Jack Deeprose

Writing, Photography, Music.

Oxford’s Going To Miss You

Not just the spires
that we know are really
more than a symbol
less than a reminder
of walking through streets
paved with history but desires
more focussed on
studying a lover than
yet another
example of who
exactly did build this town called
Oxford’s going to miss you,

More than a bed of
explored and discovered
in the dark by
young love spread thick
a two footed kick
through stinging spores
and unwritten histories
a mystery
to think a bed of
mildly irritating weeds
already knew
back then that of course it is
Oxford’s going to miss you,

Imagine the rivers reaction
the streams the canals
to know that their
always moving often
paths through your
past and present
desires a gin and tonic
a foot dipped beneath its
cooling friendly but
never platonic
adoration of your presence
it already had to
come through
so many locks just to know that
Oxford’s going to miss you,

Meadows just cannot
believe it
Christ Church, Port
and those bits
off Botley Road that never knew
what to call themselves
find it hard to admit
that maybe their flooding
did infact drive you
riptides whirling against
love unfurling first
into a tapestry
then into a fist
receding rains a cue
Oxford’s always going to miss you,

What can the cycle lanes say
when they learn
that you are going
to leave them
trading tarmac
for dust
these battered pitted and
cracked roads are never going
to go but
they’re going to still
need you so
Bright lights on
black roads waiting
for worn tires to kiss
them just a few
more times before
Oxford’s going to miss you,

I have little words that
I can add
to a city’s sentimental
outpouring of loss and
sadness makes me sure
that I’ve been right all
along all these years and
whatever warmer shores
you may find yourself
now on
these bricks streams fields
history memories of nights
you couldn’t wait to
get back just to kiss
that now line our hearts
in seams
above you the sky is
different now
but the streets beneath my feet tremble
with how Oxford
and I
are forever going to love
and then miss


Mother and Son

From Reigate to
Florence Park
you’ve always made sure that
I know who I am
through the light and
through the dark
you’ve always there to say
I can
be as happy as
a mother wants her
son to be,

If success as parent
is measured less
in salaries
a job in a bank
work hung in big galleries
but instead by
wisdom and love
poured from an always half-full cup
above one sometimes more empty
then I only have you to thank
for all the times
you’ve ensured
I’ve always had plenty
of our families kindness
to spread over others
and that’s your words
through my hands,

A love of our histories
is something we share
though not every
has to stretch back to
when strong men ploughed
fields and
young women travelled
from wales
I’ll tell my children a
about the strongest person
that I know
who painted signs so
that her best creations
might have the best chance
to grow
into loving and thoughtful
living histories
of their own,

A friend in the spring
in the autumn
a mentor
the best kind of mum
that I could ever ask
for were it not for your
kindness and all
that you give me
I’d not know who I am
I’d not know who to keep trying
to be
and through all of our successes
and all of our failures
my love for you will always and forever
be endless
our bond is unbreakable
whatever is to come
a mother and son.

After Us

I keep buying notebooks,
to write ten lines of things that sometimes
sometimes about you
but most are never finished
life gets in the way
no it doesn’t
it’s professional level procrastination,
and imagined creative constipation
all the fucking

This notebook cost me
forty-five pence
from a high street supermarket
which I wrote a poem about
nearly ten months
hence why I have a shoe box full
full of mass produced
and whiskey seduced
words that mean nothing
if they’re not finished
before you get home
and remind me
of the times
that we
pretended we had
not tangible but
naïve cos-the-world-owes-us-a-life-
apparently millennial and entitled

I’m writing now
but it’s the third verse
or is it a stanza and
the thoughts come quicker after
the first double measure
of neat malt liquor
now faltering and
flailing into an
aimless and wandering
train of thought
a direct line between
my own hang ups
this services makes zero stops
until it terminates
at hopes of us being
happy again

All of this reminds me of
living alone
before salaried hours and
buying you apology
when writing was my light
in the darkest
of miserable
hours pass me by but
days drag me kicking
and screaming into
a reality of sliding towards thirty
but not owning anything
that we can call
in anyway

The more that I write and
the more the fog
the more the thoughts of
buying you a dog
brings me to
I should write more
I can write more
We should dance before
the time that we’ve had
in the last three and a
half hectic
nearly four years
Everyone pretends that
everything’s alright
when every non-social-media shareable
non attention seeking non
re-tweetable marketable
points towards the idea that it
clearly isn’t
it’s all

The last section
of this thing
I don’t want to call it a verse
or a stanza
because I clearly don’t know the
if writing was as easy as
wanting a life with you
then I’d already published a
New York Times best selling
erotic fiction trilogy
pissed the royalties up the wall
and outsold Ballard
then Bukowski
but I like summaries even if
and I enjoy conclusions to
questions and queries of
the unknown
as long as the topic
of study and speculation
now or until beyond
what is forever
is never
the state of you and I
a vision of an
imagined future
alone after

Super Fantastic Supermarket Trip

Last night I walked
around a busy supermarket
looking to kill some
the last place I wanted to be,
but it felt almost
spiritual and
amongst the hustlers
and the bustlers,
all buying their Friday night
smokes and

A shiver ran down my
and across my arms
as I walked past the
pre-made sandwiches,
I felt alive and amazed
that waiting for the bus
could be so
fucking exciting,
and then comes
the memories
the inside
an outside
as I think back to
what then could have been
while gazing down
the cleaning product

Chinese girls buying cereal
Single men buying
What a complete and
and utter
experience I was having,
the calmness inside me
and soon I was
about hand holding
in fields
drinking and smoking
in fields
and fishing
in rivers
before he was

I needed deodorant,
I thought,
turning to face another
I needed the moment
I needed to stay in a trance,
in the the body
of a ghost
a non-consumer,
not myself,
but a spectator.
My feet planted by
the kitchen appliances,
my mind
ten years ago
South Northamptonshire
then West
furious seas and
those gently swaying-in-the-breeze
located far above hell
but just below
the floor beneath is
clean me
but my elevated existential
plane of existence
is pleading
please don’t
mirtazapine me
take me back
not to change things or to
but to fucking revel in
the simplicities
the freedom
have I lived a good life?
has it been full
is that why I yearn
for another spin of
the wheel to
turn reality around
I have never been good with tying my motives
down in the belly of
a city-centre supermarket
strip lights illuminating
of late night
epiphanies and
fifty years to soon
local newspaper

Excuse me
he said
edging past me
as I still stood
I need deodorant.
the mist lifting
yet clinging like as it mixed
like teenage body-spray
with the sweat on my palms
I grabbed the can
and headed for
the rows
and rows
and rows
and rows
of self-service checkouts
Surely this was
scan the bar-code
and the Zen of my
late night super fantastic
supermarket trip
would rip
and tare
the newspapers
the seas
the gently swaying-in-the-breeze
how long could you keep
a life made of
memorized on
life support,
My hand grabbed the deodorant
and, then


The last bastion of
solitary drinking,
that maybe things
might just end up OK,
crinkling raincoats and
cluttered tables,
Are you using this seat mate
course I’m not
mate, I’m here to drink
beer and to write
prayers as I
sweat under all of my
too many ill planned,
and now redundant,

The last sanctuary of,
nostalgic thinking,
charged glasses
To health and,
to futures that
were maybe always
with overly optimistic
too hopeful from the beginning
that summer when
I thought that you too wanted
me as I had
always assumed that
two young people
marooned and
by new build
and cheap thrilled
would eventually

The last manned outpost of,
the west,
fucking awful jobs,
but still insisting
on resisting
the call
the salary man,
the commuting man,
the planning or even
talking about pensions
man, I wish
a busy bar
that I was
just how beautiful,
you are,
rain laden haze
aspiration combined with
limitless procrastination and
all the ways
I could better
fill my days than
nostalgic drinking,
apocalyptic thinking,
and pretending that I will
be the last

Fire, Blade, and Brimstone.

Explosions erupt
causing eardrums to
give up on trying to understand
the background noise
opting instead to playback
a droning loop
of all the sounds ever heard
recorded on top of one another
in one final and irritating

Many times I have seen
my life flash before me
not in near death but
usually on weekday nights
staring hopefully up
at a computer screen
Gazing out into the world
wide eyed but getting stuck in
the web of other equally
boring lives

Swords fall
on to heavy shoulders and
orders tall of
growing indifference
towards the failing fight
the loudest voices voice
now only opinions based on
the insecurities of the
tightest lips
lips of which have
never even had the choice
to kiss a lover
let alone sink
any ships

Everyday I grow older
yet every second I regress
into dreams of past
parallel universes
Hot summer days punctuated
by a million different ways
of doing nothing at all and
Still winter nights
hacked apart first by
first cigarettes and
later by illegally obtained

Acid fists connect
with generations continuously
wrecked by rising hopes and
falling and ever tumbling
Only anecdotes
can save us now
only stories spun like
legends and myth
told not around roasting meat
or warming feet
but projected into space and
back again
to be absorbed by ex-girlfriends
only a 2g connection
alone on the train

I could built a shelter
a room of refusing
I can build 10ft high barriers
constructed using
only discarded bottles
and one-hundred and forty
I shall build a throne of
empty beds and swirling
sheets of apologies and
garage flower receipts
A tomb of prescription medication
stacked one by one by
hand me your telephone
give me your keys
tell me your pass word
and drop to your knees
just try not to look
at the arrogant salesman’s
ever prevalent gun

Slice and
that is all that is left
not just for me
take a step back
and marvel at all of the
cunning and genius
forms of attack
of what lies ahead and
by fire, blade, or brimstone
together combined
we shall continue thrashing
petulantly in protest
at the disgusting and
horrifying thought
of both living
and then dying

Flight Simulator.

She was the girl that I dreamt about,
when I was fifteen.
Sitting in a class room and imagining,
I would maybe venture back
into a burning building.
And pull her out,
just like some,
in a 5 PM soap-opera,
or on the,
American silver sceen.

Maybe terrorists would attack,
and take over the school.
and maybe I would stand up infront,
of year 10 mathametics
steal an ak47,
and shoot ,
everyone last one of them.
I mean,
I had shot an air rifle once
at scout camp,
after all.

I spent hours upon hours
flight simulator ‘98,
flying spitfires,
to space shuttles,
So I hoped that the flight,
that we took to Europe ,
in 2006,
would suffer catastrophic engine failure,
and both the pilot and co-,
would die quiet suddenly,
of sudden death syndrome.

‘Is there a pilot on board?!’
The hostess would shout,
My hand would raise,
my other clasped in your own,
My digital flying hours being,
strained and,
the only I had ever flown.
But it was do or die,
It was kiss you after
we had landed,
and in the meantime,
I’d just pretend,
that I knew how to fly,
a 231ft and engineless,

Before there was social media,
and personality based,
hour long,
marketing themed guitar solos,
I was constantly dreaming,
of your name in lights or,
even your feet,
quickly enclosed by bright white,
only to have me leap,
and drag,
You out of the path,
of a speeding and,
out of control,
on fire and exploding,
blue Ford,

We would tumble and we would fall,
I would break a few bones,
but you would not be hurt,
not at all.
You would thank me for my selfless act,
and accompany your saviour,
to Northampton General,
16 weeks they said,
at least for the arm anyway,
But the tumble was always,
worth the breaking,
of all of my,
earthly and
fragile remains.

I was never John Wayne,
and I shall certainly never,
try to be like,
John Mclaine.
and though I no longer harbour,
those unsafe ships,
carrying your heart as ,
precious cargo,
I still think that once in,
a while,
it is nice to remember,
how teenage,
can make a boy
feel like an adventurer,
and a hero.

Saving your life when I was fifteen,
will always make me smile.

Red Wine Lips.

If loose lips ,
sink all of the ships
then why does red wine,
crack and chip away ,
at both in question.
All of us,
those embroiled,
in this disastrous,
and continuing,

We all dreamed of,
being bigger,
and now that we are,
we crave something,
more than all that,
BBC1 ,2 or 3
on a Friday night,
can ever dream of,
being able to deliver.

My lips are porous,
so much that ,
everything seeps,
into them like ,
but if we had listened,
in biology,
we would have learned that,
nothing is greater then
the fear of the a brewing,
and an inevitable ,
sincere apology.

We tax and we earn,
We fight and we yearn,
for something,
greater than anyone,
or any marketing campaign,
can discern,
the last thing that this worlds needs,
is a another bridge,
not to have ,
or to hold,
but to mold to its wishes
and then to be burnt,
by the old .
and those that
we miss.

I love being alive,
I love being able to,
be unable to,
Under a sky of smoke,
under a climate of,
broken mirrors,
and if seven years is too long,
then maybe this policy is too strong,
and maybe that,
the people who decide such things,
need to decide that,
they cannot decide,
red wine lips,
do not in fact sink
broken ships,
and that mirrors broken
do actually cost more,
than those old wives,
decided to tell us.

Red wine lips,
will always rub off ,
with a certain amount of,
ignorant bliss.
And broken mirrors can ,
always be mended by,
a night out,
on the piss.

Three Inches of Water.

A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor,
but a children’s paddling pool has never
killed one either.
When waves come crashing down,
all one can do is hope and hold on
to the bow
Pray that neither above or below,
are looking for a new recruit,
at least not,

for now.

When old men speak of disaster,
they see fire, explosions and
rising water.
When young men speak of such horror,
they see empty dance-floors, textbooks and
saved text messages
sent by somebody’s daughter.

Those who believe in fate,
Have never had to count coppers,
In the hope that they might eat,
value bread
Or do something for years,
that they hate,
consumed by the knowledge,
that for that majority
this is the way
until finally
those that were once counting,
are now graciously dead.

Be a company man,
they said,
Grind away and keep down,
your head
all the way to the middle,
not to the end
Look to our fathers for guidance
Look forward to the three marriages,
The S class Benz,
the sporadic phone calls and the,
organic five grain
luxury bread.

I would like to say that all storms pass
and to say that work days get shorter
that all fires die,
and not all lambs are bred,
for the slaughter
But I must remind you of the all of our
worried mother’s cries:
A man can easily drown
in three inches of water.

White Is Not A Colour.

White is not a colour,
And black is just another
way of saying nothings
wrong when speaking to
your mother.

Glass is not a liquid,
And sand is just a stupid
way of saying that sticks and stones
can’t ever be broken by
the bones of cupid.

Pluto’s not a planet,
And together we’re a magnet,
attacking and repelling
four-story high waves,
full of panic.

A whale is not a fish,
It too, is more at home
diving down into the abyss
Beneath bright corals and
thick white foam,
shimmering shoals,
The darkness always waits,
for warm blooded lost

I am not a number,
or a target demographic,
to sell the perfect
product or lifestyle to,
Nor a marketable dollar to project
empty words without spaces at,

You are not a sailor,
my ship has found safe harbour,
Get all hands on deck
a man has fallen over
board, diving
for a lover.

I wish I’d always known that,
White is not a colour.