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The sequel to Chopping's debut collection, Smoking With Crohns. A poetic feast. Please enjoy your meal.

Sequel to Chopping's debut collection, Smoking With Crohns, Flock is also autobiographically based. Focussing on his reflections about working, being, being at work, and working at being, it references his occupation as a building labourer (having previously worked for the Queen), and towards the end, ice cream.

Walking forwards not running backwards a raised hat to the savers and sufferers, several mentions of money, fruit and family, fish, medical things, beautiful things, ugly things, sport, pigeons, pigs and other winged things.

It's a poetic feast. Please enjoy your meal.

George Chopping is a poet from Torquay in Devon. He now lives on a narrowboat along the Berkshire stretch of the River Thames with his wife, Rachel and a radio. He still hasn’t won any awards for his poetry but he can hand dig footings for buildings with very straight sides, unsupervised.

“What wonderfully straight sides; beautiful spade-work!” (Terry Cook - Building Inspector WOKINGHAM BOROUGH COUNCIL).

George still performs his verse at festivals, in shops, cafes, gardens, parks and stadiums.
Back allowing.

Here are some other reviews of his work:

"Had the audience in hysterics" THE SUNDAY TIMES

"A perfectly balanced mixture of sweet-natured observation and steel melting bile" NIGHTSHIFT

"Droll and witty poetry delivered in amusingly deadpan style" THE OXFORD TIMES

"One of Unbound's raw talents, and as quickly becomes obvious, a true performance poet" MANCHESTER LITERATURE FESTIVAL BLOG

"The cream of Devon poets" JOHN HEGLEY


Bus Replacement Service

Excuse me, is anyone sitting?
No
Do you mind if I?
Go Ahead

The rest of hustle and bustle get on
doors shut and the pushing and shoving goes on

Baggage and carriers
suitcases and holdalls
all being swung and crammed into crevices
above and below the heads of bodies
negotiating for seats (most reserved, few not).

Business Men loosen their ties
whilst wriggling out of pin striped straight jackets
Mothers do frantic head counts
of their oblivious and excitable off-spring

The train pulls away from the station platform
upon which
are the ones who missed it
sobbing mothers of potential college freshers
trainspotters
and the guard:

Have your tickets ready please Ladies and Gents!

Women scrabble around in handbags
male posteriors rise slightly from seats
whilst hands rummage around in back and front pockets
in order to prove validity for travel

Mummy, Mummy, can I show him the tickets?
Just let me find them first lovey, then you can.

Then the train derailed at a level crossing and they all died.

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