Where new writing finds its voice
Poem

Nobody Inn

Tim Wells

For Nick Hodgson and Anna Goodall

Lives his life 
in music video,
whistling through 
guitar solos,
even though 
he hates the songs.
No laughs
‘til pay day,
Comedy
is frustratingly
Oxbridge.
Lessons;
all academic,
backwards
burlesque.
Steps from 
the dark 
of the cinema 
into the sun.
The underwear 
of the girls 
who work 
in Starbucks 
is collected 
and burned.
Deservedly so.
Got a girlfriend 
makes him 
happy,
but not 
as often 
as he’d like.
Holding
his piss 
‘til half-time,
play-off hopes
going down
the drain.
In the background 
of many a photo 
taken 
by drunk girls
with anno
YINGLY 
loud voices 
on the 243.
The lager’s 
losing 
its bite.
Used to be
the names 
of football teams
were sprayed 
on to the wall.
He’s already sick 
of Banksy;
he’s about 
to see some more.