Thursday, 31 December 2009


Dad, Mum, Jayne and the boys.
Tammy in Missouri,
Kev, Simon, Russ and the lads in London,
Andy in Hull,
Tim, Chris, Mike, the 3 Brians, Luigi and Hussein @ UAMHQ,
Cindy in Seattle,
Jim in Alabama,
Thaleia in Bruges,
Suzanne in Ontario,
Sam in Toronto,
Rob in Philly,
Dean in Wisconsin,
Simon in Scotland,
Mike in Boston,
Leanne in the Midlands,
Magnus in Sweden,
Marisa in New Zealand,
Teresa in Leicester,
Andrew in Northumberland,
Kihu in Macedonia,
Taylor and Judith in South Carolina,
Erin in Bristol.
Sal down south,
Shireen in the Highlands,
The amazing Flawnt,
And all the rest of you wonderful people who have
Leant your support, comments and follows ALL YEAR LONG.

Here’s to 2010 (that’s Two Ten)


So I sleep and awake in the same bed my father left
On the last day of his life,
Though I’m safe in the knowledge that his legacy will continue
Long after I have shed my own skin;

For here in my arms is the future and there goes the past,
Trapped in its own little snow globe,
And captured on these pages for all concerned to
Turn to when they wish to know the truth
Of it from a more reliable source,
A better sired horse.

Though be careful what you wish for as it may just find you
Dismal beneath a fallen star;
Arms outstretched to catch the dust of love’s labour
When all that’s available is lust.

But I’m determined to give this the worth it deserves
Whilst trying not to revert to type;
I’m just writing, transmitting, channeling information
Instantly; funneling all the feelings of
Four seasons into one reasonable,
Readable volume,

So that when everything makes to collapse I can relax
And track my way clearly through the ruins,
For even though people may scamper and panic there’s
No need to bleed when events shred.

This has been my year,
And now it’s yours...

Wednesday, 30 December 2009


In the last decade:

I drank in the Millennium,
I left my employment,
I brought another woman home (again),
I became insolvent,
I lost my address,
I worked 62 hours straight,
I wrote 12 books,
I got hooked up.

My country excelled at several sports.
My forties were met,
My Dad died,
My best friends split,
My son was born,
My marriage dissolved,
My sister kicked out her eldest kid,
My first diary was completed.

In the next decade….

WE will be together.

Tuesday, 29 December 2009


When we are together,
Yet parted by the world’s curvature,
We burn time
With all the urgency of gasoline;
All the purpose of
The unseen wishing to be looked at.

Wrecking seconds
As they tick beneath our heart beats,
Stripping minutes of
Their measure with our intimacy
And crowding hours
Until devoured in the wake of our words.

Bending all the laws
Of science and the clauses of religion
As we pitch our voices
Lower and glow ruddier with every breath,
Arriving at our lives’
Design together as we defeat years.

And somewhere in an
Ancient office a clerk is clock watching
As his day drags its heels,
For we have grabbed his share of time
As well to sacrifice upon
The altar of our hypnotic correspondence.

And once allocated durations
Have leaked out of their evening sheaths
We meet again by morning
Light where time resets itself for our use
And we love with
All the newness of a freshly made universe.

Monday, 28 December 2009


I wake up early so
I can take her in my arms anew once slipped from me in sleep;
How bittersweet
For her to return from
Dreams alone,

From where the
Best of our ambitions whistle for a steed to speed us on ahead,
And we shed tears
More slowly as the day’s
Holding grows.

And with all of
My resources I transmit to space an invitation to remove its
Distance from us,
And entertain our
Aims forever.

For here I wait
And there she works to while away the days until we meet,
And set in motion
All the traded words
Of our love:

Promises made
To honour any statements of intent we ventured weeks ago,
Carved in the
Stone of ocean beds
And met forever.

Memories of what
Was, thoughts of what is and the hopes for what will be all
Collide as they
Vie for my attention
Late at night.

Sunday, 27 December 2009


The music in my ears is
Rattling my mouth
To such a degree that I can’t even speak,
And when I eventually
Open my lips there’s
Nothing but gibberish spouting from them.

However hard I try I’m
Left with feeling that
I really have nothing left of any worth to say,
But hey, that’s okay, because
Right now there’s not a great
Deal of anything that I want to fucking hear.

A little muscle has pulled
Itself on my wish list and
Left me in the grip of a rather stern intoxicant
That has locked me out of
The charming calmness
That I’ve been experiencing these last two months.

But I guess the only way to
Go is forwards as the order
Of tunes is increasing in proportion to my needs,
And before these in-between
Days are over I’ll have
Enough reason to acknowledge the verses again.

Saturday, 26 December 2009


For what I received
I will be pleased.

For what I gave
I will be savoured.

For what I attended
I will remember.

For what I became
I will be braver.

For what I ate
I will be grateful.

For what I drank
I will be blanker.

For what I missed
I will never forgive,

But for what I’ve been granted
I will always be thankful.

Friday, 25 December 2009


I’m smiling at you from across the room,
And you’re not even there.
Whistling distant tunes
And I don’t care.
I’m conducting orchestras
With earplugs in,
Issuing awkwardness
You are my Christmas gift
This year,
And however long I live
You will be here.

Thursday, 24 December 2009


All the power of the story is yours,
And the passion play unmistakable,
While the hour of your glory has paused
Before the short day’s light is wakeable.
And it makes us a place of approval,
In the early orbit of our saying,
Where the order of pace is removing
The old world of habitual praying.
And when sleep and it keepers have scattered,
And the day has been splashed with new colour,
All the people who greet me don’t matter
As they’re paved in the ash of the duller,
For you rise in the west to receive me
And we dwell in the vestment of eve’ning.

Wednesday, 23 December 2009


So more snow has come and blown
The country over again,
As the roads are impassible,
And pavements impossible,
And salt at a premium and
It seems only yesterday
When everything ground to a halt
When in fact it was February,
And nothing has been learnt since.

And I’m waiting for a van man to
Collect and deliver the same items
I landed at the wife’s house in January,
And stuffed in a loft space,
And the year appears to be
Ending the same way it began;
All it needs now is a night on the
Phone with a bottle and a bone
To pick with everyone I love.

I missed you yesterday,
And I didn’t wish to, and I guess that’s
Why I buried myself in a loveless
Marriage, and have carried the
Truth of it heavily all year.
The end of the Earth’s not far enough,
The universe’s turn doesn’t put me off,
I would sanction heaven’s end for you
As we enter Two Ten together.

Tuesday, 22 December 2009


So short the day
That came and went,
Yet meaningful
In the scheme of things;
Amid the big themes.
Do you love
To be loved?
Hold to be held?
Speak to be heard
Or listen to the words of others
Simply to indulge them.
Are you here because of it
Or is it the opposite?
Are creations coexistent?
Are they fixtures once whittled?
Functions of your lung power
Left out too long
And song rendered after your expiration;
Splashed upon the walls of public houses
As the last of evening falls
When men have no need of mediocrity
During the longest night.

Monday, 21 December 2009


A saviour was born this year.
My salvation.
He came early to me,
And though late is the hour of
His parents’ path
He still brings beginnings.

A saviour was born this year.
My redemption.
He delivers me from
Fever and each of the many sins
That have wintered
In me and become entrenched.

A saviour was born this year.
My remission.
He eases the weight
Of the world with his eyes and
Barks at sadness
With a turn of his mouth.

A saviour was born this year.
My absolution.
He forgives me all
The hurtful words that brought
Me to his door,
And the more cautious ones.

A saviour was born this year.
My child,
And although I
May not get to see him this Christmas
Morning he will
Forever remain my Messiah.

Sunday, 20 December 2009


In the shower today the soap dish held the residue
Of the last six bars used
As I reviewed the year:
Stuart Broad’s devastating spell at the Oval,
World Cup qualification,
Phil Taylor’s domination,
The Road read,
Athlete’s Black Swan,
Mr. Eastwood’s latest on the big screen,
Miyazaki’s unseen,
Cinema in town for the first time in a generation,
Separating and returning and
Eventually learning the error of that course
And initiating divorce.
My sister’s kid getting uppity and fleeing,
My sister agreeing to it,
Friends leant upon and abused
Lost and then found,
Leaving their lovers,
Climate obsessions,
And generally feeling the decade
Couldn’t end too soon to renew itself
As these words will wilt upon my shelves,
Good food,
A little wealth,
And drinking like a bastard when I’ve had to.
And suddenly I’m purged,
And cleansed again.

Saturday, 19 December 2009


With a sycophant’s laugh,
And a creased photograph,
We marched
To the tune
Of another;

Who with conceited dash,
And a preference for cash,
Would snatch
The heirlooms
Of their lover.

In the hovels of love,
And the grounds up above,
We moved
With the legs
Of dejection,

And with nothing to prove,
And the cogwheels to move,
Their fumes
Bore the stench
Of rejection.

And the mess that remained,
Of our bodies once flamed,
Was strained
Thru the sieves
Of the future,

Until nothing but grain,
And the hope it contained,
To forgive

Friday, 18 December 2009


I will lay awake all night for you,
And make a pilgrimage to your door;
From darkness
To day
I will stay until you sleep.

I will be intimate from distance,
Entranced by the sound of your breath;
From your depths
To mine
I‘ll acquire good timing.

I will call you in your morning,
And gently rouse you out of bed;
From your feet
To the car,
And accompany you south.

I will await your response all day,
And reply in kind till you’re through;
From employment
To home
I will cruise with your voice.

I will love you as long as I live,
In the highs and the lows of the day;
From my heart
To your heart,
And everywhere in-between.

Thursday, 17 December 2009


I haven’t seen my son for two weeks
And as the wife isn’t speaking to me,
And talking through the daughter is awful,
I can see the period increasing.

This is why I sought divorce advice,
And was told to leave it until
After Christmas,
But as I’m missing him already why wait.

And it looks as though she’s received a letter already,
As she called sobbing to say I may have brought
Her low but I would never take her children,
In best brave-heart fashion.

But all I want is access without her stressing when,
Although I would raise him if I could,
And do a better job than she unclouded as I am
By doubt and in tune my own personality.

And capable of independent thought I’d thrive,
Although my choice in wives
Leaves a lot to be desired,
And I’m not the finest listener.

But these are not the issues here, Harry is,
And if it’s had to become legal this season
Then so be it and I will have to clear out and wish
That bitch a Wary Christmas and Tattered New Year.

Wednesday, 16 December 2009


A requirement to share
Has found me with barely
To spare,
Has laired

Itself in me
For years
Without my knowledge,
And sees
To it
I give

With every drop
Of blood that stops
My heart
From hopping
To the farthest
Of loss

I will prove
Myself to you,
And what is left
I will use
In the best
Of truth.

Tuesday, 15 December 2009


My realm flares;
There’s a gleam in its eye
As the horizon smiles back,
And although we’re in different lands
We’re in the same place,
And whatever day
It is,
As long
You grace it,
It’s today,
And however much
You need me
It is not enough
To breed fear as I will never leave,
Regardless of
The peaks and troughs
Of weeks and months.
I’ll be the one with the waiting mouth
And nobody will break my smile.
I love you severely;
Not to the ends of myself,
But from the beginning,
And though I have
A history of suicidal relationships
The monster
Responsible for those
Disgraceful trips
Has left me
With my new travelling companion.

Monday, 14 December 2009


I feel a sudden lack of faculty;
As though there are no more words available
When I find I’m in need of
A saleable few
To trade me through to year’s end.

I’m stumbling over the simplest of lines;
Falling face first over the tape because the worst
Of frailty has clamped me
In its hands and
Is threatening to strangle me.

And I don’t know why, as I’m happier
Than I have been for the longest time this year.
Maybe confidence has ponced
Me out once too often,
And softened my deference mechanisms,

And I can’t reason the difference
Between joy and voyeurism, or it could be that
I’m so determined to get it right
I’ve forgotten how to
Recognize insights I once knew by heart.

Or maybe I’ve just spat out all my
Passion and have no lasting thoughts to seal
These remaining weeks.
Maybe I should wait
Until you return home tell you how I truly feel.

Sunday, 13 December 2009


You want equality?
You want to feel what we feel?
Well who gives you that?
We do.
You’re not strong enough to fight for it;
To take it for yourselves.
You’re not the Papa polar bear who eats his own cubs,
I am.
So don’t fucking pretend that you understand
Our chosen roles.
Come to me with sense,
If you wish,
And ask what it’s like
To strive after your heart’s desire
Only to be told its passion has burned at the coal face;
It’s legacy has left you;
It’s labour has been disabled,
And I’ll tell you.
But you won’t will you?
You peck from the edges;
Snide from the sides
Until you’ve emasculated all that was ever man.
Embittered him to things that were his.
Slipped doubt into certainty.
Turned him around until he’s faint.
So I hope you’re happy when doors
Are left closed before you,
And you don’t get paid enough,
And all the politeness that was in his heart
Has been rudely exhumed,
And we are all left less of us.

Saturday, 12 December 2009


I’ve one mouth and two feet and
There’s still room enough in it for a third
If you should care to lend me one.

Whatever I say is scraped from my face as
Dogshit these days even when intended to be helpful.

Upsetting you is becoming easier
It would appear, and that’s due to either my
Inconsiderate tongue or your discreet ears.

And the more I try to smooth your worried
Mind the more wretched creases my mouth creates;

The higher I pitch my words the further
Away they are, and loftiness is costly when
Misheard from the depths you dwell in.

And there has been no word from you for
These past few days and I fear for my child’s safety.

But I will not allow your moods to engage
Mine anymore; too long a time has been
Spent this year senselessly leant on you.

So the next time you choose to evaluate
Me I suggest you consider that unopened letter first,

And in doing so realize the reason you are
Alone, and apparently depressed, is that you
Pushed me sufficiently far enough away to stay.

Friday, 11 December 2009


Essentially I need to
Re-establish my identity,
As you,
Who six weeks ago
Knew little of me, have
Energized me to such an
Extent that I want to live again;

To surround myself with
The everyday apparatus
Of an operator
Who knows exactly
What attracts him,
And in order to achieve it
Must submerge himself again

In the mundane waves
Of commerce and travel:
Driving licence
And passport torture;
Running the course of
Regular employment and
The toys it allows to be purchased.

And to make you feel like
The only lover ever needed,
Complete with as
Clear a picture of me
As there has ever been,
Or will be, cast upon this land
I once wandered unknown and lost.

Thursday, 10 December 2009


It’s surprising what you can do with one hand,
Especially when telephones are clamped
To ears and attention spans
Are elsewhere.

I’ve learned to entertain myself in tandem
With her who in turn has stamped
Her authority on my land
Line all night whilst

Eating and drinking and opening closures
And trying hard to avoid exposing
Our slightly swollen
Fruit to the air;

Masquerading amidst the delightful supposes
Of networks either social or alone,
And suddenly exploding
Everything open:

Here is my love, and I am in awe of her spirit,
As flown free these past weeks with it
I’ve felt the hand of God lift
Me even higher,

And there are no ceilings to impose limits
Now; no out of bounds for me to visit
As I now know that we’re gifted
To use both hands.

Wednesday, 9 December 2009


So the superstores have begun
Their annual crusade to give away enough beer
To ensure we can’t recall which country we populate,
Or how poorly we’re doing within it.
2 crates for 16 quid, or 3 for 20,
Well why not then,
Thank you sir,
And please return for more.
No doubt we will,
And even with a perfunctory taxi ride
To return it safely
It’s worth every penny,
And even though it will only
Last a day or two,
There’ll be further trips to secure more.
And what’s that I here you say,
Why do it if I don’t approve?
Well because I’m as mindful as you of the fact that if
I don’t get in there, and get my share, then some
Other greedy bastard will.

Tuesday, 8 December 2009


It was a Tuesday morning
As I was readying for school when
My Mother said “They’ve killed John Lennon”
And I shook my head a little and thought “Who?”
It was the way she’d said they
That intrigued me a little,
And set a fourteen year old misfit on his way.

I was familiar with McCartney,
And had heard of Ringo, even George
Rang a bell, but Lennon had evaded me for some
Reason, but once the media had seeded his image in
Me I discovered the music and
Used it to assist me safe
Through the awkward teenage phase that followed.

I’d often wondered who would
Generate the most press upon their
Death and it turned out to be him, and since
That fateful day I’ve learnt more from this man than
Any other save my father, and
Even learnt the art of being a
Pa from Lennon’s house husband lustrum.

And nearly thirty years later
I’m still able to imagine the world
With him in it, perched as he was to return,
No doubt trailing the Earth with him as he sweeps
Up its issues and bruises our egos
With them, and reminds us,
Every once in a while, that all we need is love.

Monday, 7 December 2009


Far away,
In a venerated place,
An angel sat awaiting
His calling.

Presently a message was badly
Scratched across heaven’s screens:
Help needed,

Stations were activated and
Orders were passed along golden lanes,
But our new eudemon,
Anticipating his moment, was overlooked.

After the whistles had hissed, and bells
Compelled, the mist in the halls became incarnate to
Reveal the garnered souls whose woe had so excited the host,
And there, from end to end, all humanity attended;

All save the sender of distress. So after questions
Were asked of the circumstances, and answers were unable to
Unveil the truth, our young saint, still reeling from being unheeded,
Took matters into his own hands.

Deciding to land he set for Earth but finding
It barren he searched for a sign. Underneath a now crowded
Sky he reached into the planet’s flanks and in the soiled
Confines of an orphanage he found the reason:

A small child, sitting in its mess, and left for days to
Confess wishes to the world, had hurled them at
The sky, demanding better, and getting it;
Alone beneath the stars with his own guardian.

Sunday, 6 December 2009


I’ve been to distant halls,
And up to those doors where
Doubt employed curiosity to ward us,
But I still went forward

To the rooms inside where
Pride enjoys his past and imagines
A suitable future for his pawns to wander,
Regardless of their longings.

The far shores have called,
And several have had more of me
Than they ought to, intentionally or not,
But I’ve returned intact.

Made a pact with so many
Present tensions not to enact my
Current self upon their stretched surfaces,
And have still left my mark.

I’ve wished upon the sun,
And its sisters, whose pull has kissed
Me deeper than my own planet’s delights,
But has not yet invited me.

Keep sakes have been promised
To list makers in lieu of tomorrows new
Humility smiling kindly upon my adventures,
And sending me you,

And then today came to stay,
Instead of treading lightly past in case
I noticed, and with it flowed your coat tails which
Were there to be hitched.

Saturday, 5 December 2009


I live in the cloud shade of Drax Power station,
The largest coal fired variety in Western Europe,
And alone responsible for 8% of Britain’s energy,
Regardless of the additional vigour of its two brothers.

If you were to stop atop Boothferry Bridge, which pitches
The M62 over the Ouse, you’d see the three of them spreading
Towards Leeds and realize just how much this country needs their
Electricity even as they cough carbon into the atmosphere’s garden.

But this is the cost isn’t it, the price of our hypocrisy,
When we spout about the planet and its green scenery
We do so from the comfort of our heated seats and podiums
And seldom ask if winter could be passed with less thermostat.

And when we do request less usage it’s seldom only mooted by
The rich and famous fools who shoot around the globe in private
Jets just to let us know the urgency of their concern, and whose own
Palaces are insulated with enough walls to afford less warmth inside.

And though ordinary soldiers of ecology are similarly
Horrified by our species’ waste, they handle their appeals
A little better and try to set their arguments in the real world
Instead of expecting us to burn fat in order to stay warm in winter.

But what do I know; I walk everywhere and never fly, central
Heating is unknown in my abode and I only speak when spoken
To so my footprint is limited to a slight indentation, although as I’m
The proudest of Yorkshire’s men I really should hate its smoking guns.

Friday, 4 December 2009


It’s my wedding anniversary today.
Five years since we cleared the decks,
Made our pacts
And matched names.
Half a life sentence these days,
And quite possibly the biggest mistake
I ever made.

Still if it’s taught me one thing it’s
That alcohol and proposals
Don’t mix,
So I think I’ll stick to tonic
In my gin from now on.

And, if you’ll allow one further thought,
I’ll climb out of my caring suit
And into my
Fuck you boots
To list the last five years’ worth
Of anniversary gifts she gave:

1st paper
2nd straw
3rd leather
4th books
5th wood.

And I’m thinking,
The perfect ingredients
For a bonfire.

Thursday, 3 December 2009


I’m 43 years old, 6‘2 tall, 230 pounds.
Shortsighted and slightly deaf in my right ear,
Although I have been both for 30 years.
I have a plate in my mouth with 4 false teeth, top front,
The victims of bad genes, removed when I was sixteen.
My lower rack is held in place with plaque and currently
The members on the left of my mouth’s chamber are inflamed.
My hair is slightly receding, although there are no apparent
Bald spots yet, and will probably soon be whiter than my smile.
My frame has always been a little stooped and my knees knock
When I cook, which I enjoy as much as writing.

As a teenager I experienced great angst
And suffered from a genuine belief in solipsism and
The possibility that I might murder somebody, or even
Myself. Education never failed me; I abandoned it and
Subsequently wandered into work I disliked. I eventually
Found I could handle Shipping and forwarding concerns and
A few good ports called. My love life, after starting ideally, fell
Foul of reality’s announcements and I travelled far and wide for
Labour and a wife, but after finding them I found neither were
Quite right, although my son was the result of both and I have
Betrothed myself to his well being until I crumble.

But to be fair I have no ill health. Diabetes
Has seen fit to leave me alone and my cholesterol is low;
No asthma or allergies, no hay fevers or aches, no muscle pains,
No pills popped or drugs used and though alcohol and cigarettes
Bet me I can’t, I fucking could quit them if I wanted to. A slight heart
Flutter when I’m sober, a wart in an awkward place and a recently
Discovered abdominal pain, along with occasional gout, are my
Great doubts. And of course my son has made me a better man to
Face my remaining days, and death has made me stronger even as it
Took my father, and I have now left myself upon this list to let you
Know as much of me as there has ever been to know.

Wednesday, 2 December 2009


So it’s all out now then,
And headlong to the end.
Downhill until carved in
Stone at the foot of the year,
Near the new rock of the next;
Building to a conclusion
That will fuse with a structure
To hold it intact and eternal.

And I will decline to change the
Facts of it once burned into the
Backs of actors to recite in their sleep;
These are my not so secret thoughts,
Forced through the keyboards sieve,
And living for the best part of the year
In a vacuum, and come the finishing
Line they’ll bloom in oration’s use.

Everybody has got to have an opinion,
Just as long as it’s mine, as I’ve been told
Over time and come to believe, and now,
Nearing the 21st Century’s second decade,
Most of the people I hate are me anyway,
Disguised as someone else; my viciousness has
Been an inch from surfacing all year, bitterness
Begging me for freedom, until now, and this late hour.

Tuesday, 1 December 2009


Let me be alive
To see you grown.

Let me know that
Truth rejuvenates.

Let me prove our
Little histories false.

Let me miss less of
Your night journeys.

Let my sight catch
Every crease’s birth.

Let me greet you in
Hardships cold yard.

Let me hold you at
The end and rejoice.

Let me voice anger
There one last time.

Let me care for you
As I have been loved.

Let me be free of land
And it’s inhabitants.

Let me grab what ladders
Trail beneath the sky.

Let me know that my
Life was worthy of yours.

Monday, 30 November 2009


This is for you
My friend,
My enemy,
My love.

Myself made male.
Railing against the world and
It’s curtains;
Carrying hearts upon green leaved sleeves
That I gave you.

This is built
For you,
Spilt with the milk of my
Blind kindness.

I treasure you like the brother
I never had,
Like the partner in crime
That we were,
Like the fire we burned and turned to ash
And passed into compost.

This is created in
Your image,
In transience and loyalty;
For all the times I never called,
Or thought I would,
Or ignored you,
Or forgot to tell you
How very much you have always meant to me,
And how dearly I love you.

For Kev.

Sunday, 29 November 2009


An auspicious day awakes;
It’s my dear sister’s birthday,
Whose worthy ways exist to make mine
Better and who still insists that cards must be sent
And that the pleasantness of presents remains,
And whose day officially announces
The arrival of Christmas.

I still remember her 21st
Celebration back in ’82 when, as a
Youth, and in love for the first time, I drank the
Juice of Eve’s fruit and broke sobriety’s heart, and
Age, which towers over all, carried me
Home to my parents and handed
Them back a man.

The seasonal tree will go up
Today and, as in the previous few years,
It’s the one I delicately carried to the spare room
On the 6th of January; it will be unrobed and guided
Down the stairs so as not to dislodge
The baubles that my dear father
Placed there before he left.

And Jayne feels this loss more
From the distance she is and though
The tenderness of her address is never
Mentioned it’s always there whenever we share
This date apart, and half my heart goes
To her in the post with a couple
Of hopeful scratch cards.

For Jayne Kellett.

Saturday, 28 November 2009


She was fiddling in Rome
And almost fell out of bed,
And a sex concussion would have been the least
Of her worries in the face of the fire that was raging
Inside her, but she hitched herself back into position
And took up her mission again.

Though mixing drink with
Fingers at that time of night
Is going to slur any work, but after what seemed
Like a minor imperial reign she eventually came and,
Overwhelmed, fell off to sleep only to wake shaken and
Aching and tender as a tickle.

After rising and deciding
To tackle the wheel of her car
She didn’t get far before having to stop and drop
Her guts in a road side ditch, the dizzy mare should
Have taken care of business before attempting to forage,
But then she is a novice;

Booze should be left to the
Select few who can metabolize
It correctly instead of those who drag their prose
All over its supposed benefits and end up spending
The following day trying to remember exactly where
They did and didn’t get fucked.

Still I love her with all the
Might that Caesar could muster
When he blustered his way across the Rubicon and
Sealed his fate, and if I eventually fall like the empire
Fell then it will have been worth every minute of heaven
And hell that she put me through.

Friday, 27 November 2009


It’s not him
I’ve left,
It’s her,

But when

In pain
She sets
To stir,

And all

Her games
And threats

The ones

That blame,
And let
Me burn,

And in

Those flames
My sweat
Is heard


She drains

Thursday, 26 November 2009


Imagine that your hand is mine,
And mine is yours,
And their voyages
Are already plotted;

That their movements,
Which appeared to be our own,
Are actually each others,
And inclined to refuse us.

Their destinations are obvious,
But the lingered skin
Between is suppler
And takes more of their course,

And as ageless conversation
Passes with the grace of patience,
These hands wander
Onwards towards their ends.

Eventually to reach their mark,
And start to work
As we intended,
Mending any sense of doubt;

They’re in and out; up and down,
They’re making frowns
A long forgotten aspect
Of newly acquired faces,

And upon each other’s bidding
Take us where love’s hidden
Filters collect
Impassioned breath.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009


I come to write about today
But find my thoughts stuck
A quarter of a century ago,
When a few musos grouped
Together and made a little
Tune for Africa, whose long
Drought had clouded the
Land of Ethiopia in hunger
And privation and urgent aid
Was needed. And if in cynicism
We now live I still remember
The elation I felt at this event;
The minister for red tape had
Been evaded, taxes waived
And within a week the crowded
Sound was everywhere and
Instant music soothed us all.
The following year a concert
In north London brought the
World together for a day and
Made more options possible,
Paving the road of 80’s greed
With hope, if only for a short
While, and sweeping aside
The governance of suffering.
More was made of man in such
A short time than had been
Before or would do afterwards,
And even as the World has
Supposedly grown wiser so has
Its appetite increased and it
Now falls to us to try and feed it.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009


Extend yourself a little
And be amazed how much
More you can achieve,
Even fleetingly,
When you never intended invention,
Or considered creation,
And when you felt energy
Had fled possession.

Hold that thought and
Exhale it with an aim in mind,
A determined kind and
Begin to imagine,
To believe,
Yourself capable of releasing fully,
Of easing your schedule into being,
And furthering purposes
Hitherto sullied.

Reach for the ceiling;
Through the walls and windows
That have pre-supposed
Your life for you,
Your order;
Past the fields that conceal life’s edges,
The fences set to strengthen your cage,
And into the remaining
Unknown stretches.

Monday, 23 November 2009


To drink
And be drunk,
And receive,
And be rung,
And believe.

And convulse,
And exclaim,
And be dumb,
And again.

And be took,
And be thawed,
And be loved,
And be caught.

And be brave,
And exhale,
And attain,
And dovetail.

Sunday, 22 November 2009


I’m sat in a never ending state
Of heart break and repair,
And today I’m attempting to mend,
But tomorrow the wind will blow holes through her hair
And she’ll allude to me again,

And my guilt will be spilled
Down the telephone line.
I will have to disconnect it just to
Get a bit of peace and quiet in front of the riot that is the
Union match this afternoon,

And though I get the many
Laws of cricket the rules
Of rugby still puzzle me even after
All these years, but I’d love to stuff her at the bottom of a
Scrum or haul her into a maul.

Man has no more nobler
Critic than the hissing
Bitch he married in a fit of drink
Induced haze, and left in charge of his children when he
Couldn’t stand her grandeur,

And who now dangles them
In front of me when the
Merest whiff of illness or disease
Appears to sheathe them, or ignores my calls the following
Day after being shouted at.

And now after grinding and
Grating a plate full of
Bubble and squeak I may find the
Tranquility I need to address my shattered cardiac gasket
And kick start its basking.

Saturday, 21 November 2009


An obsession with
Seamless alabaster skin,
And the perfect frames
It’s covering will no doubt
Be my undoing,

And as sun-kissed
Hides file past I find
Myself gasping at their
Fastenings and wondering
What I ever saw in cream;

And when Asian and
Oriental wonders of the
Female world uncurl
Their legs in my direction
I’m phallically affected.

And ochre tones lay
Me prone in the closed
Company of memories
Of African women
Chasing me upstairs.

And then I’m spared
Any embarrassment by
The fact that all the
Attractive men have
Beaten me there, again.

Friday, 20 November 2009


The world may turn to hurt me;
To nip and nick
Or peck
And pick me off,
But it will not profit,
For once I’m gone
I will be everywhere:
When it rains I’ll cry,
When it blows I’ll sigh,
When it shines I’ll smile
And come night I’ll lie with you,
And screen your dreams.
When you touch the ground
I’ll reach back,
When you hop
I’ll skip into the space beneath to cushion you,
And when you’re sad
I’ll make a better mood for you
And smooth your path.
And who I am,
My being,
My heart and soul,
My body and mind
Will go beyond the sky
And join the higher universe,
And in communion return to
My beloved forbears.
But I will always,
Be inside you,
In every memory and mention,
Every sense and sentence,
Every atom of my character,
Every second of my attendance
Has been, and always will be, yours.

Thursday, 19 November 2009


There’s a cinema in the town,
A picture house, a flix,
And for the first time in thirty years
A big screen can be seen by walking to it,
And the train can be used for other things,
Although, no doubt, less people will choose to do so
And the station will close because of it;
Irony always requires a victim,
And on this occasion I may well be complicit
In providing one because I will promote this palace
With all my heart and soul until every King, Queen and pawn
Roll through its doors and are reborn.

And even if it moonlights as a
Theatre at the weekend
Its celluloid adventures are as welcome
As an old friend and as magical as memory recalls;
Its new canvas is as grand as any hanging, and its sound
As proud, and I don’t mind a play or two anyway.
Since I was younger than my daughter
My thoughts have wandered the stalls of a nostalgic fleapit,
With its back row communities,
And now I don’t need to envisage, just visit,
And she’ll have a place to take a date to someday,
Like they do in the movies.

For the Junction.

Wednesday, 18 November 2009


So this is the one
I struggle
To double;

To make more sense
Of than
A clause’s length,

Or mention an incident
From the day
Worthy of awe’s remembrance:

An adventure steeped in
My personal luck
And backed by the public’s appreciation;

An inspiration created more than a thousand
Miles away in the mid west
Or passed hand to mouth to me from breath;

An invention of my trade, made flesh and paged for
Next year's eyes to flash upon one
Long afternoon with nothing better to do than read,

And be grateful to the writer for delighting in simple props
Rather than stewing over the cubed blocks that
Were bottlenecking progress to the next day’s wonderful phrases.

Tuesday, 17 November 2009


We concluded our talk and decided
To work in some order,
So that if,
In future dialogues,
We should be reduced
To screaming
We would choose reverse,
Having consulted
Each other first.
Or if blows were thrown upon
Proceedings then
We would refuse to meet
Them with our own,
And martyrdom
Would show us
The error of our ways.
And if,
God forbid,
It came to plates,
And knocking crockery
Across each other’s brow,
Then we agreed to each pick a
Place it in the
And see,
Upon delivery,
Whose saucer was most
And therefore win the heat.
How sensible men and women are
When there is 3,000 miles
Worth of swimming
Between them.

Monday, 16 November 2009


Out in the night,
In the sealed evening,
And suddenly up above me
Flashes of ash
In the stagnant heights,
But it’s only the ghosts
Of a lamppost reflecting
From telephone wires
Narrating the tales of their day
As they are lit up.

And in the cold,
This little English pall,
I stall and stand cigarette still
As air leaves
My mouth and folds
Into the history of
Clouds above the mist,
And I’m tapped on the
Shoulder and asked for a light,
Which I don’t have.

And in that stretch,
That century of seconds,
I’m reminded that I was due at
The store for my
Nightly case of etched
Facial lines and
Early morning calls,
And tonight, for the
First time in a week, I may just
Buy some smokes.

Sunday, 15 November 2009


In the dark you teach me,
And your tutelage leaks into the day,
Where such young mornings live,
And gives wisdom a face.

Unfolding emotions from inanimate
Matter where they curled
Furtively all those years ago,
Closing borders
And sealing their rawness in;
Lead lined and binding my replies.

This you’ve been able to do;
All my denials dug through and earth
Turned, and you have opened me to
Your newly released urgency.

So please stand upon the last handsome
Point of your Eastern seaboard
Whilst I hit upon the west most
Tip of Britain
And let us scream our names to the
Wind and wait till they meet and bind.

Saturday, 14 November 2009


The hallway is empty now
Where his pram had been standing
For the last four hours.
Harry is gone home,
And my soul bleeds through
Tight veins
Made paper thin by rain
Inside that escapes
From my

My arms are lighter now
After he had fallen asleep there
And woke refreshed.
Smiling when he rises,
When he rests, when his life
Its innermost trust,
And covers me
With its

My heart is barren now
Before the night, and the next,
Till he calls round again.
Gaining in his fight with
Gravity, aiming for a head’s
Height in
Order to draw
Me more to
His blue

Friday, 13 November 2009


My hair surgeon made a suggestion,
Recommending I try harder to be truthful
And farther from the stars of imaginary space,
So I placed myself at love’s mercy;
Prostrated my shape beneath her gaze
And lamented the number of months
I’d wasted collecting age.

The private deals life makes with you
Whilst asleep are impacting upon the
Future now that it has arrived, and I’m in
Middle of it, but as my love smiles in
Isolation I mirror her in punctuation, and we
Thank God almighty for the inventiveness
Of his secret servants.

And my son and I will exchange places
In the night, not so very far ahead: my hair
Recedes as his breeds, my teeth crash as his
Flash, my eyes dim, his gleam
And as my strength fails his will prevail
And he’ll end up carrying me through
The dawn of the next new day.

I’ve still not grieved for my father’s loss;
I’ve been putting it off. I’ve not suffered
Like I should have, like I would have had I
Thought more. But sudden death
Measures you, and with time it’s easier to deal
With; sweeter now I’ve got some hardcore
Love, top shelf stuff, supporting me.

Thursday, 12 November 2009


Are at the end of the word on the screen;
Answer beneath, and
Are between.

Am on the phone at the end of the lead;
Answer with breath, and
Are agreed.

Are at the end of the road and its yield;
Answer to greet, and
Are Revealed.

Am on the floor at the end of the week;
Answer my reach, and
Are complete.

Wednesday, 11 November 2009


So how do I write silence?
Try to represent the
Emptiness of a blank page,
Or repeat the word 160 times
To fill 2 minutes (I counted).

Address a thesaurus for
More sonorous
Adjectives to scream ‘Be quiet’
With from my type,
Or gripe about the lack of
Respect this
Simple institution fetches
Now, and whether
To partake of it upon the
Nearest Sunday
Cenotaph commemoration
Or on the day itself.

Attempt to be profound,
But no doubt
In the depths of this opinion
Sound as thin as
The letters minted here.

Or simply ask you,
My dear friend, not to speak
Of this piece or
Note it; never read it aloud
Or re-post it
But instead linger now for
The right
Amount of reverential seconds.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009


At the end of an arm’s length
Is another, and it’s
Connected to the mystery that is
The other.

That most rough cut mould, that soul parcel,
Partnered by a heart,
Marshaled by a mind and bent to

Tendered by desire’s armies
And calmed by the bruising music of
Human contact, or inflamed
By the same.

Swarming across the Earth in
Numbers unseen before in a
Being as evolved of form
As this,

Whilst each little glitter
Piece is individual to the point of
Repulsion from the majority
Of the mass.

But just ask me my name,
Paint words and facts and bridge the gap,
And slip behind my eyes
And ears and mask,

And entwine you fingerprints
With mine, deciphering the hidden
Self and helping solve
The crime of emptiness.

Monday, 9 November 2009


The glass screen flared with images
Operated elsewhere,
Transmitted by the littlest things
And whistling to us their condition.
Canvases changed with age, replaced
With plasma and crystal displays,
And the images inflamed;
Coloured and cleaned and screaming.

We passed the information from these,
And newspapers
And magazines, onto each other
Via keys and computer rebootings
Until the shapes of events had been
Sent back to themselves and, with
Impact, altered
The output of their original acts.

The ignorant world for once heard
What was being
Said of it and remedied its visuals,
And we good folk boasted of our
Roles, and told taller tales to all who
We mailed, but when more were
Falsely conceived we
Declared war on the story weavers.

Sunday, 8 November 2009


The Cenotaph stands
For all those hands to reach
Back from the land of the dead
And receive our token red gestures.

The blood of foreign fields
Where ran and kneeled and fell
The keenest of all, who still do so in desert
States more distant where other poppies fester.

Shelter by the entity of this great
Shape and wait to place your blotted
Paper wreath in celebration and mourning,
And remember the loss of all our glorious ancestors.

Saturday, 7 November 2009


Your pants
Are past your arse
And being rolled like
Homemade Cuban cigars
Down your inner thighs,
Until they land
In the sand that escaped
From my sleeves when I started
Handling these dreams;
Such a time it’s been since I found myself
Graced by this sight.
I have to wipe away the stain of water
From my eye corners, so wide are they
Being made, and wider still
Are smiles until
They puncture cheek space
And muscles brace themselves
For more.
Certain words were
Invented to
Prevent us from
Learning a vocabulary
Above our station, and the profanity
Of ages falls from my tongue
As it touches your cunt,
And all fresh and fruity,
I’m not going anywhere, for it’s my duty
To the room to stay as groomed as possible,
And race you
Onto our mutual bus.

Friday, 6 November 2009


Feel like the shiver that shook God's liver and
Told him to get off his fat drunken arse and make
A world for fools to pool in.

Feel like the first soul out of heaven's hanger who's
Been floating around the mansions of the world
Looking for a body to attach itself to.

Feel like the found person who trespassed on the
Surface of the Earth and was asked to stay,
As long as he would love it forever.

Feel like a kid who just fell from his mother's tit,
And landed in the arena of surely must have
Beens, and was handed its key.

Feel like the never was who found the door to the
Ever is and entered it without even knocking
Upon it's ornate surface.

Feel like the last person in the class to be told they
Passed the test and that the net that caught the
Best has irreparably burst.

Feel like the end of the rainbow that sowed its
Worth in the stony ground only for it to be found
By the lowliest man in the queue.

Thursday, 5 November 2009


When we remember the Fifth of November
I never forget Guy Fawkes.
For centuries,
By fiat, we were ordered to
Celebrate the deliverance of James
From Gunpowder, treason and plot.
From what was and was not.
But from the harrying to the
Carrying of coal miners’ banners
We’ve been hounded in the North,
By scoundrels and force,
And now even the communal pyres,
Borrowed from All Hallows eve, where we
Used to burn unwanted furniture, have been
Discouraged or altogether outlawed by the
Decrees of Parliament’s disreputable men. Fireworks
Still fly at civic assemblies, but the old message, as
Ever, has been buried beneath the ashes of enterprise.
No more balloon headed effigies wearing last year’s
Clothes and stuffed with straw hauled around the
Neighborhood for pennies, no more runny nosed urchins,
No more searching for reasons behind the barrels.
And even as South Yorkshire Fireman strike, tonight the
Sight of elaborate displays may or may not remind that acts
Of terrorism are as old as the stones, and that the man with
The wick in his hand is not always the one behind the plan.
Guido was from here and I feel a kinship to him and his
Grievance and, though all were eventually strung, he is the
One we recall and name this evenfall after, and some remember him
More fondly these days than the King we were once dragooned to exult.

Wednesday, 4 November 2009


Bang on the door,
And run away,
And of course
Wait for them to say
“Fuck off!”
Before launching
Your eggs at their head.
And when they’ve gone
Transfer the dog shit
From your pocket to
Their letter box
And knock again.
Oh the delights
Of tonight, when our
Mischief ran riot,
And those neighbours
We hated
Were treated to
All manner of
Frivolous vandalisms,
And kept their washing
Lines idle, and a
Bucket of suds
To scrub naughty
Words off walls,
And locked up their
Cats and dogs.
But now there
Appears no need of it,
As its disease has spread
To the rest of the
Year’s evenings,
Where kids are more
Ambitious with
Their viciousness.

Tuesday, 3 November 2009


In the mirror
Is an image of me:
A snapshot of today’s back lot
Where my features try to park
In between lines
That have been singed by time,
And counter signed.

Behind my face,
The face of one who has serially killed
Themself for twenty years,
Is another projection of
Me, another reflection
Bouncing back from the gristle and skin,
And detaching itself;
Peeling from the feelings that
Have bombarded into it,
And imparted

My sinews to you have snapped,
Synapses crashed,
Circuits fried;
Wires tied in differently coloured knots
Are clotted,
And as the awning of my judgement
Pushes itself away from me
I am revealed.

Monday, 2 November 2009


Through the vanguard of the weather’s army
I fought my way to the store;
Lines of leaves advancing at street level as
The remaining tree dwellers unhooked themselves
And made violently for my eyes.
The almost visible wind made a mockery of hat
Wearing, but only glued on baseball caps are seen
These days, and even they’ve stayed out of the streets
In the face of this gale. And eventually the sentinels
Of atmosphere’s memory saw me for the threat my
Feet projected and unleashed their worst upon me.
A shot volley of some distant valley’s rain attempted
To pierce my cheeks, but even water wasn’t up
To the test of another attempt, and relented, and though
There was a distant drum of thunder there was no cymbal
Crash as the last of the day’s persuasions attacked me.
Still it was a short walk, and a smaller list, and with ear
Phones plugged in to avoid the wind’s transmission
And inanities of family shopping days, it would be relatively
Painless. The new two for one’s were on today so for only an extra
Tune’s worth I searched a little longer for something new,
And was gone before the queues increased too much. Shoulders
Hunched with bags full of Sunday supplements and ready
For a harder haul back home, but the fortune of ordinary
Headwinds prevailed, and this one was a tail, and helped
Me along, and with hedge combed hair and arm cables
Straining I made my way in and returned to you.

Sunday, 1 November 2009


All Saints’ Day
Saves my soul from wandering
Too far from
Its carcass,
Strewn funeral like along the couch,
Wherein my mind crouches
From the honourable
Turn of the world,
And its external journeys,
Which do not wish my spirit yet,
And sentence it to
One more revolution at least
Inside the meat of me.

It’s not worthy of walking the
Tread to heaven,
Or taking hell’s elevator,
Not today, good sir,
Not in its current state:
Hounded by the physical effects
Of my psyche’s desires
To the extent that poor ventilation
Suffers it to exhaustion,
And it begs for an exit,
But, as the rest of me, the best of me
Will have to stay and
See this day through.

Saturday, 31 October 2009


The Halloween scene has been
In overdrive here this year;
Every little corner store has stuffed
Itself full of plastic hats and face masks,
And parents have been tugged until empty
Collecting them along with pumpkins,
And who the hell eats those in England.
And it’s not even a tradition in these parts,
Unlike Mischievous night,
Which follows it,
And Bonfire night immediately after that.
It seems to have been slipped into the schedule
Simply to bump up sales figures as the purchase of
Fireworks has been falling since the noise Police
Curtailed their availability.
Five years ago rockets flew from late
September, and fire crackers were
Slung over every hedge, accompanied by shouts
Of ‘Incoming’, but the naysayers have clamped down
On them and now they barely fizzle for ten minutes.
Still I’ll have a handful ready should
Any shoddily dressed wretch of a witch or
Goole town ghost propose to trick or
Treat me on my doorstep.

Friday, 30 October 2009


Her velvet dressed kiss
Withstood the bristle of my face
To place itself where intended,
And the sackcloth of my
Posture prospered at the touch.

A germ of colour was
Nourished and stretched across
The colourless; a frost was thawed
And treated to the warmth
That only comes from another.

Stooped and stolen
Shoulders commuted with the aims
Of their creator, and a spine,
So hard to find before,
Emerged from previous curves worn.

Love would never lean so
Low again to advance a mouth, or
Stand to reach, and freely clamp me
To the land I’d given
Forfeiture to instead of title;

For I thought only the idle
Cushioned themselves in the confined
Dimensions of the Earth’s good surface;
Born and bred and spread
Over every certain contour met,

Whilst I had hidden skyward;
Wandered on the scent of mechanisms
Risen from the stew once mixed with
Elemental breath, instead
Of breathing my being into it.

Thursday, 29 October 2009


She’s a mother,
A daughter,
A sister,

And is proud
Of this list.

She also has
A mother,
A daughter,
A sister,

And is good
At these kinships.

But there’s one
That is missing
From the ticket,

That she isn’t
Any good at,

Or particularly
Proud of,

And that is

Wednesday, 28 October 2009


The daughter and I getting giddy at the
Thought of new outfits for Harry; on the town
With a pocket full of finance and a keen
Eye out for what he doesn’t know he wants,
But we do. And when we think we’ve cracked it,
And our basket’s full, a glint catches an eye’s corner;
On the table, a navy blue puffed jacket, not his size,
But breathlessly we check beneath until we’ve caught
Our prize and then into the net it goes. We take him
To a hamburger restaurant for his bottle, but he doesn’t
Want simple milk supplements, he’s eyed the pile of
Meat patties and his eyes are no bigger than his belly,
So he sucks the juice from one corner and the producers
Of fast food appear to have another follower at their altar,
Regardless of whether he eats healthily for six days a week.

Stacked and packed and paid and out into
The pre-Christmas pantomime of the streets
We go, needling our way through the flow of
This bedraggled mass of South Yorkshire’s
Track suited finest; all mulling whether to buy now
And save time or wait for more fortune later, when the
Markets will be overflowing with bargains. The
Food stalls already are: an arsenal of every seasonal
Vegetable stacked in pyramids and traditional wooden
Boxes; a veritable cacophony of western staples straining
Traders’ patience and appealing for your table and, hidden
Inside the old Corn store, everything except the hooves, hides
And horns of animals are sliced for every conceivable palette,
And I just know this ballet of ours will run until my kids are full,
And my wallet bemoans the fact that I didn’t pack it well enough.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009


I’m trying to find myself.

Somewhere along the sad paths
I seem to have lost my way.

As with most people
I never intended to journey there,
But now I’m floundering.

Even if I’d skirted a verge or two
In the past I always drew back
And made the best of happiness
However beggarly attended.

But for some reason,
I appear to have strayed
Too far into their range; the pull
Of some indignity must have
Distracted me,
To allow my feet to wander,
And now they’ve shed their steps
And cannot retrace them.

So help me.


Won’t you throw what lines you can,
Or organize a party to fan out
And encounter me.

I would appreciate it,
And thank you personally.

Monday, 26 October 2009


I poured a better mood
And washed the wreck of
My bird pecked face, laving deeply
Enough to scrape star lit whiskers away.

Taking a tumbler full
Of stronger stuff from its bottle
I set to make a mention of my day,
Though nothing untoward had braved it.

Still there was a duty
To the future, to be cute about
The past, or maybe spit to be spat
At a particular part of it worth the matter.

I sat in a non sequined
Garment unable to find one
Good answer for the page’s rancor,
Though what caused its anger I don’t know:

I had done my dance
For the day, medicated my
Rage with enough cynicism to kiss
It better and whetted a protestor’s appetite,

But still inspiration
Failed my quill, and as the
Deadline of night fast approached
I had to use notes I’d taken yesterday instead.

Sunday, 25 October 2009


And roll back the clock
For another hour in time’s line,
And if you do it
At two this morning,
And stay awake,
You get to live those sixty minutes again
And make amends
For any mistakes made;
You get to take another swing
At things.
So when the phone rings
You may fancy not
Answering it,
And when she says no
You’ll be ready for the blow
And know when
The conversation ends,
And what’s around the bend
Will not offend anymore
As every green light
Will be brighter.
So enjoy these post
Midnight ghosts
As you only get them once a year.

Saturday, 24 October 2009


I’ve always loved a belly met
And have brass rubbings of them all:
The ones I rather would forget,
The ones I can’t recall;
The sainted virginal expanse,
The whore’s from the rocky road;
The tightest tucked into its pants,
The one that overflows.

A lattice work of hills and vales;
The vein work of a woman’s coat,
Upon my paper all are traced
Awaiting future notes:
This one deserves a perfect mark;
This other an even seven;
This next was taken in the dark,
A zero out of ten.

And what I left for ladies loved
I barely have to ponder on,
A chart of times spent up above
Or when they rapt were on;
For in control I rarely made
It dry into a Chapter House,
But underneath my name was saved;
A saddle to espouse.

So all the women I have known,
Whichever base we made it to,
I wish you love if you’re alone,
And happiness if wooed,
And when I find the time to look
At my collection of etchings,
I often wish I’d not mistook
Wonderful for wretched.

Friday, 23 October 2009


In a dip
Was a drop
Of my love

I floated

But upon
A bump into
You I found
Its need

Reached into
My bag for
Its hand,

But it
Wasn’t there,
And we stood

Because of
Neglect you

And the
Dip, with its
Drop, grew

Thursday, 22 October 2009


Nothing tastes better
Than the petal of a top lip,
Bitten into and bottled;
Nothing lunges like the bottom one,
After been forgotten,
Oft the first one sipped.

Nothing licks like another’s tongue
Longing for the touch of yours
In order to turn itself into a lover’s;
Nothing makes more noise than
The tortoise shell throat it
Tends to swell from when called.

Nothing takes more time to
Distill than the swill from your
Mouth into hers through lips and teeth;
Nothing sieves like the sediment
Extracted from the given drops of
Mouth watered lust pushed back.

Nothing rises and falls like her
Breath, once flush with freshness,
And eventually swept of finesse;
Nothing improves like the loose
Nature of love once caught in
My double wing tipped print.

Nothing sticks like that kiss
Missed for so long and wished
Into existence with its symphonies;
Nothing plays longer or stays
Stronger than the last one made
Before other music soothes.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009


Oh the poor offspring,
With all the vitality of ichor in their
Veins but none of the reins
To enable them to steer it a clear course.

Crippled by doubt
As they are without sufficient social hold
To know how to respond to
The simplest rings life sets for jumping thru.

Slipped of restraints
Or indifferent triffids spitting out spores
And barely moving at all to do it;
Blinded by the lights whilst being hit.

Few words learned;
Nothing remotely resembling poetry
To say; barely a note above
Shopping lists passed between hands.

Swelled by a wealth
Of information and intelligent enough
To use it to achieve ends,
But unsure what to do with them once met.

Either mannered and
Tanned; educated along standard lines
And helped at home by
The strongest shoulders available to cry on

Or the errant, who do not
Have parents, or whose prove poor and
Appalling when there, and
Useless when not, unable to make it on time.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009


There’s a drone outside in
Need of a breath,
A permanent tone,
A plane going over,
And over,
A UFO hoping
To be noticed,
A ship’s horn mourning
The afternoon.
I checked it out:
At the end of the street
Machinery and men
Were eating into it;
Not simply resurfacing the road,
But peeling
Back inches of history
In table sized slabs,
And were currently down to flat caps and cobbles
And horse drawn trap marks.
They appeared determined and equipped
To strip deeper in whatever quest drove them:
Searching for body parts,
Or looking for the Mayor’s lost key maybe,
Or simply scraping to set a better foundation;
Either way the fuckers woke me up.

Monday, 19 October 2009


Two teeth peeking
Out of his little mouth
As mine weaken
In my cavern of howling,
Echoing from the
Wrecked levels of old age
Whilst his kingdom is
The sinecure of youth’s stage;
Baby waves carrying
Him from his slot sided cot
To the barriers in the
Harbour of our Camelot,
Further from myth
And more readable
By the light of his
Eyes in evening’s lull.

A real world incursion
Of our cyber lives
Turned our new versions
Into merchandise;
Incapable of simple tasks
Without instructions,
Or the collection of facts
With actual functions.
He’s already got himself
A heartlist of lovers
Lined up to be shelved
And left up above;
A hit list of us ready
To bust out of the
Modern headspace
We’ve endowed.

Sunday, 18 October 2009


The rug was barely growing
Between my toes when it
Was whipped from beneath me this time,
All I had was a nasty little
Friction burn on the soles
Of my feet instead of a floor scorched face
Left standing, I am better
Placed to survey the scenery
And see the eventual peace pipe arriving.

Because it will, because it
Always has, attached to
A contrite hand cupping its love wood bowl,
Stuffed with the finest filler
She’s willing to blend from
The ends of the previous evening’s cigarettes,
This is the life she offers:
Yesterday’s leftovers; poked
And prodded into tomorrow’s brand new coat.

Saturday, 17 October 2009


They don’t listen from distance,
Or focus up close,
And the mission you’re risking
Is token at most,
As the fate of your labour
Is scorched of reward
And baiting the graves
Only war can afford.

And soon after its draught has
Blown over your cove
All your rafters of laughter
Will soak up their load,
And the sound of surroundings
Will alter and stall
As all around town
Only morticians call.

So remain where the danger
Is smothered by stone
And exchanges can safely
Be moulded alone,
And the touch of another
Is scrawled on the walls
For such is the love
Only forced exile draws.

Friday, 16 October 2009


Another day in the bank;
Another 24 hours to draw on when life thaws
And thankfulness calls.

Somewhere in its minutes
Will be a memory to skim; a remembrance of
Something worth returning to.

Another copper for the small
Change bottle that, alone, is worthless metal
But together a veteran’s decoration.

Steam cleaned and picked of
Rusted links: her dancing in Christmas knickers
As opposed to soiled summer pants;

Stealing a spider’s lunch from
Its web instead of becoming it; seeing ahead of
Events before being read and fled from;

Going to bed and waking refreshed
Rather than having your mind reset, and generally
Bettering oneself before the lenses’ inspection.

Hindsight is more abundant than its
Quickly redundant brother, as eternity lasts longer
Than the time you spend acquiring your wishes,

But there’s no safe haven, for that's the
Trouble with end of the world incidents, they're everywhere,
And unwilling to spare even the sweetest dreamers.

Thursday, 15 October 2009


I swallowed the sun and moon.
Digested them overnight
And replaced them the following day.

No one noticed as it was
Particularly overcast, and I have
Sufficient energy to hold down
Dual roles.

So when the world bowls over
The pins of starlight, I am the patterns
On its face, and your place upon it

And when evening comes
Again, and you look for inspiration,
I will be there as well to render
You fulfilled.

And you who live around
The corners of Earth’s surface need
Fear no more from neglect,

As on all sides I rise to greet you
On your way through the future,
And will ensure you’re saluted
Day and night.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009


The clear blue sky
Fooled me,
This Goole morning,
As a chill in the air
Its cold silk
Down my neck,
And the
Effect was immediate:
Feet, that
Had eagerly
Greeted the sun
Moments earlier,
Shaved daybreak’s
Dust from the pavement
As they rushed
Back inside to
My wardrobe better.
But upon
Attempting my
Journey again
The heavy grey scarf,
I now wore,
Was courted
By the still shrill
Light of autumn
And sweat followed
The previous textile’s
Course beneath my
Collar; It seems we
Can’t yet secure

Tuesday, 13 October 2009


A beautiful herringbone sky;
A tidal beach up above,
New rippled sheets,
Corrugated steel,
The creases of an old man,
Blue paint peeling in the sun,
Water colours seeking each other,
Leaking into a lover’s mouth,
Speaking as one,
Tongues tied and spun,
Bed hiding even as night’s done,
Day’s features shunned,
Fun stumbled upon with a stranger,
A stage spun with cotton,
Age humbled and softened,
Fading from top to bottom,
Forgotten and lost,
Hot from the cost of
The cold back porch,
Frost clotting eye lashes
Casting a herringbone sky.

Monday, 12 October 2009


When I used to manage the events
Of an excitable social life
I always worried that they would end too soon;
That a premature future would crash through
Whatever I was doing.
Enjoyment menaced
By the attendant sentence of time
Calling last orders or no more;
Seeping into the present and distracting
Me enough to cause resentment,
And sufficiently molest my mouth
So as to announce unhappiness,
Thus ending the evening and fulfilling
The worst of my previous misgivings.
And so a prophecy once sheltered by
The sensible canvass of self becomes strengthened,
And quenches itself, once the faculties
Raised against it are racked with doubt,
And I ended up not going
Out anymore for fear of coming back
Before the cock crows with no chance
Of standing and delighting in time’s flow.

Sunday, 11 October 2009


Sunday tumbles out of Saturday’s mouth
And shouts Please;
Leave me alone.
Slumped in the space between the pressure
Cooker’s release valve and
It’s heating;
Just where it works the best, with rest's credit
Pledged for everybody’s
Use and accrual.

But do we listen? Do we heed the strident
Cries of anguish in
Its provision?
No; we steam straight thru evening’s skin
And into its dawn
Calling for more:
More wine, more weed, more sake to slake
The hunger of our
Wide desires;

Scuttling from the must have beens and
Surely weres and
Upon its morning without a following to
Honour our excess,
And its effects,
And expecting Sunday to pamper us
Until the working
Week dampens.

Saturday, 10 October 2009


So guess who won the “First moron to
Shoot at the moon” award,
And more than a million dollars from
A decision by daft Norwegians.
There’s no figuring things out sometimes;
I’ve been threading genetic material,
Beading blood cells, filling in the
Blanks born of paper and still I can’t
Find myself in the mixture;
Apart from a small lottery win
On Wednesday nobody’s reimbursing
Me for my achievements, either realized
Or yet to be. Though to be fair to financial
Advantages my disappointments are less
Because of the paucity of my expectations.
I’ve hit them with big fists, with images;
I’ve cricked a neck from cell phone texts;
Numb thumbs and questions about grammatical veracity.
Though I’m better off than that poor little boxer dog
I saw locked in a car, no wonder they look so glum;
His indented chin resting on the window’s cold door,
Waiting for his owner to show.
Two nights ago I tried to lasso a goose flying south,
But I missed and hit a swan in a pond,
The same one I’ve been trying to get out of all my life
But keep coming back to; this apple’s not
Fallen far from the tree, he’s still in the fucking thing.
I guess I may have attacked my batteries and
Risked being fixed to the spot.
But it’s my spot, and I
Dare say I’m prepared
To drop penniless
For it.

Friday, 9 October 2009


Somewhere above this shivering land there’s a cloud waiting
For your weather beaten head.

An enclosure covered with steam and more fitting your station;
To idle in as you refuel your life.

Where ideas of temporary location are lost in the vastness of
Ocean drawn mist and its kisses.

Where the sagacities of facts are left behind and a shattered
Mind is welcome to wander.

Stripped of material pities and petty commitments, and steeped
In a fresh crust of citrus.

A place to unlace the material of your skin stretched features
And mingle with the ancient.

Soaking up the life blood of neighborhoods further afield than
Three blocks away, and unpaved,

And sacred in its make-up: seminal in element and eternal in
Furnishing coal for the soul.

Thursday, 8 October 2009


Dare a foot out of the eiderdown
To see what kind of cold awaits;
Share the operation with another
And together collate the data.
If both agree it would be folly
To fall out of the bed right now
Roll over closer to your honey
And share your warmth aloud.

Set a time to check again and
Draw straws of hair to choose
Who should dip a warm toe out,
And don’t forget to let her lose.
And if she shivers like a river
Run over rapids to a waterfall
Let her know she’ll be forgiven
For releasing the beds warmth.

And if she’s freezing on return
Warm her with a wrestle hold,
And soon her feathers will burn
And heat your nest once more.
As afternoon and evening pass
Arrange to make a food trip,
Quickly with a kitchen dash
And back before the mood slips.

A day in bed cannot be bought,
And partners can’t be bettered;
The world of work’s an afterthought
Compared to leisure’s sweating.
And guilty found or innocent,
Of wrapping tight and hiding,
You can justify your fainéance
When frigidity is rising.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

WEDNESDAY 7th October 2009.

I met you at work, and sat as you
Finished; helping you with your coat
And opening doors. We fought
Our way through the crush and I walked you home
Against your wishes, although you
Didn’t complain too much. At the perimeter
Of your bedroom window you asked
That we keep out of sight of for awhile.

I expressed my fondness for you,
And you teased me for my affection,
Then teased me with yours,
Slipping the tip of your tongue between your lips,
And tapping it against mine;
Prizing them open and tramping around
My mouth, capturing my script,
And gasping at the strength of it.

The length of your own talk walked
It’s way into me, and urgently we took
To the side of the road, which
Closed at our request. The rest was a blur of half
Caught words, terms of lust
And fast love fluffed, immersed in the
Rush, and the twitching of curbed
Hedgerows matched those of curtains.

Tuesday, 6 October 2009


Here in the heart
Are messages to send;
Kept in cells and
Awaiting oxygen.

There in the head
Are reception halls;
Impatient for words
To be aired and installed.

In between are those
Who would deny exchange,
And it’s our purpose
To ensure they’re restrained:

Framed in the space
Of the world’s looking glass,
And out of the way
Of our breath’s path;

For in spite of fools
Grouped to diminish us
We will prove
Ourselves windowless.

Monday, 5 October 2009


I woke.
A weight pressing on my chest.
In fact I’d slept on my front.
My body conspiring against me.
Breathing shifting from easy to drifting in and out of old air bags,
Which don’t inflate, but collapse, as I crash.
My length bending awkwardly, extending more so.
Knees twisting before, or after, my torso.
And all of it forced where once it was not.
Thoughts infected by my body’s directions.
Fears steered into dead end dark alleys hiding unspeakable maladies.
Fretting myself sweat less until I can’t rest
And taking tablets for stress.
Pills for ills I don’t have but have been convinced of
By this selfish shell of mine,
That, no matter how hard I urge, will not work as designed.
Health invented by wealth conscious fools
Won’t bloom on my frame,
No matter how much fertilizer is worked in,
Or booze consumed or smoke blown,
Or lovers uncovered.
And so I choke

Sunday, 4 October 2009


You can take the seasons of life,
Of husband and wife;
Of mother and daughter,
Woman and son,
Brother and sister
And other sibling options.

You can reason with a dad and his girl,
The teen and her Pa,
But the bond that is stronger,
That is longer
Than charts,
Is the one between a father and his boy,
Immortality’s envoy.
The child and the man,
The patriarch and his mark on the world.
The heir and
His parent;
The reality of
Life stretched beyond him.
The essence of Man.
The blessing of a scion.

And you beautiful ladies,
Who cradled and made us,
You can have all the rest
To digest at your leisure,
But we’ll claim the best
And be blessed by his treasure.

Saturday, 3 October 2009


What people did next was to sleep.
A process was perfected which
Allowed them to rest for years at
A time without ageing; being woken
Every Olympics or so, living a few weeks,
And sleeping once more; thereby
Passing some bad times in slumber
And effectively living longer.
After a while they chose to wake
Every decade, and preparations were
Made, and as they dreamt ever longer
Events the world changed around
Their tents, and once shaken from sleep
They proceeded to repeat the pattern.
Eventually they awoke every century,
And there were less folks to mention
It as most chose to do the same,
And the world looked less human and
All the more groomed for it. The dreamers
Were keener to return to their eternal
Adventures, spending longer and longer
Entrenched in their ethereal worlds,
Whilst the material one entered a
Golden age. After millennia there
Weren’t any men or women left to
Notice that the surface had coated
Them in a perpetual cocoon of womb
Like existence. The monitors blinked
For an eon before thinking better, and
Winked out, and nobody announced it.

Friday, 2 October 2009


A small family of leaves huddle beneath my front door step,
Refugees of the season,
As a plastic bag hovercraft goes past my gate, hastened by
A more endorsed wind.

The wide screen window behind the television shows life in
More than high definition,
As the holly’s outline pierces even from this distance and the
Rose’s thorns warn likewise.

A pomegranate, ripped open on the pavement, shows its pips,
Virginal and simultaneously erotic,
While spiders, heightened by the dry summer, strut their stuff
Looking for love, and frighten instead.

Things change quickly in the country, and the town, surrounded
By such, suffers much for its concrete beach,
And we free people, squashed into brick worked life rafts, draft
Proofed and insular, hunker down for darker nights.

And the surrounding sea, once criticized for hounding land and
Eating into our tiny vineyards and apple orchards, has
Pulled back its tides and packed its waves away, giving up its
Bitten sands, and left for other shores more civilized than ours.

Thursday, 1 October 2009


Harry passed his first six months
As evening fastened itself over the last of September’s sun,
And since he came to join this crusade
Against the pointless he’s made the greatest changes even
As the country’s collective chest is tighter,
Its breathing is lighter, its dilating eyes are highlighting fear,
For Harry has blessed us with half a year,
And if we’re still unable to leave a meaty comment alone,
Or condone the achievements of a receding
Government, these things pale into insignificance against
The twenty six weeks he’s given us.

And though my health is worse and
My purse more pillaged by villainous ministers, announcing
Change, arranged against these
Developments are the elements of my words; firmer for my
Son’s accompaniment, more certain
Than a won event and urgent in their furtherance of purpose,
And whatever perilous times line up against
Me as long as his hand is in mine, and his smile behind, then
All the meagerness of people employed to lead
Will be defeated by the simplicity of describing how much
More his life means to me than theirs.

Wednesday, 30 September 2009


You can tell with the piles of tab ends
On the pavement who’s renting; by
The increase of open air venting
As outcasts gather together to
Exchange their smoking stories.

Further along from the sublet set,
And their regenerated terraces,
Are old ladies who moved in when
Original windows still worked and
Now sell tobacco out their back doors.

Young mothers come to gather half
Price leaf, cut with less combustible
Stuff to save the cost, and those old
Deep creased Social Club bucks
Buy a dozen pouches to pass on.

The migrant workers bring their
Own brands; ships discharge bulk
Contraband; door stop knockers
Sell separates and medicine men
Promote the best smoke repellents.

Advertisements have been banned
And sponsorship ripped from sport,
Though you can still pick up a pack
From every corner store, although
Closed Public Houses abound.

But you can’t rid the kids of their
Birthrights, after all it’s what dad
Did, and died for it, in order to stay
Independent of the need vended by
The property wars of noughties greed.

Tuesday, 29 September 2009


Between the start of

And the end of its mention,
I strayed from my path:

Intending to remain faithful
To myself I slipped into the
Inconsistent ways of woman,

And announced I loved her first,

Though with the ignorance of man,
She never noticed.

Monday, 28 September 2009


On a heath overlooking great London,
On a morning when mist isn’t seen,
There’s a glow from the bowl of its cauldron
Like the city as it’s never been.

With the gleam of a freshly set diamond,
And the smile of a necklace of gold,
And amidst all the sparks of its eye line
Are the aspects of other gem stones:

There’s the emerald pins of trees waving,
And the sapphire spires of steel;
A burnish of ruby engravings
And a whisper of crystal revealed.

Though below this hard palette of riches
Are the causes of all its effects,
From the stiff upper lip that is twitching
To the slack jaw reporting its text;

For the fields are being squeezed of their treasure,
And the buildings are founded on greed,
And there’s blood on the ground when our leisure
Dares to take us away from t.v.

So the sight of the crown is deceiving,
As the fog is beginning to roll,
And before long because of the weaving
It will carry the lustre of coal.

Sunday, 27 September 2009


Another day.
Marked the same.
A venture into certainty
Where never meant to be;
Though we will be here to see it
Flaunting the emptiness of its hours.

Dad’s birthday.
He would have been 76.
He missed my fortieth and
The birth of his third grandson;
The one named after his own father
Who carries the family name into the future.

But he cared little for such;
Never once discussing tomorrow’s
Shoddy politics or religion’s dirty tricks.
He was more interested in his present, which
Has now settled itself into history’s frozen garden;
Spared the pain of corrosion in favour of exploding hearts.

And suddenly gone from us.
Nearly 4 years now and still our
Sour mouths cannot reconcile the flavour.
And still I long to say my piece to his abductors
And hope they fear me as much as they should do.
Happy birthday Dad, I will love you until God has to stop me.

Saturday, 26 September 2009


In the wood
Where the wind ends
And scent begins

Sit the stood
Who fled from the
Cold edge of stone.

Under branch,
And heather clad,
Closer to breath;

Leaving land
To alternate
And overturn.

Further stretched
Than protesters
Of yesterday,

And wretched
For leaving late
Their evening.

Sinking in
And welcomed all
Returned to home,

Linking sin
And virtue’s list
To Mother Earth.

Friday, 25 September 2009


Amidst my vitriolic words,
Between their bitter reams,
A glint of worth
Curls virgule shy,
Emerging tied
And seamless.

Freed from the hobnails of full stops,
And shaped by fonts anew,
This tender drop
Connects with more
To form my shore
Line’s future.

A sea of high shod sun lit sky
Reflected in a sentence,
And heaven bright
As pages turn
In time to earn
A mention.

A restful end to venturing
Into the depths of days,
Where centres wring
The sense from me,
And clarity
Is painful.

Thursday, 24 September 2009


I’d like to live forever;
I’d like to see the weather this time next century,
See if it’s meant to be that ice retreats and water levels
Increase to meet the sky.

See how far we can fly
Past the moon and Mars and watch racing cars
Rumble under other suns, sports played at an interstellar
Level and art exchanged with alien patrons, framing
Our faces against star dust.

I’d like to know what pours
Out of the Oort cloud; what motivates Dark Energy and
Constitutes its Matter, what sticks us to one another and
Flings us into infinity.

See the site of the big bang
One day and comment upon its virility, and ask the
Curator what happened a second before; who got screwed
And why and what is the purpose of all this urgency if
The blink of an eye dries.

That’s why I’d like to live
Forever, to see Man's endeavour justified, my own child’s
Life magnified a thousand times and spread across the
Universe’s majesty until vast,

See how much good can be
Achieved when bad has no reason to be, as people will
Have no reason to fear, as God will come nearer to us and
Explain that this is the heaven he always intended for
Us to find once we knew our own mind.

(In response to an article by Ray Kurzweil)

Wednesday, 23 September 2009


Come to me with fenders bent,
With busted love
Or lusted after ornaments,

A body shaped by age’s hand
And splendid shove,
Apprenticed to the mainland,

In vehicles of common skin
And structured build,
Corrupted, saint or sinned,

With ignominy’s poverty,
Or honour’s bill,
And all for my guarantee:

I’ll save you from the relevance
Of broken halves,
Unspoken penitence,

And make you whole to face the world,
And chance a start
With thankful boys and girls.

Tuesday, 22 September 2009


Upon the autumn equinox the ticking clock projects itself;
Another notch chopped into the year’s bed post,
Another season’s ghost consigned to wander hallways
Cloaked in duvets to avoid the coming cold.

We were grown up with hand me downs and feather filled
Quilts once the sun’s drummer boys had beaten all the
Heat from the beach, and volleyball playing girls
Moved indoors and covered up their tanned assets.

There’s nothing left for us to whistle with: the use of lips has
Been assigned to begging insulation rather than appraising
Skips down memory lane, whose hedges jut so much I can
Barely see my black and tan dog against evening privet.

Strolls won’t hold much hope soon, even for the hound, who
Hates the shade: his eyes becoming devoid of those ordinary
Lights employed to find life; mine creasing to see ahead for
Him and losing the fight, blinded by dark's overdraft.

The shell of the sky fell harder as the weight of space came
Crashing in, and an equivalent night lined up against the
Day, and approached its tipping point, and by the time the
Next solstice bottoms out everything will have changed.

Monday, 21 September 2009


A smoker’s hack told me what it was, as opposed to a regular cough:
Only one load of jelly for a gob full, and a hell of a job getting up.
I care little for the witless, and less for the wet,
And like to scare them shitless until they welter in their sweat.
I still feel the anger I had when I was younger and hungrier,
And have to stop the Ottoman in me wanting to conquer
Anyone I meet, though the landing mirror never lies,
In length and shape and size.

Corseted men defend themselves well until their shells are
Removed, then the weight of their worlds, whether ill got
Or earned, encircle the tools of their youth,
And they look like the sort who fuck taught hairless men
With rings around their testicles, or the fools we used
To laugh at as kids : the guys who work to drink,
The girls who’re sick in morning sinks or those
Who are greedy with reason.

I never sought the limelight, though I never wanted to be upstaged
Either, and finding the balance, especially upon public boards,
Has hardened me. I need energy: solar or God
Forbid coal or fusion or fission as fuel, anything faster than
Eurasian gas, and suited to personal renewal. It’s funny
How the end of the Earth is right behind me now it’s
Time to get off my arse and live a little before
There’s nothing left to write about.

Sunday, 20 September 2009


An idiot of iconic proportions;
Historic importance.
Draped in a personal version of the world,
Guiltless and gilded with tobacco filaments,

Though one that appears to be in terminal decline,
Resigned to meltdown; morally wallowed in bleach.
Stretching the bonds of honesty beyond
Tolerance, and following deceit with fleetness.

A house covered with such a pile of clothes, as
Though she’s been washing for the lines in town;
Haggling for a pound of apples, as if a penny rescued
Will be conversation enough to save us from insolvency.

And when I have to climb in through
A bedroom window, and battle with her hatter of
A mother backing up in stereo, and call for referees,
Then I think it’s time to cancel our balance.

Attempts to lecture me will fall, spit
Pips will fly, and I’ll try not to
Baulk at the thought of fascist states berating
Or assassinated presidential debates.

Saturday, 19 September 2009


The only way I can deal with it
Is to feel like this.
To talk of chopping my nose off,
To be prepared to do it;
To lose everything for the sake of
My independent motor function.
The thought of waiting by the phone
For a bone from a beneficial hand is anathema:
Not only don’t I want to be manhandled,
But I’m developing an aversion to words.

I keep thinking of Snakes and
Ladders and how my life’s
Harder, as the descents are sharp
And deeper, and climbing out’s
Guarded and steeper, and just when
I think I’ve made it, and am brave enough
To face my responsibilities another
Shovel is activated and there I go again below.
And it gets heavier to lift my head off the
Floor knowing I’ll soon be carpeted again.

At her pace I will only get to
See Him when she says so,
At a legal one even less; either way
His little bits of adventure will be
Missed: sitting, talking, standing
Walking will all be skipped by me for
Being half a town away and too slow
To catch them, and He will be enveloped in fable
And fabrication and I will wither in the cave
I’ve made with less sense than when I entered.

Friday, 18 September 2009


We worked;
For generations
That’s what we did.
We were once the salt of the Earth
Who stopped our land
From slipping too far into extremes,
And unlike other countries
We succeeded.

But we overextended ourselves,
Took our worth too seriously,
Believed better educated people
Who said they represented us.
Eventually we became
Enamoured of the possibilities
Available, and were diluted
By their more than cordial rewards.

Now we’re nothing,
Except the excrement the
Nation wishes to be rid of. We’ve
Lost occupations and
Brotherhoods and given everyone
High blood pressure
As they try to find
A solution for us.

Thursday, 17 September 2009


She sits in boredom’s doorway;
Shrugged trunk, numb skull, bowel movements
In its room, whilst her feet are free to
Feel the breeze of pursuits blowing by, and her
Hands, on her knees, plead for interests
To enter.

But activity has heard of such places,
And paces by, and wonder, after glancing at her
Brow, wanders on with the wow
Factor of the unknown hurriedly pulled along
By a lead, never needing to be released
Upon entropy.

Her drum of fingers numbs the skin
Under eroding clothes until it touches home and
Wears to bone; crumbling in daily
Clouds without the use of movement, as the
Sky peels back and forth revealing more

And ever spreads from one day to
The next and drags, so that when she looks back
There’s such a lack of instances
That she winces at the world and its emptiness,
Pushing back her chair until her threshold

Wednesday, 16 September 2009


Is there a formula for the ugliness of the discovered
Multiplied by the age of the observer, or are we all
Displaced by evolution’s nervousness? Are people
Deteriorating in inverse proportion to technology’s
Advance, or do we just look dumb wrapped up in its
Blanket? Are we more damaged by the language
That we use or liberated from the clipped tones of
Landed yokes? Am I the only one to notice it? The
Drone emitting from illiterate corners of the state,
The rate of its increase; do others wish to rid their
Grid of idiots who emote parochially or operate
From the surface of their brains, scraping off the
Most recent gloss for use, refusing to delve deeper.
Am I the lone ravager of average? The only one
Who answers his own questions with more rhetoric?
And do others have their arguments used against
Them once they’ve been mentioned in their defence?