Monday, 31 August 2009

MONDAY 31st AUGUST 2009.

Fleas are leaping to and from
The crevices of the settee as they’ve
Decided to abandon old Toby in favour
Of a more fragrant playground. Bigger bugs
Are stuck to hanging insect catchers and
Decorating the house as if Christmas had arrived
In time to see summer leave. There’s a particularly
Sick fish in the tank who won’t be thanked for the
Green moss on his parlor walls, thick enough to
Hide the fact he’s dying.

Circumstances change, age defers to
Worse, and to be at the mercy of trends,
And their youthful workers will be hurtful.
But I twitch literature, snippets of history’s heavy
Tomes spill from my every pore when I walk
My nervous way; sneezing bits of Dickens in-between
Milton and Keats, but all William’s words are worthless
When sundered by her violent style: a vassal as me, a
Chattel of hers, and saved in the favourites list on
The left for further examination.

On the continent we seem to have
A reputation and a history for blood
Thirstiness, although I don’t recall beginning
Most of the last century’s wars, though we did finish
Them, but if I was slightly more unhinged than
I am, or could bear a syringe in my arm, then I’d be out
With a gun, shooting comforters for fun, whilst declaring
That she was to blame. But a flash of inspiration from
Her, a sudden crack in concentration from me and
We breezed through the house work.

Sunday, 30 August 2009

SUNDAY 30th AUGUST 2009.

I have only so many words
Each day to say to her
And if they’re used by noon
Then so be it,
And silence will have to fit
The persisting hours of day.

And amid all the demands,
Of what is essentially
A pedestrian life, I wish there
Was more to transmit to my
Children’s mother,
But unfortunately
Some of us have less to rub
Up against deaf ears.

There’s war and deficit
Aplenty, crumbling structures
And lame inductees to organizations
Unheard of yesterday; there
Are words hurled at larger hurdles
Than her and whole novels
Built around lesser vessels, but still
She’s a mystery to me.

If I had all of the evening,
And most of its willing confederates,
Twice the leverage of autumn mornings,
I’d still reside threadbare and she complete;
If the sum of accomplices numbered
As many as mumbles uttered these years,
Then they’d yet refrain from my
Service and wish to remain dumb in hers
For the use of a further day’s roost elsewhere.

Saturday, 29 August 2009


The texture foxed him as it
Was egg instead of the chicken
Soup he was expecting,
As it would us,
With our supposed knowledge;
A representation of intelligence,
A simulacrum,
Stumbled upon along
Our lives.

He’s got the time, and I have
The life to fill it with, the words
To give: for every collection
Of sentences
There is always a correct sequence,
And though its order may differ from
Reader to reader,
Its relevancy and
Potency won’t.

Friday, 28 August 2009

FRIDAY 28th AUGUST 2009.

There’s a room full of keys
That I’ve used on the thieves
Who I’ve locked in the strongest
Of cells,

But with every new leaf
That is added to these
There’s a stock of fresh unrest
To quell;

With its burglar masks
And urgent attacks
And endless amount of

Who allied to the task
Are decidedly stacked
And relentlessly hounding
My eaves.

So before long my walls
Will be hung with a pall
Of raw bodies assembled
Across it,

Attempting the halls
Where the lock stems are stored
And the robbers are held
Without process.

Thursday, 27 August 2009


I love it when
We stick,
And speed up;

When friction’s richer.

When my skin sings
As it skims across yours
And all our fingertips touch.

When words for beauty
Fall from our mouths
And images engage them.

When a pause is more
Than a minute’s threshed madness,

And at the end we
Send shivers of electricity
Along our contact points,
With tears of joy and not sadness,

And then we peel apart and sleep.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009


I’ve been to the shore of euphoria
These past few days,
And I’ve managed to bring a little bliss
Back with me.

Tales of elation encouraged me to
See for myself
The source of their stories, and in doing
So they graced

Me with an extraordinary provision
Of my own to
Disperse as I wish, and here it is; the full
Extent of their

Wealth: joy spread on the bread of the
Land, and lightly
Toasted with a coasting sun, hardly
Exerting itself,

Then picked upon easily by all who
Feel need of it
And apportioned to those who don’t
Think they do;

Virally coughed until everyone
Stops to breathe,
And does so without risk of anything
Other than a tickling

Tongue, which let run, will jump and
Console the
Throats of folk who feel urgent for its

Tuesday, 25 August 2009


I awoke a wreck
The next day, with no ocean
Willing to hold me;
Though, staged in my favour,
I will always win
Evolution’s sweepstakes;
Lead on in pursuit
Of life’s filament fragile
Unwilling highlights.
Success has stressed me
When I’ve seen its greed up close,
My nerves prefer sloth,
Seem to have had my
Words misheard, when I was sure
I said what I did.
But once docked, the thoughts
I had of trading words are
Exported abroad;
Moored in harbours,
Awaiting the paperwork
Of my latest load.
Extinguish my last
Wish with its fulfilment, and
I will bid no more;
Steam roll my body
If you want, but my soul will
Still lobby beyond.
For at my side you
Will seldom see what’s going
On behind my eyes;
Turn to face me when
You want to make a place to
Call eternity.

Monday, 24 August 2009

MONDAY 24th AUGUST 2009.

We plundered the urn
From those down under once again,
And we drank and sang and danced all night long
Till the children had to tell us to stop,
But for what it was worth we deserved
A little cheer at the business end of a year that has
Not been the best for the country
Or it’s wonderful folk.

And today there are
Several shades of headache
Competing for our attention, but the mention of
Such is fleeting as there are repeats
To be watched again in order to confirm
It actually happened and wasn’t some alcohol
Induced coma dream seen just before
Oblivion carried us away.

And Harry sits fittingly
On my knee, as I did my father’s,
And shares once again the actualities of it, and
As four years ago we make the
Same result, and even God played
Cricket on the seventh day as all good children
Know, and as they grow into men
Know more so all over again.

Sunday, 23 August 2009

SUNDAY 223rd AUGUST 2009.

Was hoping for a summer without the numbness of rain
Shouting at us, but all we’ve had is water uproar, blunting
The commercial and the personal.

Old clouds congregating; returned to the burned sky to
Soothe the raw sun in their cocoon; soft cotton mouthing the
Scale of their castle walls.

Vision is missing; statements have been made but nobody
Has said anything, and all the fixed laws of probability tip and
Ruin any unions formed.

Make an image sigh or a moment hold its breath, either’s
Delightful, as black and white viewing is strafed by golden
Bullets spat out from above.

Tied and drying, and the wherewithal for it smiles in
Accordance, as upraised faces pray; how sweet to smell
Perennially relevant yet still different.

And with fleeces shed we skipped into magnetic fields,
To reconnect our needs, as a trickle down slope capped his
Shoulders summit, less effective when shunned.

And sleep interrupted others, woke by the broken record
Of an angel’s need, and when his sapphire eyes open wider
Than the sky there will be no hiding place.

Whether it’s expected or not, shortened or protracted, love
Flatters, and no matter how wet, you won’t get wetter, though
You’re never dry enough.

Saturday, 22 August 2009


Fattened in the flashes of light
From the sharpest eyes, and planted in
The brawling soil that spills from the sills
Of public houses every evening of the week.

Prowling in delinquence with
The bitches of the moon dogs, who, whilst
Watching, dribble as they shiver to decide
Which hide to have, and how to impound them.

But as she stretches fully out
Upon the dim tint of potted tarmac, she
Sees me stepping back in angles less tested
Than the ones she’s used to and at once is moved.

I fetch her a bone of her own and
She skips the company she’s kept all night
In favour of my lead; slipping after me as I hop
A cobalt cab and alight at my pad to be howled at.

Friday, 21 August 2009

FRIDAY 21st AUGUST 2009.

So there are less Flu numbers again this week,
And deaths have settled to a steady leak,
And there’s no wonder really as the media
Has dropped the story In favour of more
Vendible trends. And even if you had a sneeze
Last month you’ve probably forgotten about it this,
And are less worried about it than Afghanistan,
Or boiling unemployment or whether cricket fits
Into the soccer season. Personally I’ve been more
Concerned with family matters and the lack of
A summer to flatten out under. And my baby is
Gaining admirations daily and all the ladies
Say he looks more like me every time they see
Him, which annoys his mother, but what doesn’t.

So the year rolls into the inevitability of winter
Months, and trees, which only yesterday appeared
To be budding new colour, are rallying the last
Of their reserves to produce fruit. Skirts and
Shirts bulk bought for barbeques are being
Removed from view whilst jeans and means of
Heat retention are being mentioned. And as the
Labour government begins to reassemble, for
The last time in a generation, it ponders on the
Second wave of Swine Flu, anticipating outbreaks
In October, when all it has to do is give the news
Providers a date to announce, and once we’ve
Removed our heads from our arses long enough to
Study it, and panic, we’ll believe it into view.

Thursday, 20 August 2009


She’s fifteen today,
Is my daughter, and
Though not biologically mine
I brought her up from six,
And in body, mind and spirit
She sees me as her dad.

She’s one of the good kids,
Of whom so little is written
About these days by the shakers
Who inform the papers
With generalisations about
The next generation.

And she’s a beacon of
Light in these frosty times,
Warming the lines that
Surround her and gracing the
Favoured with her shine, bathing
Her brother in life,

Who she saw into the
World with us earlier in
The year and for whom her love
Has no equal or decent
Petition, save the condition
We make for her.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009


It’s the first anniversary
Of yesterday,
And banners have
Been made
To decorate the pavements
And back lanes,
Barrels tapped
And fluted glass filled,
And tomorrow will
Be the second that
Before long will bring a
Weekly appraisal,
A month’s celebrating,
And by the time the
Seasons have spun their
Wreathes once more
A whole calendar will have
Dawned and asked
What was so fascinating last year?

Tuesday, 18 August 2009


In a corner
With gold in a glass
And an empty ashtray waiting
For a moment’s pasture to matter.
But the world bounces off of my boundaries
At the moment and all I find is a
White tiled room and time enough
To count them.

A house fly’s
Buzz of otherness catches
My eye, but I’m already too blurred
To nurture its path across my page,
And anyway it would be difficult to find a
Single line in praise of parasites,
Although I’ve said delightful things
About wings before;

And those flown
Closer to home have not
Always been the best of receptors;
Most of my family operates on the
Stranger wavelength, whereby they don’t
Call unless you do, and therefore
Nobody does. Funny how we tend to
Venerate these fist.

I’d forgotten who
These people were, where
Their loyalties lay, how low on the
Pecking order we came and what
Holes are in them. I’ve a mentality looking for
A conflict worthy of it, and as my
Temptation resistor is blistered, I may
Have to risk insistence.

Monday, 17 August 2009

MONDAY 17th AUGUST 2009.

I picked a thought from
The spring it was basking in;
Cleansing the scales of its weight and pumping
Water along the paints of its palette.

It wasn’t happy to be
Manhandled so, but as it had
Been lurking an eternity, and worrying the other
Sentiments of my members club, I didn’t care.

I was prepared for its
Patronage, its big fish misery;
It had exactly the turned down surliness I was after;
Just the reluctance my booking required:

Aloof but with the
Right amount of decoration
To prove acuity, and encourage clergy to flourish in
Honour of whoever happens to bear it.

And when application
Of its makeup was complete
I was ready for anything you could throw against me;
Prepared to repel your slipperiest kisses.

And struck out against
My denial you lied about your
Intentions and left me alone, and I, like every child does,
Returned my stillness to its millpond.

Sunday, 16 August 2009

SUNDAY 16th AUGUST 2009.

Beat out a dream for me on your drum,
With the rhythm of night and
The warmth of the sun.

Or upon your anvil forge me a story,
To keep fear appeased beneath
The eaves of morning.

Scratch a chronicle upon the wall
With nails grown solely for
The purpose of it all.

Enable a tale to walk onto your screen,
And talk of the rituals it
Has virtually seen.

Allow fables to fall from overhead lines
Installed to keep such from
Exhorting their times.

And with myth wish a star to exist in the sky
And carry us farther than
We ever thrived.

And whisper my history to me at my rest,
And cover it with a fresh
Lover’s breath.

Saturday, 15 August 2009


Twenty years ago today I thought I knew
Which way to move; I figured the missing things
Could be replaced elsewhere. I was certain the future
Lay without her; in some distant bazaar;
Billeted in exotic laps after removing the wrappers
Of powders and poultices, pick me ups and knock me
Flats. Conversing with the worst kind of
Minds and teasing from them memories of times
I wished were mine, and was determined to make so.

I expected to find women falling from the
Windows I passed beneath; thinking me instant
Soup and irresistibly spooning me into salivating mouths.
Shapes and sizes prized by lingerie makers,
Or the less prouder rounded waifs grateful for
Attention should I be rejected by the perfect specimens.
Or the foreign or fleeting or blind meeting;
Seriously seen or casually had once been there
And done that, and didn’t I do well whilst frisking them.

I found all this and more; did every form
Of love except same sex, though no doubt that
Would have been next as I circled the holy globe of lust,
But I went bust one day whilst truffling
Around rougher trade, and as I waded back to
Shore saw the truth of it drifting further out to sea without me:
Everything was here to begin with, as it
Always is, in every whispered fable and bedtime
Tale that begins “Once upon a time there was a boy and a girl..”

Friday, 14 August 2009

FRIDAY 14th AUGUST 2009.

Achieving a brisance too soon
And left labouring afterwards,
In haste or in waiting, for those
Chosen to make up the meter,

Due to the circumstance’s boon
Or particulars of cast curse,
And elbow grease is acetone
When it’s an accommodator.

So what finds me in this cartoon,
With consequence’s lazy words
Of impatient and purple prose
Laid out for fate’s grave repeaters:

A chance encounter with saloons,
Left only after ale’s blizzard,
Propped up by alcohol’s backbone
And a desire for adventure,

Or altercation with a rune,
A stab at destiny’s innards,
To puncture and metamorphose
The underneath and the outer,

Or a quick decision’s harpoon
Doing its underwater worst
To drag me further from the shown
And fill with a swill of others.

Thursday, 13 August 2009


Down the long track from you
I’ve travelled these many years.
On those wholesale modal nights
And scarce golden days,
Between seasons and cities,
Skimming the surfaces of standing water
And servicing drought guardedly so as not to drown.
Always you have been my companion,
Always available for advice or flavour or manner;
There to agree with or dismiss me
In equal measure, to prowl a back ally
Or broad street with and always as a mirror
To hold up a latest love to. An ideal to test
The rest against, and find them wanting
In one area or another: looks, style, mind, the list
Is as long as the line of contenders,
The boxes ticked as few as the view.

Lightening seldom strikes twice,
And virginity is even more sparing
With its share, so the chances of a man
Finding his way back to
Whatever sanity contained
Him are slight. But in the low countries
Of stumbling the slightest highlight of hill can either
Wilt you further or shelter until the
Storm passes and a new cast appears to absolve
You of any wrongdoing you may
Have intentionally or accidentally set
In motion. Though having hacked my way
Across the landscapes of this land, rags in
Hand, coughing grandly for salvation,
I’ve found neither help nor hindrance have left
Invitation for me to partake of any
Elevated replacement experiences.

Wednesday, 12 August 2009


First there was an itch,
Then a scratch
And a catch;
A rip,
A tear,
A finger in there
Peeling skin.

Then there was the flesh,
With its pith
And its pips;
A rib,
A rack,
A fist in cracking,

Revealing the heart,
And its beat
Of retreat;
A bid,
A beg,
A prayer bootlegging

Finally silence,
The end of
A stop,
A stay,
A floor to abrade
For awhile.

Tuesday, 11 August 2009


Ethereal air waves haunted
And richer with disease than a season spent
In a jungle tent without nets;
Infected with invective and suspect opinion,
And littered with the spittle
Of fascists failing to grasp the actual.

A mine field of whining types
And the greedy who don’t even hold bowls
Anymore but reach for ingredients;
Scratching and clawing and scoring despite
The slew of sources advising
Against the selfishness of such actions.

But in the middle of a nightmare
Spent trying to repair an electric mechanism
There you were, a solid horizon sight;
A tango of sanity amidst the dances of the
Mad and fashioned in sashes
Of fleeting need and soothing moods.

Boat rowed on your birthday whilst
Taming a windlass to turn the world for you
As you rifle off a rod full ashore;
Stopping to pop into my life once again just
When I thought the world was full
Of the interminably dull, and void of sense.

Scratching the clarity of surfaces
Can help determine their worth, but in the
Face of your presence why bother;
A man can do some damage if he’s handled
Incorrectly, and you understand
This but still you have arrived to molest me.

Monday, 10 August 2009

MONDAY 10th AUGUST 2009.

I wanted to test the infinity offered
By opposing mirrors,
But no matter how deeply confronted
I never begun to
As you crashed out of one looking
Glass and took
The next reflection with you as you
Exited my plan.

Left with two hardboard backed
Picture frames, and
Holes where our fame had often
Aimed against itself,
I decided to retile them with images
From my box of looks,
But once booked the walls refused
To brook them.

With no space available I took the
Refurbished icons
To the attic; leaving them face to
Face forever, to stain
Age with their eternity and do the
Work of immortality
For me whilst I endeavoured to never
Be left again.

Sunday, 9 August 2009


Manacle back my hands,
Plunder my front with yours.
Hard yards at your command
Until thrilled by applause.

Spread on the bed my frame,
Straddle its saddened form.
Rise as your prize is claimed
And stay laid on till dawn.

Wake to retake my dust,
A morning horn to blow.
Sated by weight of lust
And sack of tobacco.

Wine me and dine in style,
Rape me and shape to thine.
I spin rinsed in your smiles,
Less often lost in mine.

Tie my hair from my sight,
And hand me reflections
That show only the light
Of wide eyed correction.

Saturday, 8 August 2009


A little finger chased the rest of its friends
From her shoulder to her hip via the dip of
Her shapely, but recessed, waist; resting a
While upon a mountain of thigh before a
Thumb, impatient and grumbling, harassed
Its humbler buddies back again.

The flow of towing flesh continued until
The still form turned to learn what had
Roused her from slumber and, upon a
Glance at the hand, poised to mount
Her precipitous breasts, swished it sideways
With the indignation of the pestered.

Now this event left the right hand at a
Loss, so a conference was called with its
Brother, and after interlocking digits
They decided to address her frigidity
Full on by pulling off their friend and mentor
Who lived between their bare legs.

Some time later, when the she creature
Rolled her own fingers over the curls
Of his canescent chest, and edged to
His groin, they clicked to themselves
As she left rejected by the flaccid member
Who had already been attended to.

Friday, 7 August 2009


Most of the people round here are sheepish unless whiplash pissed;
As amiable as they’re able to be until their circumstances demand
Otherwise or burdens of state or personal responsibility become
Too much to take, and then they drink to excess to make sense of it,
And the attention deficits previously championed are abandoned
In favour of a sudden and intense interest in your well being; to the
Effect that you have less of it than when you left home. The meek
Become seekers of biblical heretics at the merest whiff of cheap wine
Whilst the mild can turn vile at the drop of a bottle cap. In fact it can
Be a dangerous adventure these days just stepping down the street
For a pint or a punt: any innocent act can turn a stranger met into a
Statistical fact, or a friend, once known, can fully blow his wage on a
Super strength binge and then all talk of what you once did together
Is reduced to a raucous hitting match. Such are the reactions that a
Walk in the park can quickly become a tour of duty’s jungle fire if
Not underlined enough. Still come Monday morning, when all of the
Functional drunks have packed their rage and weapons away, the
World looks pretty much the same as it did when we were kids and
The only folk who drank were our fathers, and sensibly so, at social
Clubs, until, that is, someone spilt a pint of best, and you know the rest.

Thursday, 6 August 2009


Put a front to me,
And open your mouth
A little; let me see where
Your speech is coming from.
Roll your tongue around a vowel
And allow it to leave the
Surface in verbal elegance,
And make the distance significant.

Close your lips once your line
Has strung enough colourful
Bites along it, and then think of
Dirtier ones for your washing, and drip
Them in my ear as you move nearer.
Lose none on the breath of heaven scent
That leaves when speeding a thought
Along the process of conception.

Breathe double features
Over me and see my lenses
Steam in anticipation of remaining;
Rein in the excess and recycle any
Letters left inside you for my
Approval, either scowled or flat
Lined, or smiled if you’ve happened
To hit the right nerve with your words.

Wednesday, 5 August 2009


There’s always one fool who leaves his vehicle
Parked outside a house when the road surface
Is being replaced.

There’s always space in the soul when a day’s
Worth is replaced by the following before
It’s been honoured.

There’s always one day with realization that
The way wasn’t blocked and the wrong path
Was taken by mistake.

There’s always an error made that although
Played out over and over again was still leant
More intelligence to.

There’s always one clay foot too many spun
To put into a mouth instead of ahead of
Another on the road.

There’s always one street agreed to take the
Car down when trying to find another town
To park in overnight.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009


It was quite in the lane,
In the middle of the night,
When he exited his house
Just a year ago.

I was there with the dog,
Walking up and down the cobbles,
Stopping every few steps
To sniff the privet,

Whilst not so far away,
Behind air tight double glaze,
There were screams around the pain,
And whispers for relief;

He’d been there all my life,
And a good friend of my dad,
Who’d died three years before
In relative tranquility.

But here on this evening,
As cancer crept unto its heights,
My neighbour lost his battle
As death bettered him.

And the world turns restfully,
In those hours of transition,
When life and death are tested
And only one succeeds.

Monday, 3 August 2009


There’s no telling what I may catch along the
Refrigerated aisle at the supermarket as I’m following
A bandy legged man who refills the chilled shelves
With readymade meals. He’s wheezing hard and it’s
Certainly cold enough to transmit all manner of diseases,
And there are enough runny nosed folk crowding
The bargain basement section to promote their popularity,
But I’ve also the sneaky feeling that food poisoning
Is not that far from the fray. The 2 for 1 loss leaders, and
Early closing hours, tend to bring the stingy and the
Singles, marinated in mange, out on a Sunday afternoon
To beat the rush, but everybody’s busted these days so
It’s busier than Christmas. Fat and scornful children
Trill for candy as they’re dragged around the fruit and
Veg section in the middle of their holidays; sitters having
Quit the scene on account of the obscenity and granny’s
Had enough of being dumped with them. The baby with
The teenager is screaming for attention and is rewarded
With a lollipop and the toddler at the checkout howls at
The multi-coloured bags of goodies stacked to snare the
Careless parent. And when I wait in line, and spy ten
Empty tills, seething creeps into my breathing and I
Step from foot to foot with obvious impatience. But
Eventually I’m attended to and am out the shop to
Trace the track back home where the wife waits to be
Fertilized again, and I remember why I left the
House in the first place, and turn around to waste more
Time inside the only open refuge left in town.

Sunday, 2 August 2009


Shove a photograph in front of your
Face and trace the path from its taking.
Stick another on the fridge and watch it’s
Magnet draw you towards fresh expectations.

Find an idle image in the back of
A draw and remember what you took
It for, or who handled the camera at the
Time, or the people you shared it with and

Where, and what they’re doing now.
Receive memories in the post and swear
To do your utmost to preserve their place in
Time forever yours. Keep them neat or creased

In your pocket for a fix when needed;
Shuffle a pack in a hard backed book or
Save to the gossamer space in the guts of
Computers or silvered valleys of compact discs,

And pick up the pieces and threads
That separate these flecks every now and
Again, but bear in mind that the image of you
In your prime existed without the times of your life.

Saturday, 1 August 2009


The odd
I mention her,
I tend to forget
To tell people how she
Breathes life into any room
She happens to enter, even
The vacuumed ones between the hours
Of sunset and rise where dreams are revived.

Goes further
Than the end of
Of the performance,
Clinging to the things of
Comfort she’s collected down
The years and wearing clothing
That only the lonesome consider
Applicable for their old marooned homes.

And knees
And elbows
Sticking out and
Splitting the air at
Irregular angles,
Handling the body’s movement
With all the grace of a racehorse
Who fell at the first fence and hadn’t
Realised its life would be full of jumps.