Tuesday, 30 June 2009

TUESDAY 30th JUNE 2009.

And with solid foods smoothed to a pulp
He gulps and holds our attention whilst
His vernal mind decides if he likes it; letting
Fly the contents of his stomach when he doesn’t.

Puréed puss is supposed to replace the
Milk he’s been filled with, but the look
Of it, either bottled, tinned or thinned in
A blender sends me reaching for a sick bag,

So I can’t really blame him for his choice
Of response, although the colour washed
Soup, that announced it was pudding and
Custard, tasted alright with my eyes closed.

He’s still small so we’ll give him as much
Grace as he favours to sort out his flavours,
But it looks, at this time, as though he hasn’t
Got a sweet tooth to lose his eventual few to.

Monday, 29 June 2009

MONDAY 29th JUNE 2009.

I’m passing folks on the street hugging
Creases where shadows cling to house fronts
And spread wealth; all shunning the swelter
Of the sun’s lunch time flush whilst whispering
Details of their weekend adventures:
He said, she did, we saw, they fled, and
Every gesture left in vulgarity’s inventory
Is brought out to escort the stories.

The shop clerk is as work shy as ever as
I step through the door though he quickly
Picks up a price gun and looks for something
To shoot, and appear busy, but I don’t pay
His wages so it’s all sweet to me.

It must be the only outlet around without
A closed circuit camera lurching from
Side to side and searching for the trust
In us, tempting its ineptness, but it’s never
Been burgled so it must be immune to
The local tomb raiders or maybe it’s
Because it’s the only off licence left and
Even theft gets thirsty eventually.

But it’s steaming today so I need to
Pay for an eight pack and get back to
Work spitting words to afford me another,
And he grants me my wish and I’m home
To write up my account of his day.

Sunday, 28 June 2009

SUNDAY 28th JUNE 2009.

In silver liquid supplication
The truth of heat speaks up
And on bended knees and elbows,
Bowing in the shadows, we believe.

Chairs and seats from several
Rooms are grouped around the
Yard, and, off centre, last year’s
Rusted barbecue is ash scattered.

Cheap fresh cuts and Easter
Frozen meats are placed upon
The grill or skewered until they’re
Unrecognizable amid the vegetables.

A potato salad, hastily made
To cater for the awkward, clots
Away on the side as they didn’t
Even show today due to the sunlight.

Dewy beer bottles bang inside
A water but and in the bath tub
Overflowing cans of cider dance
While ice ran dry an hour after kick off.

And shaven headed gentlemen
Dance up and down the back lane
As if a Krishna train had stationed
Itself permanently at the street corner,

And we just sit in stillness
Trying to appreciate the silly
Season once again whilst silently,
Finally, thanking balanced weathermen.

Saturday, 27 June 2009

SATURDAY 27th JUNE 2009.

I don’t like the strictest sense of the word,
I prefer the flexibility of being heard;
The frowns
On the faces of nouns
When they sound
The smile
Of the adjective’s style
When it files

I don’t see the strictures of laid metre
I favour the adoption of beat greetings;
The pull
Of an instrument’s lull
When it dulls
The thrill
Of a vocal chord’s will
Howled until

I don’t know the structure of read letters,
I feel the punctuation of saved spaces;
The drop
When they near the stop
Of earshot’s
The rise
Once they move to disguise
And rewire

Friday, 26 June 2009

FRIDAY 26th JUNE 2009.

The internet was steaming
Yesterday evening,
And it had nothing to do with the heat;
Farah had passed,
And news of Jackson
Was trying to squeeze through the tweets.

Then word was rife that Jeff
Goldblum was next
On Death’s list of celebrity clients,
But his supposed fall
From a New Zealand wall
Only heightened the lack of reliance.

The forums were buzzing,
But most were too fuzzy,
And bloggers were head locked as well;
News rooms in melt down
As statements were yelled round,
But for an hour there no one could tell,

Until old Aunty Beeb’s
Twenty four hour feed
Confirmed all the worst of our fears,
That the web and its guests
Can compete to be best,
But the old channel’s still got our ear.

Thursday, 25 June 2009

THURSDAY 25th JUNE 2009.

There are two kinds of people:
Those that travel,
And those as don’t.

Of the travellers, there are two kinds of people:
Those who want to get there,
And those who want to get home.

Of those who want to get there when they travel, there
Are two kinds of people:
Those who know why they wanted to get there,
And those who weren’t really bothered about where there was.

Of those who know why they wanted to get where they got
To when they travelled, there are two kinds of people:
Those who were pushed to move to save their very souls,
And those whose annuity matured and fancied a change of scenery.

Of those who were pushed to move and know where they got to
Once they got to where they’re travelling had taken them, there
Are two kinds of people:
Those who were glad to have been given a second chance,
And those whose chances of finding happiness are unaffected by

Of those who were glad to have found another life when they were
Pushed to move and knew where they were when they were there
When they travelled, there are two kinds of people:
Those that travel,
And those as don’t.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009


A laser light eye sight failure
Enabled me to see, upon the screens of
Night time drive-ins, the hiding places of my mind.
The corners ordinary vision overlooks in favour of day’s play;
Where sinister insists on staying long after fleeting
Visits and the twists that wind around,
As rope, leave friction burns.
Reels of film spill from tins that stack
Tower like till toppled at the back, and flicker in
Response to naked bulbs lulled to swing in pendulum arcs
By shadows casting black charms; image after fast
Image laughs from wall to vast wall
Before being floored in turn.
Nothing that is next is better value
For its freshness, and the rest less, but all night this
Rush of muddied colour flushes through my rooms and by
Morning the steam from its meat has wiped its feet
Along my corridors as well, and my
Eyes are glad of brightness.

Tuesday, 23 June 2009

TUESDAY 23rd JUNE 2009.

I’ve been sat watching my smoochie for the
Past two days, since Father’s Day in fact,
Getting to grips with that bit, trying not
To miss a trick as he sits in his forty five
Degree bouncing seat exploring the
Corners of his world. Amidst gentle
Forest noise and lullabies, and tiny
Toys with chimes inside; reaching for
A Toucan or a Ted and not quite getting
It but stretching the flex of his fingers
Further each time. From side to side, and
Not just fixed as he was before but flicking
His eyes over more and testing the depth
Of his perception as if questioning his
Ever changing world. Twelve weeks
Old and all the trials of life are condensed
Into an hour’s worth of exertion, as I try
My best to leave him be, or slide a highlight
A little nearer to enable him to find a new
Angle of attack, or unpack a new soft toy to
To draw attention, call his strength out.
His neck is stronger, his eyes stay longer
On my face, his system of routine alters
Just a little each day. It’s possible to actually
See human intelligence emerge in all its
Glory, all it primordial necessity, from
The morass of fresh born sights and sounds
And experiences. All the stories of every
Child born are unfolding before my eyes,
And I feel privileged to have witnessed it
These past days, and for the rest of my life.
My H has granted me his grace and God’s.

Monday, 22 June 2009

MONDAY 22nd JUNE 2009.

Curtained in colourful units;
Bubble wrapped and soonest
Captured. Soothed by the tiniest
Temple pressure, applied via firefly
Light, to maintain your measure
Of tranquillity and ensure
Your future involvement.

Sent lengths of expensive
Textiles to while away inside
Whilst hoping for the host to ply
His trade, though be careful what you
Wish for as your borrowed floor
Is nearer the drafted spans
Other hands support.

A breeze too soon, a door
Kicked through, may burst the
Veil of your cocoon before a safer
Layer above, and your formed love,
All warmed and wallowed in the
Moat of fellowship, will drop
Into the bellows throat.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

SUNDAY 21st JUNE 2009.

And on the longest day you perch
Upon the edge of land
That ends where I begin
And expect statements
As if questions had been raised,
And not assumed; picking bits of
Scenery to offer me as payment.
But waiting aids my mental state
And percolates the space
Between realities; should rush be
Handed petrol fumes to bloom
As you require, or hush remanded
Mentally in rooms that have acquired
Time’s respect. You will be next to
Know what manifests across
The road, even if its toll grows,
So park a little longer and
Appreciate the current view
As the morning may
Bring warnings of what’s due.

Saturday, 20 June 2009

SATURDAY 20th JUNE 2009.

Agitate old aches;
Excite the stages of awakening.
I’ll shiver in the sediment you flow along
And drip nonstop once stirred by your referral.

Create my day fall;
Assemble worthwhile members.
Coin phrases and their sentence space
And save them in new pages from wages made.

Salivate in alleys;
Spit me a soup of ripened fruit.
I’ll lap up the dust from lust filled pools
And sip a bullet full of honey from your mouth.

Enervate late hours;
Make tense the weakened eye.
Ready a room for slumber’s intrusion
And allow fatigue to leak into its solemn hole.

Friday, 19 June 2009

FRIDAY 19th JUNE 2009.

Censure all mention of me if you wish but I will not disappear.
Mix a collection of pictures and prose and I will still not go.
Speak to people who supposedly know me for your dirt; it won’t work,
Or dig up entropy’s topping for support and see how coarse it is.
Shake a stick, shuffle a rift, make magic to shift me but you won’t
For I refuse to move for you or anything employed in lieu of you;
I have half the rights here, and want nothing more than to share
And partake of them as due, and will not see them used to impugn.

Thursday, 18 June 2009

THURSDAY 18th JUNE 2009.

Well the fuse was lit
And left to fizz,
But the only liquids
Available to extinguish
It were accelerants,
So I had to decide
How quickly to ride
The wire.

Unfortunately I
Chose to soak it and
See, and I saw alright:
The sharpest and
Least quite night
In an age, with
Alter egos let loose
Upon the stage,

And only a coma
Like sleep put these
Creatures back in
Their boxes, and
Only a separate
Street will be able
To keep them
That way.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

*WEDNESDAY 17th JUNE 2009*

I always walk the banks of frankness
On this day; the memories of which are most crystal:

A relative embarrassing me a school.
A rainy day.

The very last day I partook of education.
A rainy day.

My first house purchased, twenty years ago.
Another rainy day.

A truck fair in Driffield.
Too pissed to remember the weather,

A twenty fifth down the West End half blind.
A hazy day as I’d lost my glasses.

England losing to Jonah’s New Zealand.
A bit of sun.

A thirtieth spent on my own,
With no regard for the fucking weather.

England finally defeating Germany.
A lot of sun and vodka cocktails,

A fortieth walking to and from the pub,
And enjoying every blazing ray.

And so on until today, raining,
And a wish to have been born in winter.

Tuesday, 16 June 2009

TUESDAY 16th JUNE 2009.

Sure I’m slower than before
But I’ve spent endless days
Dissecting the merits of destinations,
And the speed required to achieve them,
And discovered that these can still be
Reached at my own pace.

Space saving in the process,
And producing less waste;
Dedicating myself to the journey, and
Its furniture, and not worrying too much
About cutting the finishing line’s tape
First or preserving it.

Fitting into my skin with
Every season, ripening
And squeezing the pips of one more
From it in order to propagate easily and
Without need of freedom’s creatures
Leading me into formations.

I’ll do this my way as the
Needy pass by me to feed
Their never ending ventures with
Worth just mentioned; with my wife
And child, family and friends and
Will still get to the same end.

Monday, 15 June 2009

MONDAY 15th JUNE 2009.

Busted by the sun’s burden
Upon my face; laid waste in this
Suburban yard without a stick to
Measure myself against in ownership
Or borrowed state.

Sat in its penumbra
Thumbing tab ends every which way
As I’m too lazy to get off my fat arse and
Throw them over the wall, and my flicking
Finger’s done.

My side shaded now
The light has laden itself
Further west, having fished the
Flesh from Britain’s witless faces and
Balding foreheads;

Divided down the
Bridges of noses: either poking into
Other people’s business and broken by
A weight of bones, or aloof to the charred
Barking of summer.

And all this flits by
As I lie idle half in and
Chafed out by this lazy week’s
Beginning, waiting for my forty third,
And first birthday with him.

Sunday, 14 June 2009

SUNDAY 14th JUNE 2009.

Everything I’ve ever done
Has been half arsed,
Ill considered, not thought through;
First option taken,
Erred to waken
To see it through as fruit
Would do.
Next stop optioned,
Pissed girl took;
Never saw the things that
Could’ve used a second look.
And here I am,
Untrained, unskilled,
Passing myself off as a wordsmith,
Without a quill;
Spitting at a bit I spat out that
Devout technicians might have rounded
To a mission;
Spilling syllables that
With a little time
Could have been rhymed
More visually.
And to think I thought
I once rebelled against this
Underwhelming pit stop;
Once propped apostles like me
Against the future walls of revolutionaires
Once produced a manifesto
In my own coloured book.
Once fucked for free.
I once believed to
Live the life
I now just write about.

Saturday, 13 June 2009

SATURDAY 13th JUNE 2009.

Slide over night as morning’s noise is due
And ancient spinning industries await
The music of its overture anew.

The tap of heavy laboured boots approve
Once woken by the milkman and his crates
Slide over night as morning’s noise is due

And churchmen send bell notes to fill their pews
With stragglers haggling whether to debate
The music of its overture anew.

The birr of hidden wings sounds the review
Amidst the busy eyes of dawn’s estate
Slide over night as morning’s noise is due.

Some slumber takes a while to be removed
From children flouting daybreak’s wake who hate
The music of its overture anew.

But time must have its way and quickly too
And dark’s finale settles to its fate
Slide over night as morning’s noise is due,
The music of its overture anew.

Friday, 12 June 2009

FRIDAY 12th JUNE 2009.

What moves thee
And makes thy mime

What wishes fish
Behind your eyes
For freedom?

What paws rush
Forward to support
Your weight?

What lanes and
Cobbled streets
Do your claws
Tickle when asleep?

What rest supports
Your restlessness
At night?

What signs divine
Your morning

What faces do you
Fashion for your
First kiss?

What do you chase?
What laws control
The chambers of
Your heart?

Thursday, 11 June 2009

THURSDAY 11th JUNE 2009.

Characters are running through the chronicle,
But they’re too loose;
The plot is not attached to them,
Not making sense.
They’re speaking words they’ve learned,
And it’s overt,
With no emotion visible,
And that’s unmissable.
A mark wishes
To be noticed
But is chipped
When hit,
And when asked how well are we
The question’s cursory
And leveled for effect
At others to detect,
And that seems all important
When observing our story.

Wednesday, 10 June 2009


Rocked up
On sore heels,
Cement set to better
Them should they need to dig in,
But was not expecting the
Invective that slipped
From you before
Your fury.
Some fools
Choose tools of
Battle keener than my
Choice, as what words I shone
Slid off the backs of those
Abler of phrase, and its
Natural use, and
I felt futile.
A step away
From sturdy looks,
But not even capable of
Such discriminating function even
If my malingerers’ ligaments
Found themselves mettle
To set against the worst
Instance of me.
I tried to act
But stumbling blocks
Hopped across my path and
Saddled me with clincher’s disease;
Feet glued movement proving
Me more currish than I ever
Could have been giving
A turncoat’s kiss.

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

TUESDAY 9th JUNE 2009.

He always seems to be too small or too large for his environment
Regardless of how many clothes he owns or how saddled his
Nappies are, and though there is a narrow window of perfect
Fit it always comes along in the middle of the night.

There he invariably hitches himself up the length of the cot’s shelf,
Gently resting his head on the animal covered buffer, and starts
Discharging pre banshee giggles which are just loud enough
To prepare you for the full orchestration of his hunger.

For ever since he learned to link his yearnings to a verbal swirl,
Worthy of Stockhausen, he knows the last one in the bed
Will be the first one out, and we retire earlier each night in
Order to stake the safe spot as our own and sleep through.

There are no intermissions though, no lack of devotees, and all the
Special effects of his presence are pre-digital, strings visible,
Clearly green screened and available for any to revel in when
Editing a change of clothes that seem to shrink once removed.

But he grows and we know that eventually his crib will be lifted
To the nursery down the hall where he’ll keep the seams of his
Nocturnal activities to himself until dawn, and then settle into
The slightly short sleeves and floppy feet of his all in ones.

Monday, 8 June 2009

MONDAY 8th JUNE 2009.

My love is spent,
Has reached its end,
Achieved intent,
Returned to whence it leapt
From in my youth
When labour used
Itself on truths
One only could suspect:

Of boys and girls,
And turning worlds,
And motors burned
To reproduce their steps.
And age’s need
To meet and breed,
And guarantee
The footfalls of the next.

So vacuum packs
The flaccid facts
And sends them back
To where they were erect;
With dreams aspired,
And seeds supplied,
And papers signed
As proof of their effect.

Sunday, 7 June 2009

SUNDAY 7th JUNE 2009.

In the old water of the dock
The safe and solid order of things continues,
Even as the creeping red fescue
Lawns on its borders stretch for attention.

Vessels from northern ports
Discharge into the arms of overtime workers,
Whose dependents expect the
Next payment to be the last, and are restless.

Two herds of swans take
Their young for a Sunday morning swim,
Disappearing once wetted
Back to the safety net of the canal basin.

Angular travellers make
A circuit inside the public’s allotted lines,
Eager to avoid the stark
Mass of Bridge Street’s vivid lithographs;

Whose webbed spans were built
To rush traffic over the water’s commotion,
But are empty today as
Folk stick to strolling over common ground,

And what space remains absolved
Of man’s gestation wastes away in harmony,
Whilst his structures take the
Strain of nature and financial gain’s failure,

And in sheds and office
Spaces business traces its family roots, but
When, with one crane lift,
A unit is removed the next is slow to replace it.

Saturday, 6 June 2009


It’s the day,
The Day of days,
Day day;
Grave day,
And it has
65 years
Today since
The most crucial
When men
Rose to fall
For us all day.
So along
This way
Let’s raise
A glass to souls
Past who
Had to stay
Upon that day.

Friday, 5 June 2009

FRIDAY 5th JUNE 2009.

Before a cracked back has the chance to lay
Me over the coals of its broken bones
I’ll grant my wildest lust
Its final wish:

To end upon the bunkered sands that slipped
Time’s ship and congregated on this
Crescent stretch to attract
Wrecks like me,

And paddle through the rock pools of the damned's
Hospitality in the company of creatures
Cancelled from reality’s
Current guest list.

Wade out waist deep to where the secret thermals
Leave, and sinners drift without fear
Of purifying lines angling
Them out.

Then shoulder the surge to swim simply under the
Current’s steam surrounded by offenders
And their eternal

Eventually reaching a central crown that rises
With the drowned races of history
Scattered across
Its beach;

To stay and caper with my fellow travellers
Until our combined crimes sink
The island once

Thursday, 4 June 2009


Everything I’ve said has been
As good as it could have been,
Even edited and re-read,
And though my grasp of the
Language may be anchored
On the banks of the Ouse I’ll
Keep shaking its chain to loosen
Letters as long as I can; racing
To chase and make another word
To etch at the end of the next.
And once a sentence has slid
To its eventual end decisions
Are sought, forks hawked, and
Directions taken, leaving alternative
Worlds of syllables adrift; for
This will do, and is set for good
Reason, although maybe in a
Season or two it will change,
Or rearrange, but by then
Who would ever know?

Wednesday, 3 June 2009


I hope to equip him
With specifics enough to catch
And cup wisdom that through him will better itself.

And when his appraisal
Has nurtured and phrased it
Then sense will have vessel as worthy as any it’s known.

Tall children from hill tops,
Or grown in a ground crop, will
Flock with their adults to find and combine with his faith.

Words that once mattered
Will once again batter the flaps
That have captured our ears and in rapture frontiered us,

And freedom long filtered
By illness, and wilted, will hear
And flee the arena of seed where we allowed it to live,

Until crystal, in vision,
It will blend with his mission
And together the whether will become the done.

Tuesday, 2 June 2009

TUESDAY 2nd JUNE 2009.

The sweetest green
Whose weight of grass,
From sparse to massed,
Reveals wildflower lights
With dishes tuned towards the sun
Receiving running commentary
Of summer’s progress
As it comes inflamed for June
Where it has long been absent.

In lengths arranged,
By forage gods, the stems
Are strained by seeds
And pods that beg the air
To rip them free and breeze the ears
Of other fields to settle in new
Vaulted camps until,
In autumn, cold and cramped,
They close down for the winter.

Monday, 1 June 2009

MONDAY 1st JUNE 2009.

Split and spilt;
Filled up to the lip, and
Drunk like a desert dweller
Who’s been in the deep for a week,
And more relished than shelter
From a forthcoming storm.

A draught of laughter,
Is coughed into the glass
After a dozen more swallows
Exposes the marrow of new stories,
As company comes and goes
And increases the gain.

Family and familiars
Swilling from the corners
Of the bar, or the corridors
Of streets that lead to it, and who
Slump on the stoop next to
You to improve the view:

Lithe sights and witness
Statements from life’s bystanders;
Others from the mouths of clowns
Who make their placement in these
Days of mass acceptance
Sound appealing,

And yet more, until
You catch less than the floor,
And time is called before you fall,
And the landlord has to heave you
To your feet before you set
Into your seat.