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Nick Gerrard

Nick Gerrard – One time Chef, activist, union organiser, musician, punk rocker, teacher, traveller, Eco-lodge owner in Malawi. Lived and drank far too much in 6 countries; travelled to loads more. Loves trains, music, books, football, politics, languages, different cultures and food.

Written articles on politics, music, travel, culture and food for magazines and web sites. One son, one tractor, one Eco-lodge in Czech Mountains! Two books published.

Stories, poems and essays have appeared in various magazines and web sites including; Day12 travel magazine, Citizens for decent Literature, Outsider writers, Thieves Jargon, Bluehour magazine, Roadside Fiction, Etherbooks.


I was born by the side of a walking freak-show


under neon signs shadowed by hookers arses and big Prince’s Cadillacs’


In foul-smelling alleys I suckled from a fake tit-bottle next to wasted military men


with long beards who drank the long track


pushing shopping trolleys with their lives all in


And this city was my playground


The neighborhood squabbles my entertainment


The slaps and hair-pulling my action movie


The lady blooded and laddered in the gutter my horror fest


I tread these streets


I touch the peeling walls, the clattering pipes, the rotting toilet stench


I pump the heartbeat of the sidewalks


The soul of the folks


The brat machines cluttering the stoops


The vendors pushing their wares


The dealers selling escape


The bottle offering a blur


The vomit glittering in rain drain


The filth of life washing down rusting vents


I know and die with these streets


just a little


day in day


The Forger singing laments


in his vest


A lonely grandmother sups from a wrapped beer bottle


regretting over metal stairways


The little lad with the lazy leg


hustling for slices for his housebound mother


The rock junkie slashes a suit for coin


A lonely Goth slashes her wrists for comfort


An obese fast food fiend trolls to fell frustration


I feel all these hurts


All the pains and belly aches


All the sweat of disappointment


All the drowning of dreams


in a sea of facades


I stand and scream


along-side a mother


taking a selfie


at the feet


of another gang statistic


I drag my sorry arse through the garbage to work with the boys


on a site of construction


for better places


But not for us



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