Saturday, 9 January 2010


Times of deep indulgence,
Rain stained outer casings,
Aluminium souls.

The fate of interested rates
Deflated to the basement;
Wine cellars displaced.

Conscientious prices rising,
Neutral colours used
On rainbows.

The internal revenue revue,
Reported and revoked;
Tax systems in exile.

Eternal flames in panic,
Dehydrated water flowing
Down more throats.

The latest census studied,
Conclusions to the fore;
More people than then.

Equations drawn up all night,
Multiplied and long divided;
Assets sawn off.

Four parent families promoted;
The point in two children moved
From pillar to post room.

Infrastructure incompetent,
Rolling stock depleted;
People using feet.

Building size increasing,
Mirroring the waistband;
Inside legs left stranded.

Clear night advertisements,
Tinted briar glasses
Selling by the million.

Pitched blackness at odds
With day light all day long,
And sleep privatised.

Vertical hammocks hung up
From tube train hand rails,
Never used though.

Always arriving presently,
Never disembarking;
Withheld commuters.

Every line a circle line,
As every surface covered
In human skin.

Indulgence deep in time,
Wrapped up in weather proofs;
Electrolytically plated.


For the whole of the weekend
I am at work
For half of the wage
Of a regular clerk,
But for a quarter of the time
I’ll be asleep,
And the remaining three
I’ll be counting sheep.

For half of the problem
Is motivation,
For the whole of the shift
I’m in isolation,
But for double time
I’m not complaining,
Unlike everyone else,
As it’s raining.

For a quarter of our lives
We’re lost in school,
For the following two
Working for fools,
But the whole of the time
Is spent creating
A fourth dimension
Where all time is waiting.


Further down the wishing well
Than all the coins you tossed have fell,
Sit all the wishes in the world,
Bored witless waiting for their call.

And all about their ledge is hell,
A darkened, unlit, smothered cell,
Concealing something similar
To things portrayed in cinemas.

Its legions sound another cry,
As more coins tumble from the sky,
And wishers’ aspirations fall
Towards the centre of the world.

To fish upon the wishing well
Forewarns the creatures hot in hell,
No wonder no one gets their wish
Between the start and finish.


A time for red faces,
And boiled kettle breath,
For white spider webs,
And short penguin steps.

A time for de-icing,
And rubber soled boots,
For whisky inside you,
And demands for warm suits.

A time for cold windows,
And salt on the ground,
But still careful people
Frequently fall down.

A time for the big fog,
And speed restricted,
When all laymen’s health
Is greatly afflicted.

A time for illusion,
And frantic releases,
When entrepreneurs
Can rake in the riches.

A time for invention
And patent importance,
For all good intention
Falling at the first fence.

A time for reunion
With loved ones again,
And distant confusions
Recalled with your friends.

A time for remembrance
Of old souls long gone,
Anniversaries falling,
As leaves on the lawn.

A time for new lovers,
And old ones at that,
Virgin snow covers
To fall in and out.

A time to be happy,
Or so say the crowd,
For old fashioned humanity
Crying out loud.


The window fell out
Of the hole it was in,
And proceeded to fall to the earth.

The frame it was with
Broke down at the loss,
And the occupants spoke of its worth.

The ground underneath
Was holding its breath
Awaiting the blow of its falling.

The air in-between
Tried vainly to save
The glass from its imminent calling.

The impact released
All the tension within,
And the day swept up all the remains.

The glazier arrived
To keep out the sky,
And the pain was replaced once again.


My friend lost sight of the finer points of life
And had no recourse but to excuse himself
From his urban retreat and his personal grief,
And the strain of his marriage’s bad health.

It started, I heard, with no more than words,
But developed more quickly than usual,
Until everything known had abandoned the hosts,
And the last engine tank had been fuelled.

Some time after this there wasn’t much left
Of the station he shared with his martyr;
They took one last breath, and after their rest,
Began to tare each other’s heart out.

She got in there first, and during her worst,
He was feeling her nails hammer home,
But just as his world was beginning to burst
He connected and duly caused harm.

He wasn’t that way, and to this very day,
I’ll defend him against fools of correction,
But how could he be saved from an incongruous grave
In the light of his apparent last action.

He must have blacked out with not even a thought
Of the log fire burning behind them,
For the guard on the hearth, had fallen apart,
And the next day no inspection could find them.

In the ash that was left of the house that was wrecked
Nothing special remained to be labelled,
And so we all were bereft by the untimely deaths,
And sat down to recount round a table.

And no verdict was nigh, so the families’ decided
That accidents are all part of experience,
But I will never cry for my friend and his wife,
And their shared love of fire insurance.


Forever striding around each corner
And stumbling over every mourner;
Relearning trails of expectation
Whilst juggling with reintegration.

Mind the gap and fold the factory,
Spill the bean seed, snub reactionary;
Feed the faithful graceless starving,
Burn the dead and praise the calving.

Whatever happens just keep on digging,
Hold the walls without them giving,
And bleed a vein into a needle hole,
Until it burns and need unfolds.

Until the hedonism swallows
Every single peaceful horror,
In ground and sky and rock face sited,
Waiting here for all united.

And with their very latest targets
Telling others whom to harvest,
There’s more to rant about than heaven,
Now that fools are freely driven.

And on the corner of the standing,
An open elevator landing,
And on the corner of my striding,
Behold East, North and best West Riding.


I got recklessly legless,
Arse holed and parcelled home,
But was earnestly restless,
And breathless with deathly sweats.
And opposed to a parachute
I plummeted from altitude,
And impatient with institutes
I pursued the under used.
And inspired to inspect myself
I noticed a ne’er do well,
And a sensitive surgeon known
Was shell shocked when I went down.
I was instantly certified,
My vanity vandalised,
But still, institutionalised,
I started to sanitise.
And thoroughly though I fought
I still felt informal thoughts,
So friends fell about me,
And protected me proudly.
And I’ll repay the platitudes
Bestowed by the better few,
Who forever are faithful to
The impaled in view.
And before I befriended drink
I was wondering what to think,
But now needing nothing
I’ll give up giving in.


We all have an issue on which we’re expert,
Or a point that we wish we’d the sense to insert,
Or a particular passion that is somewhat overt,
Well here’s our account, so please stay alert.

I’ll begin to explain but you’ll have to be quiet,
And promise you will not return home and try it,
As the story is louder than last years’ riot,
And harder to swallow than your diet.

I was sat at my desk at the start of a week,
In the middle of summer, but not at its peak,
As the weather had not yet refined its technique
For dispensing its sunshine, however oblique.

Good fortune was forecast for Saturday hence,
And by Wednesday and Thursday it still made good sense,
So come Friday night our indulgence commenced,
And the music was stronger than the neighbours’ defence.

Thru the night it continued until morning was near,
And dressed up as bank robbers we drank all the beer,
And prepared to be warmed by the sun and its cheer,
But by ten o’clock it had still not appeared.

We were pissed off but pissed up, so we waited awhile,
But the sun didn’t show us its substance or style,
So we picked up the phone and decided to dial
The Prime Minister and speak to his smile.

But it was Saturday morning and he was not in,
Nor was his wife or the one with the spin,
So we eventually spoke to an answer machine,
And asked why the forecasters had fucked up again.

We didn’t leave names or addresses behind,
But I do not suppose we were that hard to find,
For the very next week the sun was to shine,
Well until the power station nearby came on line.

So we rang them and told them to turn off the smoke,
And they said they would hit the off switch as a joke,
And we all laughed about it with vodka and coke,
And de-vanned to the garden to receive our sunstroke.

And now we are certain of our influence,
As there’s nobody out there we cannot convince,
That the sun is our subject, and the evidence,
Is up in the sky and has shone ever since.


You never talk these days of what you read
Unlike the crowd outside;
Their lips move
And mouth the sounds
Without ever knowing why.

Your fingers brush words across the page,
And retread the chapters close,
Whilst finding forms
For unknown letters,
And knowledge there bestowed.

Your eyes move as though you’re dreaming,
And your feet tap out a tune,
Though I’m never sure
Of its destination
As you always stop too soon.

You have protected your arrangements,
And amended them with care;
You’ve carried them
All through our years
And made ignorance aware.

As book burned people congregate
Outside your porch all day,
You settle back,
Dust cover down,
And continue on your way.

If you can learn more than the crowd,
Then learn more you will do,
Then when time comes
To engage them
Your words will not fail you.

But come on now baby put it down,
Theory time has passed,
You don’t need to address
Me correctly,
You’re no pupil in my class.

Place your long coat around yourself,
Buttoned to the top;
Forget other clothes,
It’s not too cold,
This shawl will be enough.

We’ll walk away over the bridge,
Well into the old town,
The things we’ve learnt
Are of utmost value now.

And the hoards they will not follow us,
They’ll stay within their clan;
They’re constantly
Evolving into man.

Friday, 8 January 2010


Let the implication wash through you
That there’s no indication we knew you,
As our memories have all been forsaken,
And for enemies we are now taken.

For it’s only the dawn that is pure,
Though the rest of the morning endures,
And the afternoon falls into ruin
As the day closes down for the moon.

Will our life entertain a brand new day?
Or is entropy well underway;
Fresh pages blown by the weather
Of stale images bound up together.


I love usual,
Hope you love mutual,
Infused with all
That’s beautiful.

A placid actual
Is found reacting
To some sound faction

Love frames overly,
Potent loyalty,
Sometimes orderly

Formed in fractions
Of grievous age;
Spared with actions

Formally rolled,
Orientally folded;
All love recalled
And shouldered.


Mystery crystallized; highlighting
the course of our lives.

Ascending crescendos announcing
that light has arrived.

Inviting insight, preparing
the clothes that we wear.

Exhaling, countervailing winds
blow colour through our hair.

Forgotten, besotted paths
will carry our thoughts.

Whilst unlimited, uninhibited roads
bare the overwrought.


You should never get struck
By a train at sea,
Unless it’s run by the English;
For they are never too sure
Where their trains should be,
Or where they’re allowed to catch fish.

For the tables are fiddled,
Or never at hand,
As everybody’s resigned,
And it’s easier to blame
The men on the job
Than the rolling stock or the lines.

And lowly commuters
Stood around in the rain,
Leaning against borrowed wealth,
Look up at the weather,
And their fate again:
To arrive after everyone else.

Their taxes consumed
By repairs on the way,
As the work is never completed,
And the people to blame
Are not here today,
But their successors are just as defeatist.

For they’ll never defer to experience,
Or anyone with any idea
How to manage a competent service.
So our strains will increase,
And our fish disappear,
Whilst our caravans follow the circus.


The house it bares your signature,
Magnified and miniature,
Underneath the furniture
And in between the floors.

With colour scheme implausible,
Warm water where the air is cool,
Four bedrooms and a vestibule;
Who could ask for more?

Shaped by the noise of loneliness
That lends an air of holiness,
I pray to God not only this
Is keeping me in place.

The trash inside the yard is old,
Tree side animals behold
The mound beside the marigolds,
That’s taking too much space.

Carried by the once strong breeze,
Carpeted with blow ball seed,
Gently covered for the need
And over time to grow.

Late payment speeded up my fate,
I couldn’t contemplate the taste,
The landlord repossessed the place,
I wasn’t sad to go.


Wherever my life leads
I will follow;
I am obliged to, you see.
I have to entertain its whims
And its fancies,
Regardless of their effect
Upon me.
In spite of them in fact.
It’s a necessity born from
Out of lack of
It has a life of its own,
My course does,
And who can deny it
Fortune or filth,
Or the love of home.
Who has the right
To dictate to my life,
Or chastise or inflate,
Or deflate or impose,
Or transpose themselves upon it.
It is,
And that’s all I need
To follow.
It does not hesitate in the mud,
It wallows.
It does not analyse what is good,
It swallows.
It does not criticise what is whole
Or hollow,
It just does without
Or you,
And is not humbled.


An assignation with an arbiter, a train spotter,
A newsletter.
Somehow he has collected the text
Of our sex.
A proposition from this rendering, this over ling,
This old encoded thing.
Somehow he has captured our words

An exposition from a urinal, an animal,
The genuine article.
Somewhere he has pictures of us
As adulterers.
An inquisition from a Satanist, an Adventist,
A real composite.
Somewhere there’s a brown package
Of pages.

A commission from his workshop, tabletop,
Full stop.
Some way I’ve got to forget the facts
Of our actions.
An invitation from his chequebook, a quick look,
Full amount took.
Some day I have to remember to send
You a memento.


Man in New York arrested in street,
For smoking cigar, Cuban.
Woman in Newcastle detested the heat,
Was committed, for sleeping, alone.

Boy in north London caught drinking,
In his bedroom, on bed, under cover.
Girl in LA was taught thinking,
Was harmful, to health, whilst moving.

Cat drowned in Wales was seen marking
His territory, a tree, in own yard.
Dog put down in Leeds had been barking,
At midnight, in kitchen, at burglar.

Husbands in Rome seen out swinging at night,
In the wind, with women, each others.
Wives in the home pulling strings in daylight,
With milkmen, moonlighting, as lovers.

Friends in Madras deported for stoning
A pantomime, bovine, pretending.
Enemies in surplus reported at home,
Marching slowly, in circles, descending.

Horses in sane lands seen demonstrating,
At conditions, and payment, and rations.
Carts in the rain stand berating,
Their owners, still reigning, the cash in.

Families in Yorkshire caught screwing,
The Social, for sickness, and health.
Strangers in England renewing,
After fleecing, their own lands, of wealth.


Take the certainty you had with me
and turn it into action;
Remove concrete from both your feet
and forever grease their traction.

And always feel the road’s appeal,
even when you are asleep;
Then wake up today, stood up or laid,
and recognize how deep.

Through all the days you worked away
for no more than intention,
Hope crept into the whole of you
without my intervention.

Use anything you can to sing
conclusion’s very praises;
With open end be well content
with all its local phrases.

And when liquor’s done our healthy ones
till nothing comes to mind,
Do not be swayed by lazy days,
or things therein defined.

For what you see is what you need,
as everything reflects;
Get up today and work your way
to whatever happens next.


Shall we all fall down and surrender
As if we’ve been hurt,
Or rendered inert.

And gather round and visualise
Our final resting place,
And recognise the day.

Speak of former distant lovers
As though they meant less
Than any other test.

Justify our final actions
As somehow quite bold
Until the facts unfold.

People the time we have acquired
With nothing but us,
And our desire for love.

Discover the space is charged
With little of use,
And largely reduced.

Weep and cry and demonstrate,
With stamping feet,
One last great heartbeat.

Or…meet someone quite suddenly,
And feel the warmth again.
Well…couldn’t we? My friend.


I will lay on the sand until it turns into glass
Waiting for you,
And stay until the threat of mankind has passed.

I will watch while the stars above fail to shine
Waiting for you,
Till the world has no sound left for me to define.

I will drown in the water that once was the sea
Waiting for you,
And sink to become a mere fossil of me.

I will freeze as the sun consumes its own fuel
Waiting for you,
And thaw in the heat of the cycle’s renewal.

I will float on the ether of all that’s bereft
Waiting for you,
And dance with the atoms of what there is left.

I will follow the imprint of God in the sky
Waiting for you,
And watch as he moulds a new Earth from his eye.

I will trace evolution as it flows once again
Waiting for you,
And hold every breath as it re-creates men.

I will pray it produces a worthier form
Waiting for you,
And smile when the beauty of Eve is re-born.

I will stay by the edge of this serpent-less world
Waiting for you,
And greet the arrival of your great herald.

I will wait for your age to grow into its prime,
Because for you
I have waited with love for all time.


We used to live at pace
To consolidate the cost
Of purchasing a place
That now is lost.

There once occurred a show
Commencing at the end,
With nowhere left to go
It began again.

It told official tales,
And proceeded quietly,
And always, always failed
To move me.

We used to show a face
That condemned the enemy
Who was anyone with a case
Of vanity;

There once upon a time
Was conscience in denial
Until the factory line
Stood idle.

It never had a choice,
The consigned never do,
The emaciated voice
Of institutes.

We used to be a lover,
We used to hate pretence,
But now there is no other


The gift becomes attractive due to the actions of the giver,
Whilst your retinas detach themselves as you’re pulled by the
And the tenant in the cavity has left the job of living,
And advertised its space to let for something more forgiving.

Appetites are offered every time you unfold the paper,
But there’s nothing in-between the lines that could be used to
Any option that’s available to enable you to face her.
Anyway the water keeps on producing possibilities to replace

Encroaching on some territory where you do not belong
Will not induce the tide to offer you remittance for what’s done,
And threatening to throw yourself in front of anyone
Will not allow your voice to raise itself above the song.

The rules of combat are collected for their cruelty and refrains,
And moving back in time to them won’t make you more
And whilst unlikely music tries to remove the daily pain
It may implicate the memory of your most recent game.

Now the river streams from northern lands and leads to estuaries,
And in the rolling of the foam you may recognize the seeds,
And capture them in landing nets and plant them by the trees
In hope of tending some re-growth beneath your muddied

But standing in your shoes has always defined an attitude
Long after any newfound source has lent herself to you,
So try and find some comfort in the stench before the news
Of alcove dwellers hiding in the aforementioned shoes.

Shake them out and with them flush the fallen who’ve
To anecdote themselves with mutual friends and well known
Whom you once considered kindred and everlasting parts
Of your greater living area, before the endgame’s start.

Lovingly remembered and renounced upon the blackboards
Of all your old unrelentingly frequented shores.
Bet you anything that you have left to lose it’s gone before
You have the chance to come again and explain your course.

You know the crowd will always lay the blame on alcohol,
Regardless of the facts at hand or foot or dug from holes;
Pitted in the faces of the poxed who never get to know
How rich it is to reap the soil a previous landlord sowed.

So fuck ‘em and forget ‘em and keep a vigil in the night,
And become the only lighthouse that is not a building site,
And tend the growth that gathers in the early morning light
Then in the afternoon join words and make the words air tight.


Of late
I have fallen out
With two parties:
Myself, and
Everybody else.

And labour,
Those against,
Those in favour,
The distasteful
And the savoured,
The weakened
And full flavoured.

Those at sea,
Those in harbour,
In houses
Or in cardboard,
The sword
And the scabbard,
The arrow
And the dartboard.

The incumbent
And the heir,
The wife,
The au pair,
The elevator
And the stairs,
The fallen wish
And risen prayer.

The penthouse
And the basement,
The revelation
And encasement,
The resurrection
And ascension,
Forgotten truths
And re-inventions.

And so on
And so on
The list grows:
As endless
And worthless
As words
In the
Whole white world.


I was unable to give blood as they could not get at it,
So I offered them sweat but was told to forget it;
I asked how about then a bag full of tears,
But they answered that they were abundant this year.
So I forced a soft drink straw into a vein,
And a good friend stood by me to help with the pain,
But his three year old daughter blew into the straw
And because of the bends not a drop could be drawn.
So I gave up on the idea of self-sacrifice,
And procured an alter and slaughtering device,
Asked my friend to bring his family around for the night,
And the next day I donated much more than a pint.
It’s good to give blood ‘cause it’s for a good cause,
And progressives approve and provide their applause,
And I’m trying my hardest to come up with my quota,
But it will always be hard for a political floater.

So I went on a cancer prevention diet from fear,
And gained 100 pounds for the sake of my years,
You see it turns out that everything has its use,
In the end I was eating anything and its juice.
So I had to concede for the sake of my welfare,
And the not inconsiderable drain on my healthcare;
It’s not easy to heed all the things that we’re told,
And much harder to avoid eating into your soul.
I eventually lost my appetite for correction,
And relapsed in the fight to reform my digestion,
Though to avoid melanoma I hid from the sun,
But after a while I was as pure as a nun.
So forget all you hear from the fools in the big house,
With their spinning doctors dissecting the corpse
Of a mummified nation unwrapped in a room,
For the unknown fold know them and their end is soon.


You’re always up to your arse hole
In electrical gear that’s broken,
And services easily ordered
That turn out to be nothing but token.

And everything purchased is faulty,
And returning it likely to test you,
Cause you’ve lost the receipt or the warranty,
So you say as they come to arrest you.

As the man at the store was a moron,
Or the woman or lady or bitch,
And their manager more than a moron,
And lucky he just got a stitch.

So you’re arrested again, and bound over,
But they’ve got too much on and forget
What you did so you’re sent down to order,
For offences you didn’t commit.

For let’s face it our services struggle
To apprehend what’s going on,
And when they attempt to re-shuffle
The whole system breaks down again.

And eventually you’re let go of,
For they have no idea who you are,
But you know so you make a big show of
Pretending repentance and more.

And there’s no way your going to stop buying,
For if you do the economy fails,
So I guess you’ll just have to keep trying
And next time you might even make bail.


If I smell like a
Whore mongering,
Dope smoking,
Booze fuelled fool,
It’s because I’ve spent
Too long with you.
If I swell like an
Over eaten,
Meat beaten,
Pill swallowed mule,
Then I’ll compliment
Your schedule.

If I stall like a
Service shy,
Deflated tyred,
Ignition soiled soul,
It’s to be assumed
My engine’s cold.
If I fall like a
Sleep deprived,
Sense denied,
Newly born foal,
It’s to do with
The depth of my hole.

If I weep like the
Lonely eyed,
Running blind,
Underage accused,
Then it’s certain
That I’ve cruised.
If I sleep like a
Man daunted,
Day haunted,
Overdosed abuse,
Then you know
I’ve blown a fuse.

If I wake like an
Empty shell,
Ringing bell,
Salted open sore,
Then I’m never going to
Do this anymore.
If I make like a
Repentant man,
Preparing plans,
Intent on being a bore,
Then correct me, ‘cause
To your boat I’m the oar.


Does time go more quickly if you
Wear the watch on the other hand?
It’s not proven,
But I think I understand;
Time does go more slowly
Once you get to know me.

Because one night it dawned on me,
When I had to watch it all again,
Don’t you see?
There you were, my old friend,
And her movements were sure
To attract you to her.

Now don’t let your memory regress;
By the time she has moved,
You’ll accept,
That’s she’s leaving you too,
And there’s nothing you’ve learned
That will make her return.

So we sit around this table, and talk of
The times we had with her,
And short of
Lying, we will always forgive her.
And dissect all the months and the years,
Whilst she begins, once again, somewhere near.


Marry a fool,
They won’t let you down,
They’ll look up to you forever
With the face of a clown.
Follow you home,
And tidy your trail,
And listen intently
As you tell your tale.

Or marry a flirt,
They will never be down,
They won’t bother you much,
They’ll be all over town.
Finally get home,
Leaving their trail,
And will glaze over quickly
When you start to rail.

Marry a virgin,
They’ve never been used,
But find everything painful,
And are easily abused.
Pliant to mould,
And simple to train,
They will let you be selfish,
Allow you to complain.

Or marry a parent,
They’re already bruised,
But are much too attentive,
And swift to refuse.
Frigid and cold,
Classically trained,
Have kids, who are selfish,
Above all your blame.

Marry a girl,
They’ll make you mature,
They’ll revue your condition,
And make you feel unsure.
Sober and hazy,
But correct in hygiene,
You’ll be made to feel dirty,
An ageing has been.

Or marry a woman,
You’ll make them youthful,
You can tell them your history,
And be almost truthful.
Drunken and crazy,
Incorrectly obscene,
They’ll let you feel dirty,
And forever sixteen.

Marry a boy,
You can do so overseas,
But you had better be able
To handle the sleaze.
Carefully wake up,
And consider this choice,
And remember the outrage
Surrounding young boys.

Or marry a man,
You can do so in Leeds,
This is far more acceptable,
And liberals are pleased.
Urgently wake up,
And look at this choice,
Are you all the way out
To play with those toys.

Marry them all,
But one at a time,
It’s not fair otherwise,
Apparently a crime.
Socially discreet
For a life on the town,
This is really too far
And too wide to be sound.

Or marry yourself,
You’ve known all along,
It is the only alternative,
And where you belong.
Quiet and sweet,
Not of street or of town,
And ultimately happier
With no one around.


Your screen time is about as long as this page,
So ready the stage
And the reading,

But beware that the size of the words is not fixed,
Their typeface is mixed
And misleading.

And a short word before a sentence commences,
And lengthy pretences

Interpretation is not the expected response,
So stop it at once
Before starting.

The language is established, and the grammar correct,
Although some of the text
Is old fashioned,

And whilst learning of lines and timing is essential,
So is the prevention
Of passion.

Though the pealing of age and the urgence of feet
Are captured complete
In the words,

Some remarks are reserved, because of the pace,
And whispered in case
They’re misheard.

But a point here or there could use emphasis,
Or it may well be missed
By the turning,

And the story conclude with out any end,
Or part to pretend
You’ve been learning.


When I was a kid I used to send myself to sleep
Thinking about any woman in the world,
Any one would do.

Now I am older I fall asleep remembering
Every woman I ever slept with,
Every memory is used.

Somewhere in-between I fell asleep
With the only other in the world,
And that was you.


If God wants my job he can have it.
I’m sick of protecting these rabbits.
They’re cuter than whales,
And lizards and snails,
But are developing disturbing bad habits.

It’s all down to the spaces they’re filling,
And the areas to which they are spilling;
They are beginning to be
Found living at sea,
And indigenous life forms they’re killing.

You see when they were originally made
There was no way for them to upgrade,
But for some reason now
They’re evolving know how
Of wisdom initially forbade.

So I’ve lost all control of migrations,
And the subsequent ill implications,
And will now refrain
From raising again
Easter bunnies and all their relations.

And you can tell the Lord of my decision,
And he can call to discuss my position,
And if he can stop
Them bastards that hop
Then he’s welcome to their supervision.

But he’ll have a hard time with restraining
The levels of stock they’re maintaining;
Over ground and below,
Overseas and at home,
And everywhere else that’s remaining.

And you know what he’ll find in the morning,
When he rises to let the new dawn in;
Bucks and their mates,
At his Pearly Gates,
Fucking each other and spawning.


I’m suffering from post tension,
And sounds of feral laughter;
An ominous portent
Of disaster.

I used to abuse ignorance,
My pictures turning crimson,
Alarming in abundance,
And winsome.

And people who walked across my path
Became indignant wretches
By exchanging photographs
For sketches.

And some time favours came my way,
Forever entertaining,
And with occasional decay
Came learning.

Without access to three star fare
I had to search the larder,
But was still unable to prepare
A pardon.

And cordially we stretched along,
But still diluted quickly;
Some disgusting liquor beyond
The sickly.

Printed daily for the selling,
Whored and improvised,
Weakly told for your retelling
In front of Emperors’ eyes.


The man with the 100 mile long arms,
Look what he can do,
Reach up a pluck a satellite
Out of the sky for you.

He once held hands with Mr. Reynolds,
Across the Irish Sea,
Caught fish atop the Eiffel tower,
And took them home for tea.

The man with the 100 mile long arms
Went swimming with the best,
He once set of for America
And arrived before he left.

Only yesterday he linked his arms
With twenty thousand souls,
And ordered some arm many suits,
That cost a rainbow’s gold.

The man with the 100 mile long arms
Does untold things for peace,
Like shaking hands in many lands,
Except those out of reach.

But the man with the longest arms around
Went cart wheeling through the air,
Unfortunately, he died,
He could not breathe up there…


I was first in my class
At coming last,
Though sometimes one arrived even later:
A girl at the back
In a Halloween mask;
My uncommon denominator.

She was smaller than most,
And like the first post,
You never knew what she would yield.
And she never closed doors
And said this was because
She was brought up, as a kid, in a field.

They divided lost time
Between hers and mine,
But I was the one people noticed,
And long after each one
Of the crowded had gone
I felt lonelier than the remotest.

But I never cursed her
As she was never there,
Being increasingly later each day;
Though once she arrived
You could tell by her eyes
Not to ask what had got in her way.

She had no real charm
And her features were armed
With the weapons of times arsenal,
But as years flew
Her defences withdrew
And her angles were finely annulled.

And I fell for her then
As we happened upon
A mutual dislike of confinement;
In freedom and space
We preferred our own pace
With an appreciation of what lost time meant.

So we found ourselves a match,
And an antique stopped watch,
And a dwelling to root in and thrive;
We removed all its doors,
And ceilings and floors,
And lived life as if we’d just arrived.


I have no mark to leave
Upon the surface of the Earth,
And would not want to do so even if I had.
I can no more remember
How to service any worth,
And would not dare pursue so even if I could.

I shall not covet life before
The certain face of death,
And will not suffer anyone who tells me that I must.
I am no more prepared to bear
The current taste of breath,
And will not aspire on beyond the scattering of dust.

We are not made to linger on
The canvass of the world,
And will not get to know the artist of the sun.
We can but hope our time
Does not cause anguish to the old,
And eventually rests its light upon the young.

I can still feel the air
Upon the surface of my skin,
But can no longer tell upon which part.
I have no wish to listen to
The service now begin,
But ironically I long for it to start.

I will no longer care for all
The certain facts of life,
But will honour all the feigning of disguise.
I shall not be able to endure
The current pace of grief,
And hopefully they’ll see this in my eyes.


Flaying will flavour the idle,
And the course of the supplicants cycles;
As the honey and treacle disciples
Provoke haste in the weekly arrivals,
Who provide tastes that are neutral,
Debates that are futile,
And ingredients likely to die from.

The infusion of oils in the ointment
Induce pheromones unusually present,
And are made to wait out in the basement,
Whilst the marinade affects where the taste went;
The windows were blacked out,
The innocence in doubt,
And the excitement confirmed by the scent.

The intoxication stirred in with the mixture,
And the long held belief in the fixture,
Had the desired effect on the texture
Once applied to the tongue lying next to you,
That was flailing around
Its mouth’s hunting ground,
Awaiting the sweet’s interjection.

Time has on its side the ambition
To swallow the world’s erudition,
And regurgitate any omission
That does not satisfy its condition,
And once loaves have all risen
We are left with the vision
Of our supper’s last take on tradition.


Every time I render unto something new
It reinforces my own pedantic view
That words oft spoken times before
Linger on beyond the reading of the score.
A necessity to obviate the past;
Looking backwards from a future version glass,
And aspiring to all I’ve never entered into
Has been dispelled by this vain past winter.
Or maybe ocean or northern light sky colours,
Inscribed and ambivalent on feather pillows,
Or possibly quite clear in what they’re saying
Enabling the disk to be replaying.
It is really any number of invention,
Attained and multiplied by the intention,
To be turning over all the leaves of autumn
Contained within the covers of who thought them.
Inspired or enriched by most established men,
Then broken into pieces of enlightenment,
Thumbing a nose, a lifted finger to the air,
And being right in saying any grievous thing I dare
Intend to write.


Trying not to trace the elements back to the beginning
Creates the illusion that happiness is about to kick in,
But that’s not to say the sun sets beyond your horizon,
Or that the remaining warmth keeps out the cold and
Seals the meat within.

Standing over the stove before you rinse away your sleep,
And landing in the alcoves of the dreams you keep, augurs well;
For all I ever offered you, and all you need for certain,
Is knowing that consideration of a tale is all I have to tell.

Speculation is effected, and the very next day begins again;
Ten more men consigned to the memory of a stained glass
Akin to walking in the frozen deep snow of forgotten ground;
To come upon the saddest known sight to contemplate before

And if everything we have been taught is biased and political,
And nothing ever thought about the fate of our convictions,
How then is it possible to learn the art of waking up
Without throwing up everything for eviction.

Now all the aforementioned - monitored and administered -
Bring out the tensions that our senses have forgotten,
And we sigh a million lifetimes worth of overdue responses,
Because the sinking system comes out of something that
Is slow remembered and long ago gone rotten.


I woke up about three am
And my bed was empty.
I went downstairs
And saw a light shining
Under the kitchen door.
I opened it, and in front
Of the fridge, enthralled,
A huddled figure over the ledge,
Doing nothing for her health.
I didn’t even have to look to
Notice the empty packets on the floor,
The rustling of cellophane did it, as she dived in for more.

She says “To get myself off, I don’t need sex,
Just show me the fridge and I’ll start on the next
Packet of bacon, or sausage skin;
Talk beef to me baby

Well we were walking
Down the street
Past the butcher’s place,
And she went into a trance,
And danced on in.
She started stroking the lamb,
And sides of pork,
And licking everything,
You should have seen the butcher man.
Then she ripped off her clothes
And jumped into the window tray.
She was dipping and squirming and turning,
And looking at home.
Then she started sticking, and
Had an orgasm on a rump stake,
For Christ’s sake.

She says “To turn me on, don’t touch me there,
Take me to the meat man’s place and let me smell the air.
Liver, raw and crackling skin,
Talk beef to me

Well I woke up this morning,
And my leg was burning,
On fire.
I looked at my thigh,
And saw a hole
Where some skin used to be,
I looked further down,
And she was starting on my knee.

She’s a raw meat freak, who says “Talk meat delights
In my ear, and then let me nibble yours”
I try to deny her these things, but I love her,
And maybe I’ve got problems, because now when I
Want to turn her on, I spread meat paste on my skin,
And talk beef to her,

Thursday, 7 January 2010


Recently certain moods have been compromised,
And subsequently nobody has realised,
That suddenly all the rules are tied
To their own reckless feelings.
Thanking less has always brought an air of loss,
And seemingly the faithful have been caught and passed
By new endeavours favoured by the fresh,
And facing such the poor come reeling.

Fortune has never discovered how to defer
The futures of the masses or the learned;
The obvious distinctions between the burned,
So shallowness has always surfaced.
Chance has circumvented everything,
And naturally nothing is left free to sing
Of tunes imbed by years therein,
And souls have always suffered.

Now anyone with half a book to sell
Will eventually foretell
That ends for means are always wishing wells,
And signing on is never certain.
Forsaking sanity, and its accompanied pain,
A few friends withhold their own acumen,
And fishing in someone else’s borrowed vein
Resigns them to the curtain.

We’ve all tried hard to educate our friends,
But sometimes they feign knowledge of the end,
Regardless of the fear their acts engender
Within their given people.
So hasten not your own fickle rise,
And steel yourself before the ties
You used to share with your most wise
Now shaken from their steeple.


A hair’s breadth away from the street,
And that’s not because you live next door to it.
A hog’s arse away from your feet,
And that is because you’ve given more to it.
You slashed and burned the hairs on your arms
Whilst falling asleep in the heat,
And your skin fell away like a parchment,
And collected itself by the street.

An old beggar was away with your flesh,
Whilst the animals awaited a taste,
You were too large to take off from your crèche,
So your epidermis was lost to the race.
In the ensuing days you grew larger,
As the pen’s hold was gradually tightened;
Your benevolent sun was much harder,
And you looked like a fruit over ripened.

A sling shot away from the moon,
Regardless of who’s raving at it;
A star’s length away from the sun,
Independently raising your status.
The house was sold out from about you,
As the weather was unduly cautious;
You remained as the only old feature,
And the wild things closed in for the auction.

Now the morning has a way with the birds,
And upon singing the scale of your size,
You were sold by the flocks to the herds,
Who began with your two hard boiled eyes.
And before long your bones were appearing,
And your insides were all inside out;
You were as close to the street and the clearing
As the hole in your arse would allow.


The time for talk was over,
The time for action passed,
The time for thought as ever
Had been considered last.

But as before it faltered,
But as before it ceased,
But as before it altered
Neither war nor peace.

By midday it was too late,
By midday most confused,
By midday only estimates
Were all that we could use.

For as it is consistent,
For as it is decreed,
For as it is in distance
Then so it is in speed.

So pray the night we will survive.
So pray the night as one.
Then pray tonight we’ll spend our lives
Under tomorrow’s sun.


By Saturday noon
It will be tears all round,
And I’m not sure which result
Will bring more;
For it will finally be here,
Or it will over there,
And each child and adult
Can applaud.

We will swim in the street,
Or drown in defeat,
But either way we’re assured
Of history;
For the players we love
Will give all that they have,
To the end, to ensure
A victory.

So for only one week
Let nobody speak
Of any sport other
Than rugby,
And when it is done
We will know that we won,
Because together
We were all that we could be.


And still time
The ages,
But not the minds
Or the souls
Of the fools
It finds
And arranges.

And still time
The races,
But not the games
Or the tricks
Of the packs
It tames
And replaces.

And still time
Tends to
The genders,
But not the breaks
Or the faults
Of the hearts
It stakes
And surrenders.

And still time
The years,
But not the news
Or the cost
Of the last;
And unclear.


We moved along the lines
That mirrored the opinions
Of the life and sundry times,
Until the furthermost thoughts
From our minds colluded, and
Overnight the war was fought.
The scope of the unlimited
Was strewn across the morning
Light, ashamed but uninhibited,
And found the road outside your door
More sympathetic, and without
The hindsight of remorse.
It took me up and raised a voice
“Continue on and through, and
Keep the band tuned to white noise.”
Without whose interference present
I would wander vaguely
Towards memories I’d resent.
For only in the turbulent everyday
Response is it possible for me
To think of nothing else to say,
And learn my life’s intentions
Without the hindrance of someone
Whose ambitions were invented.
I started stopping long ago,
Before I met her; before I
Met the previous ten or so,
But as this wondrous phase
Is withholding the appointments,
Before the first spring days,
The long lost will keep.


Now the sky is empty;
Looking at the world
Without all the clouds around.
Is it any nearer?
Now it is unbound by your voice.
Is it any clearer?
Is it how you always
Thought that the world would sound?
It follows
That I will never know.

Breathing in the ether;
Stumbling through the trees
Without any sense of loss.
Is the price for real?
Dying for the cost of your life.
Is the blade annealed?
Is it harder than the
Burden of worshipping a cross?
It follows
That you will never know.

Now the earth is vacant,
More so because
Its substance was here on demand.
Is your question sure?
Maybe you can’t work out the cost.
Is the answer free?
And can we all endure
The price of release?
It follows
That we will never know.


Language staying gently on your lips
Before being layered and laid
Upon ours.

Straying somewhat from the source;
Significantly indifferent once retold
By others.

Alive no longer with the voice
Of reason, or scented with what was
Always yours.

Dead upon revival, and re-used
Without intent once misplaced between
Old covers.

Discussed for a while and removed
To the warehouse where nothing is known
Or returns.

Collected by urgent arrangement one day,
And produced to evidence the truth
Of your case.

Dismissed as unlikely and lost from the dock
Whilst being escorted away from the court,
Once adjourned;

Rushed downhill towards the loneliest vale,
Where the map runs out of names for the last
Restful place.


Sometimes you appear just a little more than on,
Other times you are not even that.
Sometimes you veer from what’s due to what’s gone,
Other times you are in habitat.
Sometimes you move your mouth in time with mine,
Other times you are out of sync.
Sometimes you prove that speech is in decline,
Other times you say what you think.
Sometimes you amaze me with what you produce,
Other times you make nothing of note.
Sometimes you dismay me with what you let loose,
Other times you capture the quotes.
Sometimes you allow me to sit in your shade,
Other times you lay under my shadow.
Sometimes you endow me with bridges you’ve made,
Other times you pull up by the road.
Sometimes you dispel all the doubters of you,
Other times you remove only me.
Sometimes you can tell I would die without you,
Other times you accept I’d be free.
Sometimes you run up to the last intersection,
Other times you walk further on.
Most times you come back from its final direction,
This time you chose to stay beyond.


We inhabit an awkward place,
Occasionally unknowing,
Recognizing any face
Except the one we’re showing.

Filled with unrelenting gases,
Covered with fine filament,
Running scared of sacred acids,
Speaking through a vent.

Colour blind and sound impaired,
Tasting, snorting, touching less;
Should have kept it below stairs,
Instead we aired the mess,

And smiled away the christening
Of un-sinking vessels,
Pure, putrid, glistening,
Fanatically guessing.

Searching, never quite believing;
Quiet beliefs of some age old.
Questioning and mass deceiving,
Use by date on which is sold.

And soiled and felled on cruel seas,
And gales with strange migrations,
Spilled and brought upon the breeze
Of under age elation.

SLEEPY HORROR. (circa 2001)

Free parking with toilets, and market pit stops,
Amongst the town’s older facilities;
Masonic lodge lay-bys, and charity shops,
And uninsured weather liabilities.

Chemists and doctors and avid drug takers,
And publicans peeled by the clock;
The bitcher, the faker, the pandered teenager
Removing the faith of the flock.

Foot in mouth teachers and their stunted shrubs,
Affected new labour at rest;
Turn out well up at the weekend fight clubs,
People employed under duress.

House prices increasing as immigrants grown
In teenage sardine bed-sit land;
Lone parents leaving their children at home
As they pick up a new one night stand.

Amenities failing, and overused bridges,
Streets lumbered by aldermen green,
Expenditure falling, abandoned old fridges,
Bankruptcy increasingly seen.

Above average taxes, and TB reported,
New business unable to get work;
A shipping line’s sleeping director resorted
To assailing the local road network.

Cheap contraband and latent new vices
Nightly shipped overboard to the quays;
Customs removed by cutback exercises,
Increasing the speed of disease.

Bobbies on bicycles down the back lanes,
Or two at a time in a car;
Precinct thirteen fire bombed once again
As the rats board the ships for afar.

Still the climate is fine and the sun shines in May,
Though flaming June smoulders in rain,
Igniting once more all the people who say
They love it here, but not as much as Spain.


The sky was talking today,
But nothing beneath cared to notice:
They were involved in another debate
As to whether the Earth should be floated.

Afraid of the outcome at hand
The sky shut up shop and descended,
And disguised as a visionary man
Appealed to the world he defended.

But the Earth pursued another profit,
And a motion was pushed through the house,
So the sky returned home for to stop it,
As the vultures flew over the crowd.

The sky withheld all of its service,
And the sun went along with the strike,
And as brokers became slightly nervous,
The Earth was left only the night.

Then the moon joined the sky in the protest,
And the pressure on life was increased,
And when the share option was posted,
Not a body considered a piece.

So the sky began talking again,
And the creatures below craned to hear,
And before long the planet had learned,
That together there’s more atmosphere.


Outside of you
Is a face someone knew.
Many times
It has been

Far side of here
Is a view of you near.
Many times
It is seen,
Your face.

Around my case
Is a look out of date.
Many times
It is so
For you.

Outside of here
Is a man nowhere near,
Many times,
You knew.


We stand together,
But the shape we make
Does not conform
To the space society leaves us.
We hold forever,
And the time we take
Is not in awe
Of eternity and its seasons.

We circle around
Our holy place
Without a care
Of how we appear to be.
We cross the ground
At our own pace
And always bear
The rate of our speed.

We touch the face
Of unknown things
Moreover sure
Of what all others fear.
We fair embrace
What flows and stings
And well endure
The torrent of the years.

We draw our fate
From no one’s book
And leave our will
For people to apply,
As its probate
And bold outlook
Should neatly fill
The holes they occupy.


Once I tip it and pour it precariously
It should be sufficiently lightened
To enable its lifting back up from
The beaker you hold.
But If still over weight then the worth
Of the liquid inside will be lost to
The factions that gather around us
And speak uncontrolled.
In accordance with all that is known
Of the ordinance holding the borders at
Bay and in awe of the audience watching
The brim leak untold,
We must wait for the certain containment
To start until able to wonder if what
Has been lost to the land and its lot
Will now weaken the bowl.


Inter all the glaziers
Who would have you told more clearly,
And intensify your interior
So you can move more freely.

Wake up in a different room
To the one you fell asleep in,
And start the whole thing very soon
Before you allow the sheep in.

Contest the knocking man outside:
Ask him for his validity.
Could he take your big dog for a ride?
And return him with stability.

And if he circumnavigates this route
Then let him in but briefly,
And set the rest of the pack loose
Upon his case completely.

So don’t hang curtains in the day,
Arrange a row of Shepherds,
Then no one else will knock your way,
And you can sleep prepared.


Forget your righteous selfishness
And your reasonable moral response.
Forget your capacity for vindication
And endless years and months.

Forgo the running of the week
And the loss of advent mourners.
Forgo the weekend’s revelry
And Sunday speaking corners.

Forgive the hollowness of domes
And manifesto writers.
Forgive the horror its new home
And anarchist inciters.

Forsake any government its views
And never hurry for them.
Forsake the body next to you
And revel in their boredom.

Forever leave the bruised alone
And mend your own off switch.
Forever tend your broken bones
And sew your skins next stitch.

For God’s sake leave them all behind,
And leave what is in front.
For God’s sake keep what peace you find
Well sheltered from the hunt.


What war did you fight in?
What’s more, did you win?
And if so are you sad
That the losers have never had
It so good.
You’re not a novice,
Or a lobbyist,
So why disappear in the face
Of the inept who waste
Others blood?

What peace did you secure?
Whose defeat you ensure?
Beating heathens out of holes,
And securing casting votes
You’re not a veteran,
Or a humanitarian;
Standing inside the surround
As creatures are blown,
And fall over.

What love did it cost?
What hurt you the most?
Time taken beyond the required,
Or the speed of your denial
Once more.
Not obviously old,
Nor age controlled;
Your moves undeterred,
Though your memory is stirred
By the score.

What hate did you sell?
What joy went as well?
In conclusion of your time
Has it all been assigned,
Or less vague?
Not increasingly young,
But fairer than some;
Much maligned, and more weary,
Misinformed and less wary
With age.


I stored it safe somewhere,
So safe it’s now amiss,
For although I know it’s there,
I’ve forgotten where there is.

And though it’s no surprise,
I’m constantly amazed,
To hide only to find,
I’ve lost the hiding place.

Still things I thought were precious,
Are honestly protected,
Like babies in their crèches,
Safe until collected.

Though something is for certain,
Some unexpected day,
I’ll come across a curtain,
Beyond, a lost highway,

And further round and forward,
An ill remembered store,
Containing all, and more goods,
I thought I’d lost for sure.

Though remembering what’s elsewhere,
It comes as some surprise,
To realise they’re safer there
Than in front of current eyes.


Now before all the rise of nations
Has defaced the gilt of reformation.
Now before every act of mercy,
Every single fact of heresy.
Now before hollow souls of reason,
Skilled with words and tools of seasons.
Now before any face can notice
All the worth has left the showcase.
Now before the lonely Roman Empire rises,
Whose history commands the prize.
Now before all the fractures riven
Have bled the succour freely given.
Now before all the mystery intended
Is solved and humanity amended.
Now before Holy war commences,
And breaches everyone’s defences.
Now before one more life is ruined
And lost beyond the last un-doing,
And now before God, and all his minions,
Contrive to recreate opinions;
Now before you and the opening sea,
And here before me,
I know what is going to happen,
Listen, can’t you see it,
Closer, can’t you hear it?
In the clearing,
The beginning
And the end.


How long will the present last?
The recent future,
The lately passed.
How much do moments hold?
A lifetime’s weight,
A death’s parole.

How strong can the secret be?
An instant spoken,
An eternity.
How can such knowledge harm?
By silent night,
By day’s alarm.

How wrong do the haunted feel?
As stone framed guilt,
As molten steel.
How touched our senses are.
And huddled close,
And scattered far.

Where does the present go?
If seen at all?
If not on show?
Where still moments appear.
In other worlds.
In places near.

Where was the secret kept?
At altitude,
At hidden depths.
Where will the knowledge lead?
To my demise,
To your proceeds.

Where goes the haunted end?
On my last day,
On you my friend.
And fill my touch with yours?
Where sky meets sea,
And sea meets shore.


You fill me with more
Than you would have without,
Regardless of route.

And aim for the door
Before my refusal,
Unruly and rueful.

You spread from my feet
To places leftover
From moments of love.

And go on beyond them
Convinced of your service,
As blessed and urgent.

You bring back a bookmark
To place in a chapter,
And lighten with laughter.


She had a face like a five year old’s drawing,
And her skin hung around without knowing
That the pull of the earth was removing
Any trace of its previous youth.
But the appearance of cracks and deposits
Resembled an under read poet’s
Description of hell and its habits,
And eventually rendered the truth.

In the annals of someone’s last diary
Lies an appointment for cosmetic wiring,
Whilst demanding a separate inquiry
Into why nobody noticed her face.
And the surgeons who tried to restore her
Did all that they could without mortar,
While the nurses were appalled at the slaughter,
And wove bandages quickly in place.

So she was left with a clock that was broken,
And with hands that had long ago spoken
Of the time it can take to be woken
To the facts of a face without years.
And the gall of the woman was daunting
As she came round my house gaily flaunting
A mug that resembled a haunting
That had fled its own place out of fear.

And I tried to be quite diplomatic,
But the skin on her boat was too static,
To show any sign of life in the attic
As I asked her to find a new home.
And she was found later on in the river
Resembling an old boozer’s liver
With nothing that nature had give her
But a face that Medusa would hide from.


Why paint your skin if you’re not at war,
Or push rings in your ears until you hear no more,
Or stick needles in your veins when you have no thread
And treat your life like a whore’s bed.

Why take more sleep than a newborn thing,
Or make less pace than a broken wing,
Or grow more fur than the wilderness
And smell much worse than fresh tilled earth.

Why look less lean than a whale’s insides,
Or covet wealth like a rich man’s bride,
Or throw your weight around a pole
And buy alcohol when you’re on your own.

Why smoke all day when your are refused,
Or inhale fumes that you don’t produce,
Or fan the flames of miss spent youth
And keep the memories fireproof.

Why have more things than your house can store,
Or keep a house that you can’t afford,
Or work for less than you spend each day
And sell your soul just to pave the way.

Why waste more time on the once revered,
Or listen to gods who refuse to hear,
Or talk with orders who still demand
And leave your faith in a stranger’s hand.

Why stoop to approve the largest stone,
Or stretch to catch the smallest thrown,
Or fall in the front from uncertain haste
And be lost in the middle of the longest race.

Why be stronger alone in an empty head,
Or feel weakness within your lover’s bed,
Or take up arms just to prove your point
And contest the dispute with poor elbow joints.

Why make your war with the world inside,
Or keep the peace in the great divide,
Or arrange a lens to refract the light
And replace the gift of perfect sight.

Why do nothing less than the things you must,
Or little more than protecting dust,
Or anything to participate
And awake outside the estate.


I live across the river
From the public and the publican,
Away behind the inland tide
With everyone who ever ran.

I move amongst the alcoves,
Over rooms of older rumours,
Amidst the webs of interest
Where less than some have more.

I sleep under the steeples,
Nearer naught than crosses,
Then wake up from the waste land
To find my blessing’s closet.

I stay until the stars fall,
Before the morning’s breath,
Then go before the glory
The universe has left.


I walked across a field one day,
That stretched before me on my way,
And had a vague idea of home
But, strangely, it was monochrome.
I needed colour, techno too,
To find my one and only route,
When suddenly my fortunes changed;
The pale sky burst with rains of paint.

With effect, immediately fine,
The greys and blacks and whites declined,
And greens and yellows and reds arose,
But so unlike you would suppose:
The grass was blue, the hedges red,
The sky emerald overhead;
The whole event was frightening,
I cowered beneath gold lightening.

It was then I recognized the smell
Of fumes about to overwhelm,
So I ran as quickly as I could,
Over a hill, into a road.
And as I stumbled to my feet
I noticed that the air was sweet,
And all the colours in the town
Were correctly spread around.

I never lost my way again,
Whilst walking home from anything,
And never frowned on black and white,
Or looked for aurora late at night.
And anytime a friend would say
Repel that person dressed in grey,
I would defend their right abroad,
To be exposed in Ilford.


He lived up on high and tended the needs
Of the wandering clouds and their coveted seeds.
Collected the strays and mixed in the folds,
Inflated the surface and casted the moulds.

He moved out the group to where want was most,
And dialled up the number of the holiest ghost,
In the hope that his favour would have time to spare,
And empty the contents therein to the air.

To fulfil the wishes of drought stricken lands,
And cover the clauses of natures demands;
Redeeming his own wasted life in the course,
And the hopes of the many nailed up with the cost.

His agreement stretched onwards before endless skies,
As he rested himself and his toil for a while,
Harvesting everything’s natural reserve,
And keeping the faith of the last living word.

Sun shone the rays down towards heavens Earth,
Fulfilling the terms of its only preserve.
Down falls the rain to accommodate man
As more are brought up from the land.


Do you find it necessary
To contemplate the estuary
That carries all the chemistry

Or indicate the wish to be
Partaking of the mystery;
The curator of history

The fallacies are wont to lie
With all who care to fantasize
About the things they cannot

And anyone who can but leave
Displays the wares they have bequeathed
For able bodied heathens
To resent.

The source has everything in it,
Clear and indiscriminate,
Available to eliminate
The pain,

And such who can’t be overhauled
Are massacred against the wall
That wails and keeps the whole enthralled


Some people say that my friend Kevin drinks too much and is
Crippling himself by creating an uncontrollable situation.
But, if they put this scenario directly to him, he’d say he
Wouldn’t know what the hell they were talking about.
Somebody asked him about the other night’s activities:
Constantly feeding the fruit machine and falling off his stool.
He said “Look man, the other night, I can’t remember, but I
Know that I never carry fruit about with me, and I stand
On ceremony, not shit.” See what I mean.
Now I’m not saying that he’s deluding himself, or even
Avoiding the issue, but as far as he’s concerned there isn’t a
Problem. I mean, it wasn’t him, he was not there that man – and
The fact that he doesn’t recall, and never gets hang ups or
Overs, testifies to this. Although I believe recently he has had
Cause to encounter a fear of lying down.
Anyway, more than anything, his lack of after effects
Is the only thing that pissed me off. For more than a year, in the
Nineties, all we ever did on a Friday or Saturday night was
Stay up late on the pop, the shandy, you know. One day a girl
Came by and asked me what we did weekends and I said “I lay
Over here and Kev lies over there.” “And…” she said
“And…” Kev replied - we used to booze it up on anything
Boozable to hand, even home brew for a while, un-pasteurised
At that; we had a tab down the local off-licence for Christ’s sake.
Anyway, the thing is, he used to get up the next day, around
Noon, right as a lark, whilst I was still de-pressurising.

But, people used to say that I had a drink problem – yeah they
Were right – two hands and only one mouth. Don’t you love
The old ones best, even when they’re now going grey – on
Their chest. Apart from the drinking, in spite of it even, we
Dissected the religious and political issues of the day for free
Whilst comparing the relevant merits of Messrs Pacino and
de Niro. Danny was also a most welcome visitor to our shore...

...Now I must leave with my defence intact, and just for you, here
Is a moot note Kevin left me one day, confronting the situation, as
I was about to make the fateful leap into the arms of a woman…

“All our fucking yesterdays eh, never mind, we’ll still see each
Other now that circumstances have changed and always will,
Even when he goes to live underground, or I do…”


This is a story
Without a start,
That died without a heart,
And lived without a goal
To score in the final whistle of things.
Pulling up thistles for rings
And thorns for a crown;
A horn for its sound,
To fit and fly,
Have wit to lie,
And enough to ponder off.

Making bales from blades
Of grass needed
For daisy chain mail,
To wear and keep the air able.
Bearing all the scenes
That are scarcely prepared
In a field over there
Under new use,
That is the price
For employment rights.

This is that story,
Without that end,
That died without offence,
And lived without protection,
Scored in the final whistle of things.
Letting go of thistles and stings,
And horns and hounds,
For lords and crowds,
Bits of files,
Half witless lies,
And no wonder we wonder why.


He had a flip-top bin
Where his head should have been,
And his teeth had the sheen
Of dirtiness therein.

His breath had the weight
Of a distempered cat,
And the sounds that came out
Were reminders of that.

And he lived like a king
In the land of the lean,
Who had sold everything,
And bought it again,

For half of the cost
Of the shallowest boast,
That was anyway lost
Somewhere near the coast.

He still chaired the board,
And the gallery and floor,
And kept a record
Of all the bylaws.

And his court was consistent,
Though known for resisting,
A single assistant
To second the existing.

But no one gave him credit,
Though I think someone said,
He’d look nicer beheaded,
And smell better dead.


It pays to live on the ground floor when the devil comes to call,
Then if he throws you out the window you won’t have far to fall.
So don’t rent the penthouse suite for weeks in order to avoid him,
Or pay the elevator boy to say that he employed him.
And never borrow any bodies else’s dental chart,
Or leave your broken promises outside the breakers yard.

And don’t sell your flesh in Thailand or in other holes around,
Or advise your undertaker where your twin brother may be found.
Be honest when he calls you up and hope he’s understanding,
Listen carefully and catalogue the things he is demanding.
Don’t enthuse about your finer points and never appear cerebral,
Engage him willingly all night but never as an equal.

Prepare a simple meal for two and offer him some water,
Be patient and be pleasant and inform him that he’s thought of.
Explore your inner feelings and recalculate the cost
Of all the things you’ve gained from him against what you have Lost.
Present him with the list you’ve made and don’t skimp on the
He may look lightly on your plight and realise you’ve failed.

For after all the years you purchased from his portfolio
You only have a few days left and nothing much to show.
And chests of drawers and wardrobe doors will never keep him
He’s calling for you this weekend and there really is no doubt,
That anything you bargained with will have to be coughed up
Or you’ll endure the aperture you’re settlement rebuffed.

And if the spirit calls on you in the visage of another,
Don’t be taken too far in, even if it is your lover,
For possession is a habit that has greatly multiplied;
Be generous with your laughter with the demon deep inside,
Regardless of the fact you know your partner is a Christian,
It’s still more apt, than not to be, Beelzebub within.

So take it on the whiskers and await the last performance,
And please don’t be distracting and invite them to a séance,
For there’s nothing quite as puerile as detecting evil spirits
Within the ones we know we love however counterfeit.
And if the weekend finishes, and you are still abroad,
Then hold your loved one closer than you ever held the Lord.


You’re growing on me,
And I’m knowing you;
You’re annoyingly

And you’re alluding to
The dutiful,
The aloof and the

You’re invading us;
It’s preposterous,
And incredibly

We’re the observance
Of the abstinence,
And the proof of how
The race is.


All the thought that ever came into this
World came from fools like that.
Unfortunately we were not aware
Of who they were at the time and
Allowed ourselves to be consumed
By their remarkable convictions.

Did you ever know anything before you
Were old enough to analyse it correctly?
Or did you, like most, get hissed on
By the ever flowing mouths that loomed
Before you in your filth, and demanded
That you behaved this way or else.

I played the game, and I guess it was expected,
Although I was always a badly stowed vessel.
We are children - they are only children -
Come on, repeat the mantra that has been
Ingrained in our heads, and subsequently
Sprung from ours to our offspring’s.

They set it up so well, and it has remained
This way, and anything else is sacrilege.
That’s the party line - in a world where
Parties supposedly no longer exist - unlike
The previous incarnations where they did
But misrepresented their members.

So the accepted word is accepted without
My compliments or yours. Get it, good.
Never fill in all of the options offered,
But always sign and date the form correctly,
Otherwise you might not get anything but looks in
The street and be accused of something profane.

Sit down and think about it sweet thing
Because I’m telling you that you are all there is.
You are the prerogative, and only you and
The wisdom you have accumulated on your
Way from that place to this one matters,
Because that is the sum of all the numbers.

Tell it like you see it to be and not how you
Have been assigned or subscribed to it.
Your responsibilities lay in forever preserving
The fulfilment of the experience, and not in
The told to do so, pleased to be so, for what lies
Beyond is not nearly enough to warrant fear.


Listing from the flood of voices
Falling from the floor above;
Someone came and fixed the noises
Winning over all our love.

Wounded in the process,
Pulling down the notice,

Sitting with her feat above us,
Waiting with our fate in hand;
Quickly took the form of others
Sailing thru our lovely land.

Wintered in the garden,
Digging round for bargains,

Lilting from the bond of seasons
Glowing from the bank nearby;
Morning shed its blue horizons
Blowing open all the sky.

Sacred pacifiers,
Laden with desires,

Someone move and grace our presence,
Wanting love and going down;
Anymore from our great peasant?
Nothing, then we’ll sow the ground.

Wonderment and prizes,
Peace and its devices,


There is only me in the world without you.
Others have come and gone in the world without you.
People have cut me up and broken the back of the world
Without you.

Tell me please, I implore you, is it easier for you,
Having found another friend, another island.
It is difficult to talk I know, harder still to swallow,
Having lost it all again for dry land.

There is only me in the world without you.
The wind in the wood is older in the world without you.
The knock on the door is the attack of the world
Without you.

Sigh for me please in the night now, for I have only the breeze
In the night, now.
Having coached apathy to victory,
It is unheard of to declare the triumph of despair;
Who needs territory for peace?

There is only me in the world without you.
No friends or family, strangers, acquaintances, men or
Women, cats or dogs in the world without you.
Nothing left to behold; not much left of the beholder
At the back of the room of the world without you.
There is only me in the world without you.
Only I will do.


Take a suture
To the future,
And connect it to the past;

Encircle it
In cellophane,
And present it to the cast

Of the present.


I wish I was ten years younger:
I’d be at her
Like a
I wish it was just simple hunger,
But I’m aching
For her

I wish I was seven days richer:
I’d be paying
For her
I wish I was less of an itcher,
But I’m scratching
For some

I wish I was three sheets to the wind:
I’d be sailing
I wish it was nearly the end,
But she’s gone
And the night’s
Just begun.


She moved like a bag of lambs
On a slaughter house floor,
And sounded like a broken damn
Left all alone to pour.

Collapsing like an aeroplane
Before its time has come;
Inflating like a paper bag
Without the use of lungs.

She constructed motorways
Over every fault line going,
And drove young souls along them
Without them ever knowing.

And conducted lightening
That rent the band asunder,
And left the detritus to wish
For the return of thunder.

She unfolded paper clips,
And poked them in her ears,
Whilst denouncing malcontents
Who sanctioned other seers.

And collected body parts,
Displayed in comfort zones,
Accruing energetically
Material inside bones.

She acted like her own militia,
Whilst always charging twice,
And shot down raised objections
Of being over priced.

And escaped the usual bonds
Of natural evolution,
Taking on board only fools
Who’d lost their own solutions.

She entered vocal competitions,
And awaited the announcing,
Sure in the certainty of words
She had no hope of pronouncing.

And cleared the fecund matter
That constricted her progression
Towards a life she thought she’d earned
Throughout the long recession.

And travailed like an organ grinder,
Whose monkey had been deported,
Afraid of being the only one
Whose immigration was supported.

Collapsing like a bag of lambs
Whose effect was reverential;
Inflating like a river damn
Whose downfall was eventual.


Hear me my unborn child,
These words I leave for you,
Don’t fear the tame or wild
Collective of this zoo.

Hear me my unborn son,
Keep forever what I say,
Don’t hate man or woman,
Or love them beyond decay.

Hear me unborn daughter,
Stand tall amongst the best,
By land or sky or water,
North, south, east or west.

See here my unborn future,
A frame for you to fill,
Even if it does not suit you,
Its virgin canvas will.


Loopholes were all that were clearly left
In the wake of our meeting with the vagaries of chance.
Supine and warmed from the heat of the west,
And the approach of old things in the distance.
Nothing remunerative, and knowing it well
On the great winding road near the intersection.
Quietly inventive but with nothing to sell,
Except the contingents’ direction.

Forming a narrative of where we were going,
In the mean time between our here and its there.
For my thinning carriage and tarmac’s renewing,
And fields of sheep bleating somewhere.
Passing a low slung idea of prevention,
And breaking the laws of its unnatural preserve;
Over the highway through wrought iron tension,
And the sight of rape seed on the curve.

Stopping and holding a glass for our parlance
By the side of a flock of resigned old requesters;
Stoop to the building with no backward glance,
And be honest about the protesters.
Get back outside and return to the journey,
And eventually everything settles.
Collect a few items and fill up the gurney,
And burn labour and fuel and metals.

Pour coal on the fire, and roast everything brought,
Until nothing is left but the paste in the bones.
Poor things acquired without any thought
Consumed readily outside the home.
Strange shapes appear to evolve from the circle
Whose structure brings people around;
Facing the facts that repeat with the cycle,
Uneven, but overly bound.

Wednesday, 6 January 2010


You don’t have to be a genius,
Or an itinerant musician,
To use common words
In uncommon positions,
Or a magician preparing
To encumber belief
For a foolhardy crowd
Without livery or liege.

You don’t have to be encrypted,
Or deciphered by men,
Or found in the rushes
And left penitent,
Or served up a programme
To make well aware,
Or alert to the possible
Options out there.

You don’t have to be a genius,
Or a follower of one,
To know it’s unlikely
You’ll never be wrong,
As unburdened, at least,
You’ll feel more than at ease,
And your teeth will not hurt,
And your gums no more bleed.

For your words will be freed
To form whatever shape,
To fall wherever needed,
On whoever’s debate,
And magic and mystery
Will be replaced by wisdom,
And banished to the rocks
They originally crawled from.

You don’t have to be a genius,
For these days who is?
The oldest president?
Or his wife or mistress?
More his dog who cares less
For the business of views,
And only reacts
To the tones that are used.


The only thing
I’ve left to drink
Is the stuff inside my nose,
It’s early bird
And there are no more words,
And a pile of dirty clothes.

The slow cooker’s full
Of vegetables
That dried out two days before,
And it’s far too late
To commence debate
With the iron and its board.

The latest reason
Has bled in season
Over every piece of carpet,
And now after noon
The sun stirs fumes
I rather would forget.

The last begotten
Of Spring’s new cotton
Still creases up my brow,
And so this evening
Long after leaving
I’ll commend your name unknown.

The final comfort
I cannot get
Is the full stop from my lips,
But the art of time
Won’t show incline
To arrest my mouth of gifts.

And the very last thing
I’ve left to link
With what I’ve come to be,
Is a dirty noose,
That is hanging loose,
Down in the laundry.


The haves and the have lots went to war,
As few had some, but others more,
And having less than anything
Is worse than more than nothing.

The have nots fought amongst themselves,
But nobody could really tell,
As they used each other any way
As predators use prey.

The battle raged near and afar,
With paper cuts and plastic cards;
As interest rates rose all about,
Fresh lines were drawn and chiselled out.

The lesser mortals failed to score,
Or know what they were fighting for,
So, stopping once to raise a head,
Collectively went back to bed.

And eventually the fighting ceased,
For something like a western peace,
And wealthy elements were sure:
They should have joined against the poor.

So storming round they knocked them up,
And exported them to Europe,
And every exile seemed to cheer:
How better there than here.

And so the land had fewer souls,
Without the poor or the old,
And people had the room to breed,
But none could find the need.


As panic buying stripped the shelves,
The stores began to shrink,
And tantric plying gripped themselves,
Their pores began to stink.
The animals kept themselves indoors,
Until packaged products failed,
Then man and all his metaphors
Was wrapped and highway mailed.

The creatures roamed with tumbleweed,
So planting was controlled,
Whilst features of the new were freed,
And frantically took hold.
The slavery was swift and true,
To the history of its name,
And bravery slid out of view
As sisters ran the game.

And as winter crept into its crib,
With lonely males malnourished,
The splinters drawn from Adam’s rib
Were the only ones who flourished.
Their bills were next day forwarded
To his last known address,
Whose hallways always flooded
With lists of gross excess.

And boys were left to calculate
The cost of affluence,
As toys used to emasculate
Were tossed in self defence.
The long emancipation held,
The chains and locks stayed cut,
And strong arms forever tried to weld
Their letterboxes shut.


I don’t need your nonsense as
I’ve got the people I love about me,
Around me, surviving me,
Rebounding off and surrounding fear;
To laze and leer along the shore.

Whomever advises you is lost,
Like most anyone you encounter.
Surely, some awareness could shine,
But doubtless not about time enough
To connect one conscious thought
With one definitive act.

Christ knows down which drain the life went,
But it must have led to a huge lake
Because the light has gone out up here,
And the dignity has been rendered, and
Meandered away dearly my love.

Certainly the sweetness of spring must be afforded somewhere,
Or maybe the fall has descended permanently. Baby who knows
Who is pulling the strings of things: not you or me or the
Friends we meet and know and cherish and love and hold up
High in the sight of God – whichever shape –
Be it man or Satan,
Or land or patents;
Whatever you think, it may just be you.
With the ephemeral inside outside outsourced
By mercurial people of absolutely no worth
Trying to rise up out of the mire they ventured into.

I do not need this, I need her and my house and my
Family and friends and my best man.


Unfortunately I’ve still got poor teeth,
But they’re brighter than they used to be,
And my smile’s regimental and bite more than keen,
And compliant with your policies.

My glasses are rimless though slightly too thick,
Although they’re inclined to be pliable,
And my thoughts are atonal and my words a tonic,
And I have nothing to fear from the bible.

My beard and temples are clearly greying,
But I’m not in the least bit afraid;
I’m younger than most of the others applying,
And my accommodation is always prepaid.

My knees are together for stability,
This is why my foundations are splayed,
Though they’re working together, and gathering speed,
And reducing the price I must pay.

My clothing, as always, is colour correct,
And intended to placate all the laity,
Who cannot remember the point of their text,
But are quick to refer to their deity.

And my position is firmer than years ago
As I have tightened up how I appear;
I’m ready to submit myself to your fold
And live quietly behind your frontier.

My allegiance has changed, and I relish the fact,
That my taste has improved for the better,
But my letters to you have all been sent back,
Though your appetite seemed to be greater.

So it appears that I am not as flush as I thought,
Although I was wholly prepared.
My new life, suddenly, overdrawn overnight,
In the heat of the war you’ve declared.


I got generally paranoid
When they did my adenoids,
‘Cause I couldn’t tell my voice from another.
So I tried hard to reverse
This procedural curse,
But was told by my friends not to bother.

As I no longer sounded
Like a dog being impounded,
And small children and old folks weren’t afraid.
And my colleagues at work
Had no need of Dunkirk
Or ear muffs in the hope of being saved.

And my hopeless love life
Turned around in a night,
As I woke up with two nubile women;
They’d heard my recital,
And quickly decided,
To invite me back home to go swimming.

And so subsequently
All my fortunes increased,
And my voice was discussed in high places;
The offers rolled in,
For advertisements,
And my vision was blurred by the faces.

I eventually settled
For a maker of kettles,
And proceeded to speak through the spout,
Until fortune and grace
Descended at pace,
And by talking I never went without.


I like my England
Preserved in brine,
Rolled in flour
And old headlines.
Park ordained
Green all year
With landing strips.
Drained of weather
And day and night,
With land and lake
Spread out just right.
Prone to laughter
Too close to call,
Too ironic for many
Who know fuck all.

I love my England,
Who does not judge;
There’s no one left
Sober enough.
With fleeting glimpse
And knowing look,
And proud of all
The losses took.
Don’t fear the reaper,
Or God above,
Fear the loss
Of England’s love.
And when you need us again
To bail your sorry arses out,
Just remember
To shout,
And be grateful, you…


Her breasts hung down like a sad dog’s ears,
And swung around like chin drop tears,
And veered about with sequential ripples,
And appeared to be devoid of nipples,
Although they produced both stout and bitter,
And flowed at night when the punters hit her.

She paraded them for free some days;
They shaded her from harmful rays,
And fished the left one out one night,
We all wished she’d flashed the right,
As this resembled perfect marble,
And not blue cheese upon a table.

But respect was due for being around,
And the effects she had upon the town,
As ten a penny stowed to her shore,
And many kids rowed back for more;
She must have taken all our purity,
And enough lust to secure sureties.

She lived alone and without pimp,
And thrived throughout a painful limp,
Acquired one night from a dodgy trick,
Who had tried to enter her exit;
She could not sit down for a week,
And stood on one leg to take a leak.

And when the foot turned to gangrene,
Her ‘friends’ were hardly ever seen,
Until the day they cut it off,
And the way was cleared to her trough,
Then two a time were taken in,
And few remembered how she’d been.

Eventually she was less devout,
Apparently way laid with gout.
Bed ridden sore she took in strays,
Well hidden from her glory days,
But business slowly disappeared,
And with this all our hopes and fears.

And then one day the signs came down,
And people say the sky turned brown,
As twenty men carried her out,
And plenty more cried all about;
They buried their pasts along with her,
Then hurried back for her daughter.