The poet has been performing his own style of punk poetry in the squats, pubs and clubs of west London since 1988. Associating with various independent anarcho-art collectives including, World Domination Enterprises, Mutoid Waste Company, Portobello Pirates, West London Class War and the post-punk fanzine Vague. Performing at the Post Office Workers Union bar, Edinburgh Fringe, Fringe festival 1999, and Ian Bone's 'Bash The Rich' book launch in 2006. He has self-publishing several collections of rants, poems, songs and short stories in the process. Below is a selection of his work.



Elvis Presley was my Dad

Here's a story to touch your heart
about a lonely lad, torn apart
this is true but very sad because
Elvis Presley was my dad

Long ago when I was six
my old man did a vanishing trick
where he went I'll never know but
he left his Elvis records and his stereo
When I was unhappy or felt alone
I played his records on his stereo
Rock-a-Hula and Jailhouse Rock
all those records made me bop and
all the time those records played
my dad was with me all the way

The only thing we ever shared were
the songs of a man with slick, black hair
This true but now I'm glad, because to me,
Elivis Presley was my dad.



Ode to Healthy Eating

No natural mineral water
no organic meat
no farmhouse veg
no freerange eggs
this is what I eat

UV rays and carbon monoxide
are my favourite foods
I mix them up with acid rain and
eat it as a gruel
I serve it up with chemical bread
then I lick my lips as I season it with
asbestos dust I collect from builders skips

But the delicacy I enjoy the most
a real gourmet delight is the
fallout from atomic waste that
feeds me day and night

Oh what a lucky man I am
to dine on such a feast
to gain my daily sustenance from
a platter free of grease.



Ping Pong Ball

At first glance, there isn't much at all to
the inside of your average ping pong ball
until you take another look and
see the microcosm closer up
A space that is not a vacuum but
some cosmic manifestation
not empty but full of
the vapours of creation
A place to transport your thoughts to
a landscape your mind can traverse and
explore the imagination of an inner universe



Club Positron

Raving at Club Positron
I danced all night with a cybertron
we knew we had something in common
because we were both high on nonadon or
was it decadon, man we were really gone

She bought her clothes from D-Monik
they made her look bionic but our
rap turned phillosophic and she got
all neurotic and I went parabollic
catastophic move dude

We snorted some Trilithium
cut with a little Dilithium
it tasted like Plutonium
it hit us like an atom bomb then
we burst into flower like Magnesium

We watched a regular polygon
come over all irregular
as he burst into a nebula
then a moon and a spoon and a spatula
we were laughing like Count Dracula

Raving at Club Postitron
dancing with a cybertron
day tripping on Trilithium
Man it was really sugar plum

I'm saying it was altitude to the apex
elqualateral to the symetrical
totally acute dude
Club Positron what a groove



The Last Youth Club in Town

The oldest swingers in town boogied on down
on the last nite of the last youth club in town
£5 with a wristband £10 on the door
disgruntled regulars shuffle round
pissed off to the core
one mad hippy chick grooves alone
freaking out on the empty dance floor
Enough booze, dope, E's and coke
to make your average junkie choke
common get it down your throat
you don't wanna miss the boat
on the last nite of the last youth club in town

West London's burning with boredom now
no more Bohemian Portobello road
musicians, artists and poets all fade away
now that the last youth club is closed
Too little too late is the fate of the
once trendy Notting Hill Gate
the land of the eternal teenager
has been boarded up for good
The Peoples Republic of Frestonia
The Apocalypse hotel
Mangrove and the Tabnernacle
All gone to Hell

Unscrupulous bankers and foreign gangsters
now occupy the gentrified slums
where no dogs, no Irish, nor Blacks
could rent a family home
Gone are the squats where
pop stars wrote their songs
Gone is the Hall of Fame where
graffiti kings wrote their names
Now the Estate Agent rules the street
bringing with him the kind of poverty we all fought against

RBK&C must hate its residents so
to bring an end to the Peace and
Love of sunny Ladbroke Grove
I left at midnight I couldn't bear to stay
others partied till morning and danced the night away
No names No faces You know who you are
The oldest swingers in town who boogied on down
on the last nite of the last youth club in town




Copyright © Mark Jackson 2012. All Rights Reserved