Monday, 22 March 2021

honesty


There’s honesty in an unmade bed:

“She’s got nothing to hide”

Sunday, 14 March 2021

on independent thought

 


No more robotic playing 

at the back of the orchestra 


placated,

accepting of the status quo 






I want an active mind

things that fall out of the sky

One thing I have been thinking about recently is 

things that fall out of the sky 


and that could be 


birds 

rain 


or more disturbingly 

aeroplanes or even 

tightrope walkers

such as the notorious karl wallanda 



in all cases we must ask 

what caused them to fall?

Friday, 7 February 2020

take me back


Take me back to 1996 when I was one, 
young tongued
and so demanding 

Wednesday, 5 February 2020

growing up


growing up

your parent admits 
they can’t know what you’ve been through 

you are now older than them,
as your young brother was to you 
when he lost his friend

he has carved the way

Seriousness, familiar and unexplained 
dormant, not full bodied — 
you carried from the start
sleeping each day 
sometimes arising— 
weighted in the centre of the chest 
like water

from your grandmother:
“a tragic life”
sadness which once passed down
skipped a generation
and settled 

notes


notes 


a grated slate of skated boules, turned upside down against the grain, smushed, in again and turned inside out. 
green pips smudged against the corner 
lifted from the dull grey earth, squeezed out each drop to sink into annihilation with the beans 
again and again 
not listening to the signs sunk into scrapes of skeletal skunk. punk hope fucks the patriotic
fantastic crowned crowd thronged and fleshed fresh with dripping scars the cloudy sky
the beasts of the underbelly fucked each other until they swam in sweaty swarms of hair and filth and gold dripped from their raw beaks
the beans, now gone, grew from shroud down to molten earth begging to be let alone, allowed to taste the flesh of their own children as their guardians had of theirs. 
and once they picked the pods, torn and cut, a soil of death rang round the daylight’s dung 

sprouting from gravelly drudge and interspersed with locust swarms of the new century. untravelled, stagnant. begotten. 
squashed against the wall like water drops, but other worldly, alien at form and unbeknown. undone and not my place to be in but here we are. 
Clashed, slashed and fuck off repetition, fuck the interruption  — broken soldered iron to cast another broken dream — fuck the police, fuck the bulls pigs. 
and then the beans grew blank, dank, blue and red before the green leafed bud burst the stagnant cold and hue 

the buds cut down the grey earth, splintered wood and dragged it up

and no one gave a shit except the old and cloudy sky — 

and anyway said one tired soul to another
what about that lad who was born too late, his time forgotten, trying to mould into a walled world which no longer fits us any more. 
what about the fucked up dank sweat of the young thugs who gasp in heat to get their daily dose of the divine. Fuck the model. Bourn. Burn. Born. Disco Pig. Lighter. Fire. 


—————————————————————————

Monday, 3 February 2020

exhibition of selves


exhibition of selves

bodies 
bodies lined up in a morgue 

you could visit them,
like visiting your relatives in a museum. 
but you won’t

the person has changed 
can be dressed up and down 
humorously 
wearing their favourite outfit 

behind the glass
your nose pressed to the cold 
are they alive there?

Monday, 20 January 2020

Sunday, 22 April 2018

thoughts on wool

covered in sheep
from head to toe
bar the guts
just wool
and skin -
my own
frosted at the hairs

Monday, 9 April 2018

these are the thrones

Angels’ jaws of dying stone 
spat glistening fish to barren ground 
and in the dust they thrashed 
and drowned 

heavenly filth 

so quietly danced the burned out sparks 
from bones to bodies low

beating souls 

I, red at dawn 
My heart, with strings of sapphire
playing fiery grace

these are the thrones






Sunday, 8 April 2018

dancing feet

dance 
and kick the dust on silver springtime 

dance again 
with elephant shoes 
boots too big 

dance 
and move your ribs

dance with 
teardrops
of the chiming bells

dance in your cotton socks 
stain them green 




Friday, 30 March 2018

Dance, Curious Joy (Keatles Poem)

Dog’s freckled kiss 
on salted skin, 
tasting only winter 
and drinking sin

silver kings that bound to heaven 

with woven wings of Autumn’s child 
a tired prophet sang of shadows
a tired prophet sang
bleat, honey, mild


wild bees shall murmurs blindly
mother flowers a golden burden
lay down your sapphire soul of dreaming 

lay down your soul of sorrows
lay down
lay down in Sunday’s sun
long visions, love


Blushing lily of winter’s smile 

under Monday’s moon
her harvest’s ghosts
bleat

memories of spring 

breathe, pale child 

breathe in

long love in fading sunshine
where fools lips ring
singing curious joy
and sweetest spirits whisper kindly 

and sparkling faces dance to drum



The lyrics are by myself using a combination of words compiled together from the Beatles and John Keats, using the Botnik predictive keyboard www.botnik.org. 

Sunday, 18 March 2018

drafting

drafting 
and re- 
drafting 
until time 
is wasted 

i am lying 
in

lavish 

comfort


unsatisfied

Sunday, 11 March 2018

Words for Christian

1.
Crawling hands with gasoline 
grey machine

cloud in her satin heart - 
resting beast.

hard faith, beating prayers 
hopeless revolution

2.
tongue red shoes,
shakey soul - -
a bullet tangled
in sugar smoking spiders - 

fingers pick toffee
from the horseman's cheek

angels knees slightly cracked 
mice trip tears and cry

3.
wisest book of fog 

diamond and dogs
lion blood
pocket sleep star 

moonlight lemon hearts 
porcupine clowns on their 
flying talking clock

to future's hangman
adopt a magic laugh
and keep the whale babies safely 






botnik poems, words by David Bowie - www.botnik.org.




Monday, 5 March 2018

bucket by my leaking loo

i miss
my bucket by my leaking loo
the steady drop 
crossing paths with the beat of the hot tap,  tap  tap 

every four hours
i’d start again
and throw the water in the bath
like clockwork 
but before the clocks
had mastered stealing time

my unborn years:
forecast them — already lost

horses toes continue to drum,     drum       drum 
the earthy clay 
but even they have tumbled blindly into 
piles of ticking watch stops 
and can no longer run free





i am still waiting for the rebound
and
i want my time back












honesty

There’s honesty in an unmade bed: “She’s got nothing to hide”