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?

Monday, 14 September 2009


Last night I brayed a spider,
Three flies and
A few fleas;

They should have stayed outside
With their cries
And their pleas.

There’s no sympathy from me,
I’ve got kin
To protect;

I’d begin to batter bees,
If they sinned
In my nest.

Because I’m sick of their feet,
On my arms
In the night,

And the quickening heartbeats,
When alarmed
At their sight.

So unless they refrain
From smuggling
Their dread

I’ll address my campaign
To these bugs
In their beds.


Overnight the leaves have
Left their branches bare,
Gathered in great mats upon the grass
And turned the last of summer dumb;
Autumn’s carpet dampening bird calls.

Temperature has fallen by
Ten degrees, causing
Ordinary clothing to be stretched in
Its vesture, or quickly exchanged
For garments far too cumbersome.

If it continues in the same
Vein then tomorrow’s
Rain will be daisy faced snow and
There’ll be no time to spell check
My cell phone text in such deft cold,

And by the evening the big
Freeze will have seized
The last sense from a government
Already witless and citizen
Shy, and sideline their policies;

So the next morning, in place
Of a steadily retreating
Year, the world will be frozen;
Coated in a clear film and
Left for a better tepidness to find.

Sunday, 13 September 2009


I believe the previous week deserves a mention
On this mid September Sunday before what’s
Been drawn is erased in favour of another one.
Beatle business has tempted everybody’s wallet,
Football's received a boost and actually lived up
To English expectations, the sun has decided to let
Us see it for more than a few hours a day and early
Morning mist has reminded us of its bewitchment.

The daughter met the man who made her, and
The world didn’t end, Harry smiled more widely
And made me cry, the dogs are getting foggier
With age and food is slowly being upgraded by
Seasonal root vegetables and all the better for
It, while Christmas fizz has been spotted on the
Farthest peripheries of the supermarket although
Nobody admits to having seen it this early on.

The oldest classic horse race in the world, the
St. Leger, was run, and no doubt won, by some
Nag in Doncaster, and I’ve been on another of my
Vaginal history tours where I, and a conquered
Assortment of ladies, rearrange the patterns of
What actually happened and dare anyone who
Wasn’t there to question it, then send mental
Requests to those who were to get in touch again.

Now I’m not an anecdotist, or great wit, and half
The words I get to write appear to me as if not
Mine; my hands are soft because I’ve spent too
Long indoors, and though their muscle structure
May applaud, my arse and frame complain as
Vociferously about the lack of it, but know this,
And know it well: no cunt in London is going to
Tell me what to do, so I’ll be damned if you are.

Saturday, 12 September 2009


In this universe
Everyone is planet rich.
Each individual world turns where
Their gravity has no effect upon their neighbours,
As great space is blessed with habitable satellites aplenty.

We’re stripped
To our slip-ons and like
Prize fighters hefted upon the scales, and
Every ounce is counted in the never ending bout to
Make sufficient weight to continue along unhindered.

Grinning as we
Gain altitude enough
To stake a claim to our own atmosphere;
Cheering further as removal men de-van the contents of
Our cute uncluttered lives around the prescribed biospheres.

A roomy seat;
A couple of feet with hardening
Undercarriage shuffle and peel in the
Bath room’s gasses, weekly sheets flaking away until
The newly groomed cutis is fully bloomed and comfortable.

Deploying a paw
Mark; employing a claw’s spark
For fire; seeding and reaping and sowing
Until seasonal and eaten to grow. Meeting in the middle
Of our social systems in order to solve riddles and breed over.

Friday, 11 September 2009


She lies bow high as cargo has been discharged
From forward holds and, stern lurched, curls
Cold dock water around her. Gangways
Cast overboard struggle to service
Stevedores trying to tie down
Several shades of steel ashore.
I’ve been inside this ship's skin; I’ve seen its storage
Spaces and thin walkways where seamen
Scrape their boots; the cramped low
Rooms they root and warren in;
Others locked and empty as the
Times have strained the crew.

But still she spoons her bulk across the stew of
Seas between European plates, spilling
Trimly what’s been left to fill her
With in this economic drought;
Her draught reflecting these
More fordable waters.
And back again with empty metal boxes sent
In hope of loading, when everybody
Knows none is forthcoming and
Will probably remain that
Way until we’ve plumbed
The depths of recession.

Thursday, 10 September 2009


She sways
And sashays left to right so that
Both sides of the compass get
To share her angles.

Her arms
Delicately rhythmic to an inbuilt
Lilt that well paid models have
To labour at.

Her waist
Shows no excess tapering beneath
Green creases whilst revealing
Its secrets.

Her rear
Steering the agents of locomotion
That effortlessly trestle muscle
Over bone.

Her gait
As languid as a man with money
And urgent as a honey worker

And her route
Unknown and lute wires no doubt
Plucked by luckier hands than

Wednesday, 9 September 2009


We’ll call 9.9.9 today.
No emergency or urgent need,
Just the calendar arranging its kids in a sequence familiar
To people here, and universally accepted;
Even on the other side of the pond where they
Tend to do things differently.

We won’t know what to say.
Village violence builds from the silence
Of the massed middle classes on one side and idle dialers on
The other, whilst sky pilots worry about
Passengers pouncing out into the aisles and
We wonder if they can fly.

We cosy up to the old and
Ruptured who swam here when God began; or have
Fun under coat loaded beds, well until the guests leave, with
Virginal minds working on the fringes of ours,
And urging us on, but has anyone found what
They sought in proportion.

Morning shakes and takes
Another rib, no doubt at His jaded bidding,
So fasten a hardy buttress to your fourth wall for more support,
And stand firm. In keeping with hands held
To help acclimation, welcome to my world,
But unplug that phone first.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009


That space in my face
With the shell like spikes
Is a smile that a while
Back was lacking.

But a boy with the joy
Of a cherub stared up
And persuaded away
All my dryness.

Then a girl with the world
In the palm of her hand
Took a moment to hold
Only Me,

And a lady of fate
And a house of renown
Pioneered my good cheer
And enchantment.

Monday, 7 September 2009


In the most beautiful borough of town stately old homes and
Retirement houses surround a cemetery,
Which sits patiently awaiting its business with the ease of
Enlightenment and eagerness of seekers.

The Devil strolls daily reading necrology lists, looking for bodies
To stock up his shop with or ashes for his fires,
Whilst God, in an assortment of smocks, picks roses or posies of
Wildflowers to shower His souls with.

And inbetween them a groundsman tries to chivvy squirrels
Back up their trees whilst keeping immortals apart,
For there would be an almighty startle if, deep in his obituaries,
Satan wandered into the path of God,

Who, believing him expelled, would be alarmed to find him
Dwelling in this graveyard parlour
And, taking umbrage at his presence, would no doubt call down
His host to immobilize him again.

On the other hand, seeing as how the Almighty has lived amongst
These tombs for centuries, it’s a
Rather damning indictment on His account that he’s been too busy
Studying botany to notice brimstone.

The demon seems oblivious too, as he studies whom to shoehorn
Into his particular boot, and so this
Pair of deities perambulate in ignorance of who wanders among
The headstones of the dead,

And it’s left to the lowly lawnmower man to separate and escort
The spectres, who queue at the ornate gates,
Towards their destinations, regardless of corporeal endeavours, in
Order to keep the peace and feet off the grass.

Sunday, 6 September 2009


It’s Luke’s 17th birthday today;
He’s my sister’s first kid, and I remember
Him arriving like it was this morning, which
It more or less was all those years ago, and on a Sunday.

I’d been seeing an obsidian skinned beauty
And we’d managed to get the nod on the Saturday
Night, and spent the evening re-enacting his conception,
And by the time we arrived at the North Middlesex he was here.

My sister was being wheeled out from her
Performance, drenched in sweat and other viscous
Matter, whilst her husband hobbled behind her in his ever
So slightly too high Cuban heels and 1980’s rock star hair style.

We had all spent a lot of time together
That year, checking tests and stress levels, padding
Nests and sex guessing. A day away in Southend collecting
Little teddy bears from promenade halls and roll them in arcades;

A night out in the West End at the Odeon
Leicester Square to watch Alien 3, sat in the front row,
Craning to see the show as chest busters popped out upon the
Screen whilst expecting my sister’s own creature to appear any minute,

And generally furthering the bonds of
Family, that although strong, have never been the
Same since. So to you my 6 foot 5 tall nephew I wish all the
Best, and when your further education starts savour every second of it.

Saturday, 5 September 2009


So the sperm donor telephoned and
Said hey, I’d like to meet my daughter
After fourteen years. Mother mentioned
It to her, and she said OK.

So what does that say about me and
My parenting skills. A stranger clicks his
Fingers and women linger. Never mind eh;
We’ve tried our best to pick up the pieces of
Other peoples broken fucking lives and will
Always believe we’ve done our best, but rugs
Are rugs, and the mere transitory fact of their
Fragility allows for them to be ripped from
Underneath us when least expected.

And this appears to be that time, and
Although foretold I thought it would happen
Later on in the flapping future when sufficient
Armour was installed to handle it. But it has called
And all I can do is face it with whatever dignity
Alcohol allows, and if that’s none, then it’s gone,
But I’ll still have my son to concentrate
All of my love upon.

Friday, 4 September 2009


Acceleration remakes my shape along the path
To a distant land, where sight hangs less steadily
Upon surfaces and rumours return of colours run
Thru one another; beyond the reach of speed, and
Time’s teachings, where nothing’s seen of current
Themes except abstract impressions.

Upon its differential thread of steerage inertia
No longer worships on it knees but fuels the rush
Of others furthering their freedom. Swung around
This cantilever we lucky few are worn like worry
Beads thumbed together by the bedevilment
Of eternal church concerns,

And hope the precious left behind are invoked
To consider our position, although signs are not
Posted or roads noted and clergy would call
Heathen all those who believe in our distinction,
Some may gain the most from knowing we
Sent drafted manuscripts;

Distortions brought back in flattened patterns,
Distilled from mountain top shouting into the
Thinnest whispers and caught in crystal whisky
Glasses pressed strenuously to ears, and trapped
With quickest hands for bagging and tagging
And eventual unravelling.

Here, we scream, is wonder; here where seams
Have been unpicked and spun to better fit the
Shunned and humble, where worth or wealth
Are pin tacked upon the background, and left
Unnecessary in the vested forms we leave for
The world to wear.

Thursday, 3 September 2009


The war declared at eleven
Was fought on behalf of everyone
Who didn’t want to go to hell,
And after six years evil fell
And a world fit for the living
Was riven from the fingers of the dead.

But little changed upon the
World’s surface: borders closed their
Doors, people still sought each
Other’s blood, economies
Rose, stood still or stalled
Within similar halls of stone columns,

And all the bleeding and
Begging and shredding of people
Upon green, gold or blue has
Little to do with today
Where the old are impaired
And young are not weighed correctly.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009


A whole genre of porn has been lost to me whilst listening
To a mother describe it to her daughter: my mind’s
Eye will never again be able to assimilate images
Of women in bliss without imposing my loved ones
Faces upon them.

The facts of life are fine, as long as they’re explained out
Of earshot, and discreetly, but the woman preaching
This evening is neither quiet nor cautious, and because
Of it I’ll never be able to commune in darkened rooms
With myself again.

And it’s not as if the daughter’s gormless or has a gift for
Ignorance, or even needs sexual education to be
Expressed directly from the breast of her mother’s
Love as graphically as this, and in the company
Of an embarrassed dad,

But should she ever need to find her way around the out
Of bounds grounds that these performances currently
Occupy, and I’m sure a few more years will pass before
She does, then she’ll need to ask a master of such arts
Like me for the best dressed sites.

Tuesday, 1 September 2009


Seventy years ago
This very day
Man's rage
Swept across
The continent
And my country
Did what it could
To preserve
Some human dignity
Within Europe,
And if, in the
Years since,
It has not done
Its utmost to maintain
That position
Then at least
We can say
We rose against,
And opposed,
The beast
When we did.