Thursday, 24 November 2016

Hey Up What's the Crack


There's ghost inertia on the fringe of passion
The Art of Martial sex is well in fashion
Through Venetian specs with special effects
You get sex by text - whatever next!
Hey up! What's the Crack? Alack alack
What's the Crack?
Humanoids on a downward track.

Trainspotting clones called Smith and Jones
Bug your deepest thoughts via mobile phones
Put credit-debtors in French-letters
with horse betters and ant petters
Hey up! What's the Crack? Alack alack
What's the Crack?
Humanoids on a downtown track.

The Goat-farmer from Kathmandu
Is wise to your Karma and illusion of you.
This material world for those who fail
To see the light in this urbanic trail.
Hey up! What's the Crack? Alack alack
What's the Crack?
Humanoids clickety clack a downward track.

There's a carboot sale on a virtual beach
with a plastic snail and a slice of quiche
and a shopping mall for personality
This banality's free on Reality TV
Hey up! What's the Crack? Alack alack
What's the Crack?
Humanoids slide down the chimney stack.

You get post-grad cash-back
For shagging in the love-shack
A 6-pack, fast-track; 0% APR, the money goes far
A free toy car, so there you are!
Hey up! What's the Crack? Alack alack
What's the Crack?
Humanoids caught on a salesman's camera trap.

Give me Caffrey's, give me wine
This Circe society has turned you to swine.
In this fiscal boom, you are what you consume
A two-timed dildo under a lover's moon.
Hey up! What's the Crack? Alack alack
What's the Crack?
Humanoids slide down the snakes and adders track.

It's true, it's true, life is a Vindaloo
Hot with passion, too highly spiced for you
Slow down, slow down, examine your vision
Your life is a bank
Instant credit, instant decision
Hey up! What's the Crack? Alack alack
What's the Crack?
Humanoids on a downward track.

By Trev Teasdel August 2006

Some more on Keith Armstrong's Poetry Tyneside - Teesside Dynomo

Wednesday, 26 October 2016

Trev Teasdel - Poet Reprobate - Pinned Welcome Page

Trev Teasdel - A Short Autobiology!

Trev was born in a rush of wind in 1951, down home Coventry,
much to the surprise of the Countess Godiva and her horsemen. Here he etched his early song lyrics, wrote 'A Lotta Rain is Fallin' with Pete Waterman, ran Hobo, Coventry Music and Arts Magazine and the Hobo Workshop where the early Two Tone started in the basement below. In 1980, he came to Teesside to do a degree in the Humiliations and passed with honours - on through the Management Committee of Community Arts Middlesbrough, Teesside Writers' Workshop and the New Poetry Scene. He was performance poet turned co-editor of Voice of the North, co-founder ofOutlet and the annual Write Around Festival and later the Writers' Cafe gigs at the ARC in Stockton and the Georgian Theatre. Along the way, he published The Escaped Poet, Poet Reprobate, Nightfall in Sorrento - anthologies of his poems and a Gnome Label album of his songs Songs From the Coventry Underground 2007. He won the Northern Voices Poetry Award in 2010.

This is the hub for the poetry / lyrics / stories and flashing fictions of  Trev Teasdel and all poetical work is copyright.
Trev's work is also in ebook form on Issuu here - the flip books are also embedded below.
Nightfall in Sorrento, published in 2007, contain Trev's performance poems will be viewable on here or as a Flip Book on Issuu below. You can download a PDF version by logging in or creating an account with the Issuu Publishing Platform this is on.

Holograms from the Lilac Canopy This a more recent book - again the flashing fictions and poems will be illustrated on this blog - but also viewable as a Flip book here via Issuu.
Picasso's Secret Cafe and the Planet of Debt The latest book on Issuu - the note above applies to this Flip Book.
The Escaped Poet My first book produced in 1985, published by the Poetic Licence Collective.

Summer Nights Bourbon Barbecue

Summer Nights Bourbon Barbecue

Summer nights, bourbon barbecue, smoke ranches in the sky, clashing glasses, Ian Van Dahl and drunken voices over the fence. Talking football, talking shop, in a flap and talking crap. Pert and flirting and unskirting comes the fight. Jilted lovers under covers, would be lovers undiscovered. The thin and fatio under parasol and on the patio. The cuckold husband, no solution, lost in the din and noise pollution. The sociable and anti social, the boastful and the meek, scranning wine and scraggy meat. The neighbours all have complaints but they themselves are never saints. Summer nights and some are pregnant. Full moon rising with its advertising the swaying stars in racing cars. No one’s sober, no one’s sane the fireworks stuck in next door’s drain. Early morning, the sun’s not dressed, stumbles through the debris in his pants and vest. The king of puke with his golden hangover graffities on next door’s Rover. Boobtube, youtube, Ian Van Dahl, it’s all ‘Castles in the Sky’!

Text by Trev Teasdel 

Listen to it on Stockton Digital Village podcast here -

Panavision Motion

Panavision Motion
I was born in a movie, learned to walk like a star, cameras rolling. I threw my tantrums across the set and balled out the director. I lived in Panavision motion, high definition, a technicolour visionette of half improvised script. I could acquiesce for burlesque, say ' aloe vera ' to Christina Aguilera, plug into R&B and belt out ' Something's Got a Hold of me '. I took the credits and stuffed the critics and cheated on Google Glass . They called me iconic but I played it ironic whenever Christina would sing...

Meandering on Downstream


Walking along the streams of consciousness, through buttressed leaves in kick crumble rouge, past sloping off boats tugging at their moorings, past gates to huge houses, slipways slipping into the Thames to feed u bend swans fresh baked breadlets, past bent backed hedges with tanglehair dreams and lean over fences and trees that reach up to the giant’s nest and the blowbubble clouds with tingledrop raindrops that fall on caught out blouses and coiffured hairscapes, while dogs chase the illusions of rabbits that spill from a cast off top hat jammed in the hedgerow awaiting the applause of a Drury Lane matinee, while taxies cutcorners to pick up cutout commuters from their briefcased compartments and deliver them quickly to laptop lovers with microsoft thighs and dropdown menus before evening news and dinner for two on a punt down near Windsor while couples tell lies that neither believes as a matter of ritual and just to fill in time till the call of the duvet and feather down pillows in the lovertime night with it’s dreams of long winding rivers with trees that look like people and ducks that talk Norman and swans that sell cakes to passerby joggers in trainers and leggings that bounce on the leaves where rabbits lure dogs with the illusion of food and magicians lose hats in a spell under the stars and back by the streams where consciousness rushes before walking by the banks of the Thames flowing home to its mansion of the sea with it’s fishmaid servants and butler whales and ships that just seem to pass in the night..

Trev Teasdel

Life on Streetview

Life on Streetview

Life on Streetview was a buzz!

We rode that mouse town to town, 
looking up forgotten women, forgotten pals that got mixed up in our dreams decades before when we were the hell raisers. 

The no-care youth of the world, oozing with ideas; crapping ourselves with creativity; dreaming of new eras; moving on the goalposts of what was possible; dreaming big but dreaming small; far from the smell of making money, free of the watchers and corporate control freaks, where love was the currency and ideas were the street map. 

The world was one country with interlinking cultures, the soul was our passport, the passion our engine. We were the architects of alternatives, we believed in other ways. We slept in damp alleys crying with sterility and dreamed with the archimage of how we could change everything that was wrong for this planet; and the music was unbelievable and cut to the chase and the poetry broke all of its rules and the books undid all the forced learning and we spoke with the heart and we spoke from our passion and we moved like greased lightning and painted the streets with rainbows of diversity and believed in each other and believed we could do better and we chased the old world into a corner of history. 

In the darkness of oppression a candle is lit and it only takes a movement of the head to see above your horizons.

Trev Teasdel

In the Cool Jazz Basement

In the Cool Jazz Basement

It was past midnight, 
the wine was crawling out of the bottle and looking for fun.

the streetlamps were taking selfies just to have something to do,
and the drains grinned a metal smile and bore the rain.

Over on Smith Street,
where the cars were lowing and stretched out on the side of the road, inmates of a swaying off licence were leaving comments on private thoughts and blogging their daydreams in their digital imaginations.

The town was quiet, 
a riot of introspective footsteps stepping through the rain of hopeless austerity with their neon-lit dreams of finding a side-alley to fulfillment.

In the cool jazz basement,
where the lights were discrete, 
her voice rose over the rooftops and sent goosebumps down the chimney pots. 

The slim, long-haired beauty made slaves of their ears and eyes and the microphone trembled in her hand. 

Back home, where the moon purred on the bed and clawed the duvet, she unzipped and slid into love with him. Her moans set off security alarms on the sidewalks of a distant town where sex was only allowed by showing passports. 

Her soul was an ancient city full of learning, culture and wisdom that stretched across the valley and she loved like a universe with hot suns on her tail.

Outside the town hall citizens grappled with true meaning and were rounded up as examples but her voice hit the notes of hope and circled across the town. Her ample breasts and silky skin caused the dawning sky to blush with sun.

Soon the yawning cars would welcome their humans and drive off across the bridge of human duty. 

She folded her lovemaking away and put on a serious face to face the day. 

Driving into the everyday town where decency had been driven out, she longed for the days when humanity would care again.

Stopping off in a slow harbour town for coffee and laptop communications, she saved this draft in Word and set about her work.

Text by Trev Teasdel



I was sitting in my shack, rocking in my chair and singing the blues with my slide guitar when Dosh from the Fukker’s Bank walked in. He was rollin’ in it and I mean shit! 

He’d got himself bankrolled with a Trillion or two and was giving none of it away. I offered to sell him some of my goddamn poverty at half price but he stalled for advice. 

I figure a man ought to make his own decisions but not Dosh he had an industry of advisors and none of them could read darn it! 

I hung out with him on the wrong side of the tracks and how he forgot his roots I don’t know but he still managed to hit the sack with my lady, her knickers would come flying across the room and land fresh on my here guitar. 

I got a little rhythm going and he made the lady steam, whistle blowin’ God Almighty! Then I pulled him out of bed and kicked the shit out of him. We knew how to live back then and here he was living it again, with my lady! 

I figured he wouldn’t mind if I became him for a while seein’ how he was being me in bed with my woman, I took off to Central Howard with all his credentials. 

I was mighty well received in the big city and my credit was damn good. I bought me a few countries and changed things around for the better, though old Dosh would never approve! 

I gave them all decent homes and helped them set up their own enterprises and made a land fit for humans. 

Old Dosh was still fucking hard when I got back and I heard her scream the shack down but old Dosh was now flat broke, only thing is he didn’t know it yet! What’s money for if you don’t spend it and I spent it all for him. 

You might think a trillion or two is hard to spend in such a small space of time but not if you know the right people and I do! I was mighty sore that he had used my lady up like that, her sleeping like a log on the shack floor and all and he was mighty sore too, that I had used up his trillions. But we were old friends and called it quits. 

Old Dosh wandered out on the lone highway without a cent to his name. No one paid him any mind and he did without food for a while. Eventually he shacked up with a pair of Cougars, who kept him warm at night and he hunted alongside them. 

Well me, I continue to play the slide guitar and I still had a bit of dosh saved up and bought me a bigger place. The money had done a bunch of cities well and their enterprises thrived. 

Dosh stops by sometimes, stinking of Cougars. He never did have a lick o’ sense! He takes a shower and I’ll feed him a little oatmeal. 

A man can write his own story but the words have a mind of their own! I said “ Dosh, don’t believe your own hype ” but he was so used to buying his way out trouble he couldn’t see the damage he was doin’. 

Dosh was tuned to an open chord, the notes chimed together but no one could hold him down. 

The moral of this here story is, if anyone still has any morals “ Never fuck your best friends lady and leave your credentials in yer pants. It could seriously affect your credit rating! ” Well that’s about all folks! 

Howling Snakewater Jnr here at your service!

Text by Trev Teasdel

Tree Leaves

Tree Leaves

tree leaves weave 

fine filigree fingers

through the ether, 

fine hair receptors 

in the radio-onic air, 

transducing knowledge 

from all earthly forms around.

Across the park,

beneath the viaduct, 

a couple holding hands 

in the electromagnetic field of love.

The natural state 

of the environment 

hidden from conscious minds.

Fine sandstone blocks,

sandcastle banks, 

where electronic transactions,

 paradigms for money, 

vibrate molecules 

in fibre optic cables 

to rule the roost, 

to be the all 

but as with Proust

destination is no longer a place, but a new
way of seeing

to look deeper 

beneath the surface 

with new eyes.

Photo and text by Trev Teasdel

The Flying Mermaid

The Flying Mermaid

Down at the Flying Mermaid, airborne on real Ale, 
Spitfire or Bombardier, we talked about how we faked our work plans and just winged it.

Some of us were gliders and some of us were jets. We took off from a runway and crossed borders we weren’t meant to. We drowned our jet lag with ale from the cask, and looked up at the landing strip. 

Kathryn was a real mermaid, no plain Jane, she could dive under our defences and disarm our reluctance. Of course, guys like to boast how they met the mermaid down at the coast but Kathryn was her own woman you didn’t get to choose her she chose you! 

It didn’t matter if you were a big wheel in an aerodrome or a khaki Land-rover stuck in the mud, doing battle in an outdated time-frame, she treated everyone the same. 

She’d take you down the cellar to clean up the barrels; there was ale dripping down her breasts but you wouldn’t dare look. She was a kickboxing champ in a mermaid disguise. 

One night, she caught me off guard, on autopilot, thinking my thoughts and ignoring her protocol. She could drink like a fish, and role you in the waves and pull you into her ether. 

Back in the bar they called it ‘ Flying with the Mermaid ’ and the best you could do was to try for a smooth landing. 

Well the Flying Mermaid got bulldozed on the orders of a jilted Councillor and Kathryn moved north. No matter what the council did, they couldn’t shake the myth or the legend of the Flying Mermaid. 

Me, I still live in those legendary times and no one has asked me for rent. 

I could tell you some tales about me and the mermaid but it would probably be mixed in with lies!

Text and photo by Trev Teasdel