The Waiting Room on Platform 3: a poem for rail travellers

Nestled twixt two platforms, Is the door to hell, A urine infused fox hole, Not worth your soul to sell.   The white paint is now yellow, It’s peeling off the walls, But there’s nowhere else to wait, Until the tannoy calls.   Samaritans helped the man, On the poster watching me, But his feeble smile’s still weaker than My brown-grey railway tea.   If there is a God, Then this is his waiting room, I’ve been sat here waiting ages, For that train which leaves at noon.  

A poem for Zanzibar : the nightclub where I spent my Newport nineties youth

Something weird has happened the past few days. A former nightclub in Newport has burned down, taking with it the church next door.  I’m not one for sentimentality but the whole thing has made me rather sad. On Friday night, a fire started in the building formerly known as Zanzibar. It was originally built in the 1860s as a baptist church but converted to a three story nightclub in the 1980s. It’s hard several incarnations since then, but Zanzibar seems to be the one that everyone remembers. It was an awful thing to see unfold on social media. It’s awful for…