Palace
If you’re no sucker for clocks, so hard-on the eye
Erect in effect, and if correct it’s a sure
Fire no blanks bet that we’re all dead set
To alight at Salford Fire Station
Creations… Exposed to the light of day
As witnessed from a Varsity Viewpoint
By the unhinged Crescent of a Moonshine stare
Or the noontime glare of a sun-kissed highway
Trending to the left, for maximum effect
Or am I viewing it, doing it my way?
Because, for real, I feel we’re about to… er… Peel
To the less than up-beat, off-beat plod
Of Oh My God! Not, Bolton’s finest?
Who wonder why Wanderers walked away
From the hallowed turf of Burnden Park, in the dark
And, oh so mysterious scandal
But not one these boys couldn’t handle
With their very first strike, a bit like
What they did with that wall in Wigan
Or does ‘Wallgate’ refer to something else?
And… No lies… The guys… Who ate all the pies
By the by, that’s why we can but surmise… We’re
Halfway to Southport… And we’re going west, and
The rest of the route is tainted (love)

Painted with Scouse… Debated in-house
In da house… House of Commons… Of Lords a-leaping
All dancing, all singing ‘Come on youse…
Blues youse Reds… Youse electoral boundaries
Sounds to me (like) it’s partly Political (like)
(Like) Heartily critical, of Lancashire/Merseyside
Stirred wide to the left, no sugar in mine
I like my Councils like I like my tabloids
Highlighted in Red, devoid of all things Tory
But back to the story, we’ve stopped behind
Wigan pier which appears to the untrained eye
To indicate strongly or at least imply
The end of one imaginary line
No sign of the sea… A sign of the times!
Or those impatient tides that wait for no man!
Or, to be correct politically
No Person, whatever the gender
Agenda, timetable, schedule or routine
Past, present or future… You know what I mean…
That goes around and around… And comes
Around again, and again… Time and again
Which all only goes to prove that… ‘This…
(mere one hundred and eighty four years)
‘… is the (true) age of the train’ Yes it is!
And, oh, more yet, before I forget
It’s already 23:15
And so it would seem… No download by the sea
At least not this side of Midnight’s broken dreams
Besides, the seaside’s out of our reach
The beach is retreating beyond our grasp
Perhaps, at last, we see the sea for tea tomorrow
What joy, what sorrow as we patiently await
(It’s official now… It’s the train that’s late…!)
And we’re still only Halfway to Southport…

3. Dad Dancing In The UK
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