Your amours.

All our pasts are chequered,
But yours still has the pieces
On the board.

Youngrier

Never known anything
New
Or held anything
Old.

You know how we were earlier.

Curtains blowing out beyond the newly
Opened frame,
Billowing swifter than a military ideal
Without restraint,
Instantly recognized and turned away
Before their touching
And issued orders to restore themselves
To where they used to be.

Venerable beads of sweat well spilt
To seal their service
Drawn forth from furrowed brows upraised,
Belonging to reservists,
Conscripted by quick opportunists in slow
Administrations
In place of those professionals on
Overseas vacations.

Applied lightly over carpets cut from
Ancient Persian rugs,
Which have been thrown around the room
Instead of psychedelic drugs,
And used primarily to keep the window
Cleaners from appealing
For a cask of clear water to stop
Smeared windows from concealing.

Worsted.

This word of news
I wish disbelieved,
Un-received;
Its text corrected,
Effects rejected,
And fast.
Its facts detracted,
Vacuum packed,
And sent back.

Would be aspirant.

Believe in one you know
Is true,
And is unbelieving.
Receive them in your arms
And know
They’re the ones receiving.

Reflect on it too long,
And someday
You’ll stop reflecting.
Affection for your love
Is what
You should be effecting.

Aspire to hold them high
And who
Can deny you your aspirations.
Retire a younger man
And you
Can enjoy your incarnation.

Worn down.

I’ve got sun stroke again,
..But with more ashen skin.
I’ve got heat waves aplenty,
..But my oven’s empty.
I’ve got alcohol poisoning,
..But am abstaining noisily.
I’ve got me obesity,
..But I’m starving hungry.
I’ve got all sex easily,
..But I’m verging on celibacy.

I’ve got order in my wardrobe
..But chaos in my choice.

I’ve got a political degree,
..But I’ve found voter apathy.
I’ve got religious tolerance,
..But at heathens I’m hollering.
I’ve got feelings of equality,
..But I hate all people equally.
I’ve lived amongst the global soup,
..But longed for a more tribal group.
I’ve run nothing like a racist,
..But am purveying for the basest.

I thought I had it honestly,
..But I think I’ve been deforesting.

World made well.

This is the world we made
When the sweet opened my eyes
And the salt bit deep your tongue.

This is the sun that shines down,
And here comes the rain.
There is the sea we swam in,
And here is the sand.

These are the clothes we stood in,
And left where they fell down.
This is the bed we loved in;
There are the clothes we lived in,
And left where they were.
This is the summer knowledge
That is all we’ll require
To face what will follow.

This is the world that remains
From the start
Now that time of our lives has
Gone back to its place,
And all that is mine is yours.

Worked upon.

What a colourful dovetail
Up close we are,
What a wonderful shovel
We make,

And the last of a handful of hopefuls,
We are,
Now the rest have been turned
Into rakes.

Whole man.

He got to his age without any reason to weep,

To this place with no guiding sign post to bide,

And his face with never a furrow or frown.

To his gait without any haste or horse bolt,

And his taste with no sense of smell to speak of,

To his case with never a care for defence,

And his fate without any concept of fear.

With whims of change.

Now you’re fine;
Is your mind at peace now?
Once you’ve found a reason
Is easier to deal with
Than impulse.

With crocodile eyes.

We made the best
of a bad job
worse than before

By arresting
those bastards
who were cursing the war,

As the yes
men and actors
burst down the door,

We detested
our actions, but
first came the war.

WHISPERED.

There’s truth in that man’s mouth,
Yes there is,
And it’s keeping open arms,
And it’s looking straight at me,
When all I have to give
Is failing in the sea,
That we filled
When we lost faith.

Which project?

Where anything intended
To offend us
Will be synchronised
And sanitised,
And everyone who is
Anyone will be
Able to believe in
The relieving of the faith.

Where is our thinking?

Knowing without doing,
Is worse than not
Knowing.
Doing without caring,
Is like staying but still
Going.
Caring without saying,
Is worse than not
Showing.
Saying without lying,
Is like reaping without
Sowing.

When vice is verse.

If you should be accosted by
An accident along your way,
Sent with your perfume upon it
By persons of grand address,
Then do not fear for your repair,
As the lost possibilities of
Years past are with you.
Correct your recovery position
Before being air lifted,
And never complain about the
Assassins aim, as it is not theirs,
But the same as all employment:
To bring you to your knees before
Its reach.
Therefore out gain yourself in your
Affairs and reverse old intentions;
Not with violence or ignorance or
Cheap impersonations,
But with the words of those
Fallen before you,
And you will find
You never succumb to chance
Once you welcome choice.

Warm dawn.

A listless day
That will not wake
Or furthermore refresh;
A restless night
About to take
The flavour from your flesh.
Intense events
Unfold themselves
In front of every face;
Tormented fences
Render them
Obscure and erased.

Vernal equinox.

Whether attributed to the one or
The contributing mouths of many,
The words remain the same;
Confirming the unending desire of
The human spirit: the requirement
And acquiring of love and peace
And complete honesty.
Serene in theory and direct in
Action, when acted upon directly,
Affecting the soul perfectly,
Converting the mass correctly.

In spite of the divisions and schisms of
Fallen empires and risen,
This is the paragon that remains
At the heart of our society;
Shaping the seasonal calendar
According to conditions, incorporating
Pagan traditions and Christian revisions,
Whilst producing the same conclusions:
Respect for the next human being,
And the panacea of love;
At one with the world we are in
And the one following.

Vacancies.

There will be no edge for me to cling to
Once emptiness dares me so far
As to balance myself against
The oncoming fray.

For I’ve lost more than profound things
And obtained lesser soundings,
Persuaded and convinced
By greater fakers.

Upon a child killer’s death.

Apparently Lucifer was spotted
At your death bed side
With his glistening penis,
And putrid smile.

Grinding his hooves,
And grooming his pelt,
And licking his lips
At the state of events.

Until I am undone.

If you want to move away,
But find the time and tide astray;
If you’re swallowing to stay,
Then that’s alright by me.

If the mirror’s clear to see,
Indicating apathy,
If it turns to look at me,
Then baby I’ll be free.

If a hopeful man appears,
Out of any hemisphere,
If his novelty adheres,
Baby I will cheer.

Funny frequent anger hides
Whenever you expose your mind,
Maybe I should show you mine,
Baby I will try.

Unbalanced books.

If the fail safe tower
Should fall then how are
We to mount the surrounding
Walls to secure our safety.
Bring other place debris,
Left over from every
Known recess, to shore up
The high vaulted cave in?
Or allow it to settle in situ
Without any rituals
Designed to improve the
Defence of our saving.

Turning riled.

Fermenting processes aside,
It’s good to notice
The stages changing
In recognition of the
Initial prescription.

Preventing words colliding
And strengthening
The arrangements,
Before presenting
Their destruction.

Trials by error.

I tried,
But the effort was forlorn,
As the prone outline on
The brand new bedroom carpet testified to.

I tried again,
This time with a polythene sheet
Beneath and about me,
And, although the result was the same,
At least the soft furnishings were saved.

I tried somewhere else,
But the conclusion only confirmed
That it didn’t really matter where
I was for my defeat to be planted.

I tried whilst moving,
But it finished as before,
And with a quite unnerving jolt,
And not only was I broken, but
So were parts of the people who had
To free me from the wreckage.

I stopped trying,
And was relieved when I
Settled to have the same
Silhouette as everyone else.

Treasure buries.

So far
As our radar
Is further,
Our fortunes
Will chart.

And fast
As we forecast
Its compass,
Our contract
Will last.

As long
As we belong
To someone,
Then summer
Will come.

And soon
As we taste
Its costume,
Our coarseness
Will swoon.

Train set.

The light at the end of the tunnel has gone out,
and now there are only the seamless over coated
clothes of night. No surface available for a shadow
to show against, or indication that one could ever
arise inside this funeral suited place, where even
an undertaker would wear white cotton below his
neck and not this coarse uncoloured Melton cloth.

I touch my skin a little to see if it will bristle under
my fingertips, and it tells me that I am still here and
not fallen from myself on the way inside this funnel;
for I do not know any more which track I’m on, or
what road goes where, as the throat hole ahead has
choked before its time and all ways seem the same.

Behind I know begins beyond my ears, but only
when I turn, and ahead is usually gauged correctly,
but not now, or I imagine ever, as my tinder has
been dampened in the dark and no spark will take
there again or lamp lend itself for the drying;
therefore I must trawl along what buckled rails
support my gravity the best and find their inevitable
end without life’s illuminations to guide me.

Tour de force.

The blowing wind
Is an awkward thing,
As it is always in the same place:
I rode anti-clockwise,
Then clockwise twice,
And it was still there in my face.

Tomorrow’s life today.

Unable to deal with the comfort
Of a blade, or application of a needle
Upon the compass of my soul;
Blood tests or opiates injected,
With the best of most other invasions
Penetrating to the bone.
Tomorrow’s mass inspected
And samples from all angles taken,
Composing the complete picture;
Left in the right place in order
To approximate the expected destination,
And probably too soon.

Together.

As long as none of us are sickly,
And times’ turn is quick we’ll
Be fine.

And the meagerness of wick light
Will be all we’ll need to stick tight
And combine.

Toby.

......My little slender thing
Gone round with food and other
Sustenance unable to be shaken off,
And thus adopted.
......More faithful than the grateful
Souls whose liberation from arrest
Was wrought by strangers from
Across the worlds extent,
......And sweeter than completion
Driven by the labour of uneven
Creatures once unknown, but
Now at work as one;
......Wiser than the open eyes of
Age old sages who scorn
Sleep in awe of knowledge
Learned in lieu of night,
......And more beautiful than youth in all
Its glory and acclaim before the
Passing days conspire to crack
Its transient perfection,
......Though wearier than either of us
Thought possible before we let him in
The middle to expand in all expedience,
And separate our pallet space.

Tobogganing.

Dysfunction is endemic;
Heads smashing well
Before feet first rushed in.
Convention problematic,
Spread evenly
Across the tops remaining.

To let.

When.......age...........as............my
I..........Craven........mixing........hand
have.......ideologies....of............I
come.......shall.........the...........will
to.........be............species.......lay
my.........ripped........has...........waste
senses.....from..........not...........the
and........their.........succeeded.....human
realised...foundations,..in............race
that.......stripped......creating......and
my.........of............a.............make
tolerance..praise........peaceful......vacant
benefits...and...........coexistence...this
no.........returned......And...........place
one,.......to............if............once
I..........their.........this..........again.
will.......homelands,....is............Apparently
rise.......whilst........not...........the
and........all...........agreed,.......planet
make.......peoples.......then..........is
known......will..........with..........wetting
the........be............one...........itself
error......repatriated...sweet.........in
of.........to............wave..........grand
my.........theirs,.......of............anticipation.

Topped.

Is love natural in the natural world, or reserved
For those fit to ask, and therefore is the
Loss of such a loss to us alone or felt
By all involved in one life’s course.
Are the things spinning in the wild aware of
Why they do so and what does with them,
Or are they simply automated for
Their birth and life and death.
If so then the struggle of my life’s battle
With the void of this world’s bubble
Should have burst it years ago
And set me bustling free.

Tip.

He wouldn’t even hold
His mother’s smoke damaged hands,
Not that any fire had flicked by her
And carried off a finger, or raised
Unearned blisters or strands of
Ash lingered; only tobacco stains
Kissed her and its stink pissed there,
And her hands held the rumours of death;
The blooms that took breath from
The charnel house gardens of want.

Time’s house declaration.

As your gaze flicks through
the windows of drawing rooms
in Bayswater, or similar views,
you realise that the occupants
are so far removed from the
tribes behind the terraced streets
as to be almost a different species.

It’s not their fault, of course, or
anyone’s, it’s simply their careworn
brick that has been overestimated
for centuries – a formula’s conclusion –
presented from the front of the room
by people who could for those who
best understood.

But time has taken itself seriously
enough of late to re-evaluate these ends,
and modify them accordingly, and though
mediocrity has shown its loathsome face,
it has not entirely replaced the past,
and therefore hope is sustained that
common sense will still find room for all.

Time goes sideways somedays.

The steeper sides
Of deepest dreams
Informed your morning.

Winding hours
Found you wanting
Afternoon too soon.

Horse race ends
And tea beginnings
Hiccoughed the evening.

Old star skies
Dispatched the day
And praised obliquely.

Throughout the year.

Can you hurry
Yet move very
Smart,
Though still
Stay
Tuned;
To fly
As trust
Kept tender,
Flocked over
Known wonder
We enter.

Through the tubes.

I ate it in my head
When I first heard it,
And said it with my head
When I worded it;
Now it’s gone out of my head
To be asserted
And has left my head a residence
More sturdy.

Three strikes ago.

The start of the beginning,
And eye of the beginning,
And finish of the beginning.

The first part of the middle,
And pivot of the middle,
And last bit of the middle.

The coming of the end,
And centre of the end,
And going of the end.

Those c***s next door.

Wherever they are
They’ve not been there long,
As the coffee is warm,
And the oven’s still on.

There are clothes on the floor,
And a bed full of sheets,
But when you look close
There is nothing you’d keep.

He took her for a fool as well,
Spending the dwelling’s cost.
Returned home to Sicily
And left her rather lost.

She took turns around the town,
And came back in one piece;
Found the bottom of a bottle
And watched its depth increase.

They know, they do.

They say some days
Are cursed;
These days
Our ways
Are worse.

Then.

Then
Let us dismiss our defence
And hasten the end.

And then
Let us trace every friend
And make our amends.

And then
Let the journey commence
And complete our repentance.

The theory of umbrellativity.

If I see her
I will know her;
If I don’t see her
She’s not here.
It she’s not here
I can’t show her
What I’d do here
For her.

The road show.

Darkness and light
Follow you down;
Down to the end, my friend.
Day and the night
Circle around;
Round to the end, again.

They think they know you,
But what do they know?
What do they say?
To your face.

The young and the old
Protect your path,
Up to the only road.
Body and soul
Together laugh,
As you ascend your throne.

They think they own you,
But what do they own?
What do they sell?
To themselves.

The pantry man can.

He didn’t realise
That the extraordinary life
He thought reserved for the finest
Was just as likely
To materialise
In front of him and
Refer to him in the highest.
For he was a confidence
Kind of person at his most virtuous,
But introverted at his worst,
And just as the ill served
Will never get on with us,
So the well versed will nurture us.

The only known.

Fortune tellers leave little to chance, and even
Less to the damaged hands of fate; discussed
With neither, immune to both, discriminating
Only towards their own affairs. Acclimated to the
Laws of reality, which seldom deal with the spoils
Of probability, and dismiss the certainty of
Ambivalence as easily as they efface the soothsayers’
Windings. And with acknowledgement of ages lost,
And tools used for deception, existence leaves the
Certitudes of the yet to come to the interests of
Wagers made, and therefore the canvassers of
Things unformed have time to spare for details
Generally requested, and profiting the most;
Allowing glimpses generic to the breed, whilst
Distracting people from specifics. Not ideal for the
Purchaser, but then they do not deserve to be
Served otherwise if they seek their fate and faith in
Shaded lenses instead of eyes more vitreous. What
To understand other than oneself can one go
For; endeavor passing or future poison cannot hope
To find a splinter to exploit for incubation once left
In no doubt about their relative positions. Only those
Who do not trust their own auguries suffer the words
Of sages for their faineance; reliant upon the vanity
Of bought things from the worn mouths of widows
Withholding the wealth of debt from deaths
Inevitable sweep.

The obvious in us.

The Bitterest greetings between us,
And conjuring acts confirming the facts
Of fleeting reactions once passed;
Transferring from me and occurring to
You and percipient only because of
Awareness once shared and even.
Bowed onto knees onto crossed limbs
To seat before all recognition has warded
Our rational champions to arms;
For silence’s cause and the balance of peace,
And the need to be left well alone until
Ease can attend to our proceeds once more,
And speech replace what it consumes.

The most loved one among us.

So there you have an old glass blower’s window,
And behind a man who writes for love’s relief;
He hasn’t got a folder or a binder,
But would love to leave his words for all to see.

He passes days with well known rub and stone
For images that far outreach his mise;
A hurried glance appears to be his own,
But he scolds himself as he has no replies.

He loathes the opportunities of vagueness,
Chances prompted by a day in bed,
Things he can achieve with less awareness,
Imprinted in his own rolled worried head.

And as his paper separates along the edge,
And a screen appears to help him with his sight,
He no longer needs the words his mind has fetched,
As his fingers dance around the keys all night.

And however straight it seems when it is said,
And however in reality it’s not,
A greater string of skin could not instead
Replace the life his filigree has wrought.

The most beautiful day of the year.

The most beautiful day of the year,
Old age and childhood cheers,
Kindly with nothing to fear.

The most beautiful day of the year,
A heightened atmosphere,
Oh how I wish you were here.

They say that you are
An infinite lover,
But there’s no sensual energy in the air,
No immortality hidden there;
Pessimism is everywhere,
Optimism please take a chair
Before you collapse
Of old age.

The most beautiful day of the year,
And I am sitting here
Waiting for night to appear.

The millennium after.

We had to get the
Carpet up with a
Wallpaper scraper,
And any number of hours,
Because of the millennium.

Everyone was tidal swept
In alcohol and
Paper cups,
And cigarettes lost
Long before a light arrived.

But the guests agreed
That the evening was
Greeted well and heartily,
Though once it flared after midnight
They left rather sharply,

Leaving us alone with
Differently coloured eyes,
And hoping the new century
Would bring more money flowing
Than the previous night’s showboating had sunk.

The lock and the key.

More than I could, but less than I thought,
More than I should, but less than I ought.
More than a beer, but less than a barrel,
More than is clear, but less than untrammeled.
..More than two fingers, but less than a fist,
..More than a binger, but less than jaundiced.
..More than a grape, but less than a vine,
..More than mistakes, but less than defined.
More than a cocktail, but less than a party,
More than regaled, but less than is hearty.
More than the spirit, but less than the soul,
More than is curried, but less than extolled.
..More than the Germans, but less than the French,
..More than concerning, but less than entrenched.
..More than the body, but less than the brain,
..More than a hobby, but less than a game.
More than is sober, but less than is drunk,
More than the lonely, but less than the sunk.
More than the shaken, but less than the stirred,
More than is aching, but less than interred.
..More than the employed, but less than the not,
..More than the android, less than the robot.
..More than the driven, but less than the trying,
..More than the living, but less than the dieing,
And more than is raw then, but less than is cooked,
And the reason we’re all truly fucked .

The last diet.

The eating act assailed the
Lungs performance for the last time.

Breath begot itself no heir to
Free its process from blockade.

Life received the glimpses of
Its former self in instances arrayed.

Death embraced as greedily as
Appetite had beckoned in the first place.

The intruder triangle.

The great British pubic region
Smells like a zoo floor,
And contains more creatures
Than an African shore.

The gold ghost.

We sat there and pissed in the dirt;
Hoping that our waste would find
Its way from us and escape this place,
As we never would.

For a channel or gully to the gutter
Somewhere near the centre of the main
Room, that ran beneath the walls
And spilled into the sea.

Looked over by weapons of alien
Design, able to shoot fire and rock
Further than any volcano known to
Our elders and sires.

Welcoming only those tall boats
That fly the right colours, and that
Leave with their midriffs full of us to
Berths beyond the sea.

Never to know anything else of our
Land or its handlers mining out more
Than us and finding less of themselves
In the process.

The DL.

Walking sticks
Convinced of more
Than falling down
Prevention,
Especially when
Younger hands
Pursue their old
Attention.

The best went on.

Up straight on a chair
At the start of a new year.
I would be nowhere if
I didn’t
Have
You
Here.

I would be incomplete
If I didn’t have you to hear me,
And could not compete if
I had to
Bellow
Yearly
Alone.

Laid out on a board
At the end of an old year.
Man I feel ignored as
I don’t
Have
You
Here.

The Aussie keeper.

He looked like
He should have been
Standing in
The outback
Catching wombats,
With a crate of golden liquid
And a cork hat,
Instead of creeping
Near the wicket
In the hope of picking
Snicks up off of pommies.

Test matched and passed.

And if your road never
Follows its nose then the
End of your line will be
Further than mine, you’ll see.
And when you meet me there
I will be free of care
For I will have held fast
Against your skill, at last.

In the time between
The finding and the losing,
There must be some choosing,
Or the point will bruise you.
Incomplete without the
Interest slowly waning,
There must be some training,
Or the game will cost you.

Terrestrial time.

When you realize you are more nervous
About meeting your partner’s
Kids than their parents,
Then you know you’re older than you thought.

Terreplein.

Avow all hollowness its due
But do not allow it outside.
Excavate and partition space
To separate its creeping shape.
Bore and fill the cavities until level,
Inside what mouth of expanse remains.
Contain the distance between your words
And contagion heard;
Munitions for your tongue’s use
In the cause of silence.

Tallied up wrong.

From the worlds he moved in
And the moods he made,
Not all approved him,
Or were slightly saved.
For the times he left us,
And the temperance lost,
We bear the worst of
Accountable cost.

Sweet antedates.

Two score walked by,
as time stole one back,
whilst those full of holes
carried only those home
who slipped from its hold.

Fuming in all forms
of fright, either staged
or arranged in low light,
and complimented by fellows
with hands out of sight.

Told of bells ringing a
mournful amount, but
ignored in the wake of the
sound of the morning crowd
handling awards;

For on and for back and two
Sides, unremarkably lean,
in-between all the splendor
of scenery rendered as though
from the original trough.

Sward fallen.

When I used to be alive
I wondered where I was.
On amber moments I arrived
And left on verdant gloss.
And in the ochre meantime
I never came across,
An architecture worth the while
To have its name embossed,
Or show itself at least inclined
To bear a plaque of loss.

Suspect date a sport.

Her belly dribbled over the
Waist band of her pants,
Wasted indeed;
Spilling craters
And hillocks of under used flesh
Over a shallow slung boundary,
Wound up mummy tight.
Peaking at first from the folds
Of her seated set piece, but
Once risen, rolling and
Sloshing to the sides, and falling
Over the touch line of her pitch.

Still.

Day paled
Again;
Night felt alone.

Rain came
And went;
Sky smelted snow.

Dawn called
Alarmed;
Ground melt unknown.

Staying in all the time.

If they’re trying to kill you,
And you know they’re trying to kill you,
And they know you know they’re trying to kill you,
Then they won’t park outside your house.
But if they do park outside your house,
And they know you know they’re trying to kill you,
And you know they’re trying to kill you,
Then they’re probably not trying to kill you.
But if they are trying to kill you,
And you know they’re trying to kill you,
And they know you know they’re trying to kill you,
Then they’ll park three streets down.
And if they do park three streets down,
And they know you know they’re trying to kill you,
And you know they’re trying to kill you,
Then they’ll try to kill you there.

Staving off dogs.

What’s admirable,
In the main,
Is what restrains
That part
Of you
That whilst
Waiting at
Stations
For trains
Tempts you
To jump.

What’s missing
Is the manner
That handles
The side
Of me,
That once
Listened to
Often
Enough,
Invites me
To push.

Status quota.

Sometimes the order is more unusual than the
Usual, less habitual than the regular and more
Discordant than consistent.

Sometimes it begins with a mouthful of coloured
Words accompanied by a bitten tongue and
Watered down resign,

Followed by a period of self reflection, and
recourse peppered with mistakes, made
bearable by aspects less gelatinous;

A short interlude is included here to clear
The palate and make ready a dessert
Worth thirsting for:

The cherry on the icing on the berg submerged
Unseen, until rented out from underneath and
Left to blubber openly about town;

I think it’s about time I placed this list upon
your range and watch, with salivation,
what can be mustered.

Standard These Days.

Of what is this Chlamydia Sage
Of whom so much is made?
Of where are they around?
Of why said so profound?
Of how made so abject?
Of when to happen next?

Stampeding Her(o)ds.

There are more of us
Than there are of them,
But they’ve got all the guns;
We are morally right,
But they’re more prepared,
As they’re killing first born sons.

Square.

The world is round,
You can’t fall off;
Tonight,
I might.

Oh open ending,
Ah light me up,
Love’s not for renting
With beggar cup,
But I do,
So you roll me out.

Sparing Hemingbrough.

Slow down as you approach the bend
And don’t run down the child,
In case you cannot see them move
You’ll have to watch the sky.
You’re just about upon them,
And still there’s nothing there;
The sign was clear in what it said,
Slow down and children spare.

Speakership.

When I spoke,
Speech broke,
And breached folk.

A teacher choked,
And reached provoked
Beneath my cloak.

He freed his yoke,
Once leached of quotes,
And speech once more awoke.

(Small take aways.)

All sorrow gone today,
With morning’s underlay
And afternoon’s brocade
Enclosing.

For horror and affray,
Once having had their say,
Have been swept and overlaid
By those opposing.

Small adds.

I bought a bag of nails for sale,
But they were not what I expected,
Cut from the smallest finger tips,
By teeth somewhat infected.

I left them in their bag too long,
Where they were desiccated,
And so was forced to sell them on,
To the less masticated.

Slipping when I wake.

The truth of the issue,
However overlooked
By the day’s duties,
Keeps banging on my anvil,
And hemorrhaging home
Its message.

The proof of the matter
Is what greets me
Every evening when
Everything has settled still,
And its surface foams
In homage.

Sleep less sweet aged.

As good
As old,
And twice
As bright,
As older
Souls
Need less
Of night.

Slaloms.

You say baby are we drifting?
I say maybe just the snow is shifting.
You’re not impressed, I don’t know why,
And readdress the things you’re words imply.
You counterpoint with something worse,
But I anoint my own words with more sense.

If I’m slipping
Down the slide,
Will you take
The other side?
If I’m tripping
At the end,
Will you help me
Round again?

You say you will take no more,
And pick until you’re through the door,
And when the road is all there is,
Maybe then you’ll realise,
That even though we’re not complete,
We’re not as broken as the street.

Siteing.

This morning made its one
And only use of me:
Introducing you to it
Before ushering me out,
And taking you along to its
Reunion with the afternoon
To camp down for a while.

You were excused when
The evening declined your allure
In favour of the night’s which rekindled
Its romance with morning again
Once dusk was long gone and
Other stray hours passed over.
As breathing wears us out inside
The less bilious survive.

Singularity.

Time will tell
We’re told,
And to be,
Is to have and to behold
A fair way to
An even
Eventuality,
That is single
And integral
To the cause,

And over then
To pause,
And sport,
For the sake of taking up
An allegiance
To a region
Of neutrality,
That is aural
And constructive
To a fault.

Simon’s best advice.

When you hit blood
You know it’s no good,
And the wiping should
Stop right away.

Shot impetus.

Which is stronger,
the string or the bow?
And does it affect the arrow?

Which is longer,
the spring or the fall?
And does in-between mean fuck all?

Shock absorbed.

People in the
Open flew away,
Whilst those inside alighted.

Souls were left
Defenceless,
As skin and bone ignited.

Minds were found
In pieces,
As life and death collided.

Spirits found
A way to see,
As day and night subsided.

Sex in the head.

Take them poppers,
And use my knob
As a gob stopper.

Serendipity strikes again.

How lucky I am
To be here with her;
Me being malign
And immersed.

How fated she is
To see no other,
And be so consigned
To my curse.

Self imposed no go phone area.

Sandy pavements and dusty coves
beyond the grove we came from.
Handy strips of rusting clothes
beside the stone we chafed upon.
Cloudy skies and paper lanes
in a domain that ended.
Dowdy men and well draped ladies
dissolved for their descended.

Self employed.

He sold his semen on the street
Like sherbet on a stick,
A babe in every bag,
Come quick.

But when approached and told
The error of his ways,
He pulled his sack off
In dismay.

And though exposed himself,
He did not quite develop,
And his bagman pitch
Dried up.

Second wind wound.

The branching passageways closed in
Around their dividing point, demanding
Of us a hastened choice; their disappearance
Doing nothing for our apprehension and rather
Dampening our eagerness to choose, which
Had not been that great at the outset, and
Less upon arriving here. Unfortunately, having
Been affronted so, we were minded to remember
The previous route taken and its travails, which
Should have prevented our arrival here.

Sans sheriff.

I found a time machine
on the floor in front of me;
it had always been there but
had not realized it was wanted.
I wanted it; I needed it, to go back
to a point in the past and undo an
Action - a many pointed past at that -
with the safety pin that attached its
star to my chest as the point in question.
It was this pin that I had opened causing
all its fine degrees to defile their course,
and proceed through multiple layers
of thin air, crashing spectacularly.
Peaks once charged with a possibility’s
blessing troughed as soon as freed,
sluicing down every vale, and I never did
learn to swim. I asked the machine to
wake and it wagged eagerly at me,
awaiting my request – there please –
and it was off. I stepped into the
unfinished living room of my first
house and saw me sleeping on a
camp bed, where I suffocated
myself immediately. I dumped
my body miles away and took
its place, and to this day
I’ve no regrets, as the
Sheriff’s not been seen.

Routers.

I’ll field an evening visit
Or two from the curfew crew
Before I go on my way,
But there are few facts
To be gleaned from reading
Their take on history.

Though anyone who has done so much
With their looks, and what looks,
Should be listened to at least once,
But then shifted along I must be
Before being drawn by
More performance.

They cannot hammer a hole in
My armour with their formula,
Or preference pick,
As caterpillar-tracked are my feet,
And reinforced steel is unwound
Around most of my hide.

But they’ll take no referrals
From me, and it’s me they’re
Referring to wholly,
When they say I am always
The same as my brother, regardless
Of whether or not they enroll me.

Rounders.

The rich get richer,
And the poor
Ensure
They do.

The pitch and the pitcher,
And much more
Pre war
Than new.

Roman times new.

The auction for
Yorkshire’s soul
Was organised by
Southerners, of course;
Though you had to
Test the story’s
Inconsistency
Against its
Insistence
In order to see how
It could possibly
Survive translation.
Undoubtedly it would,
If words used
Complimented those
Bought at bargain
Prices, set, incidentally,
By the purchaser,
In case the indigenous
Dialect confused.
N’er mind eh, four beers cock.

Rolled stone.

Letter by letter by
Word by space by line
By inconclusive line, and left
By right by rhyme, if rhyme applies.
Unstoppable sentences with
Punctuation dropped altogether,
Attached to paragraphs on
Pages turned and chaptered.
Parts divided equally and
Surrounded by introductions
And conclusions - pros and epilogues.
Bound on three sides by
Front and back and spinal
Material, covered in colours
With untold corrections, pixel
By manipulated pixel, until full.
Then thrown towards an agent or
Paraded around the internet to
Be forced upon uninterested masses;
Promoted, prostituted, vended in
Vain until reduced to resting in
The bargain bucket, two for one
Book club, superstore loss leader,
Market hall trader, car boot sale.
Then started all over again at the
Foot of a steeper hill.

Righteous beggars this way.

You’ll pray,
When your time is near
You’ll pray,
Though you don’t believe
You’ll pray,
Whilst your last breath keeps
You’ll pray,
Unsure of what will follow
You’ll pray,
And urgent for mercy,
You’ll pray.

Refugee collection.

You were dropped off on a
charity shop door step in a
black bin bag addressed to
the refuse collectors;
apparently left at that hovel
of benevolence by mistake.

Inside with you was the waste
of your mother, whore, user,
who appeared old enough to
bleed. Her mind must have
been full of fixes as her
details were amongst the
grease and daub of a hurried
delivery; discarded teenage clothing,
burned and busted cans, bloodied
wipes of bits, and empty bottles of
everyday tablets obviously stolen
too quickly from the pill facility
a street away.

The charity shop kept you until the
right price was offered, and you
were handed over with a machine
turned wooden carving, a faulty
clock restarted and a water colour print.
Raised as a stranger to the world
you were thrown from, and fallen
on recycled fields.

Reasonable response.

Ill advised,
But skilled
At filling us with fear;
As much as years beyond,
And days to come.

Vilified,
But still
As villainous as
All those lies told
All those years ago.

Until capsized,
We’ll spill
Our willingness to survive;
As much as we excelled at war,
And its alternative’s accord.

Reality checked.

What club were you at first
A member of?
What union of finest acolytes
Stood tall for our welfare?
What collective sought your
Name to compliment it?
What stable did our fate
Find itself grateful to?

What minds of writers, poets,
Artists, lords and ladies thought
Nothing of themselves to save us?
Whilst labour done with thought
Rolled belly over and its trusting
Followers took banners overhead
Instead of arms, leaving their
evolution in the hands of fools.

Radical surgery.

When first we met
Your head had yet
To grow.

When next aligned
You mind had much
To know.

When further joined
Your brain had coined
Its flow.

When lastly seen
Your skull had been
Hollowed.

Queerer than you could think.

Cheered up by the sky’s appearance
In the midst of clouds adrift;
Queerer than the unseen clearing
Was the detail of the rift:

Harder than a diamond’s sparkle,
Farther than the sun’s last turn,
Sharper than a harpoon darting,
Worthier than purses earned,

Tenderly in pieces splendid,
Folding distances untold,
Endlessly in time suspended,
Older than the world’s patrol.

Putty woman.

Somebody gave her
A good going over,
Which didn’t begin to
Account for the facts,
For as somebody said,
She looked more of a mess
Before knuckles had
Left their remarks.

Punt.

Oh the time is near, is very dear,
I can tell,
How the book is betting, my body’s sweating,
decibels.
Get the people next door, to mind my floor and
stairwell,
Fold my hair into place, out of my face,
as it gels.

I’ve upturned the big bed, banging my head,
nothing found,
Behind the wallpaper, and the drapes there,
hanging down.
In the piles of new shoes, cotton old blues,
lying round,
And so the stub forsaken, I’m mistaken,
for a clown.

Please don’t open the door, I feel quite sore,
in the light.
Hide my head in a bag; take in a long drag ‘til
air tight.
Collapsing near the wiring, wake up perspiring,
in the night,
I don’t gage no more now, forgotten quite how
to do it right.

Propagate scandal.

Handing me the stranded
Earth
Before today,
I was afraid for its
Collection.

But standing once I commanded
Life
Be on its way,
And raise itself towards
Perfection.

Profundity.

As deep
As dick fits,
And that’s it.

Processed matter.

The lesser of evils
And thinnest of veils;
The greater additions,
And fattest of sales.

The delays in agreement,
And slowest details;
The rushing of reason,
And fastest emails.

The slightest reprisals,
And weakest replies;
The greatest reproval,
And strongest denial.

The newest of summons,
And earliest aisle;
The oldest known omens,
And latest mistrial.

Perused.

We did feel safe amidst the elements
Of ancient Greek philosophers,
And abstract in expressing
The impressions they once offered us:
With feet of clay,
Thigh water line,
And breast ablaze,
Air swallowing.
Knee deep in earth,
Moist Venus mound,
Nipped solo flares,
Breath blowing sounds.
Hand throwing stones,
Sweat threatening,
Steam sauna moan,
Words getting in.
World undermined
By ice capped deeds,
And fire bright
Airlines.

Perfect quartet.

I need you to want me;
You do so needlessly.
You want me to need you;
I always want to.

Pensionary cruise.

The many gendered passengers
Ensured the manifest’s amendment,
Before embarking on their voyage
Of debauchery, so instead of showing
Deviants of every known profession
It declared a collection of defiant
Over eighties on vacation.
Afloat the vessel moved from bow
To stern with an alarming and
Concussive alacrity, feigning any
Obvious attempts by all involved to
Act octogenarian at all, and fore
Warning the first mate, who, upon
Searching, found the Master bollocks
Deep inside a tall hermaphrodite.
The ship was set adrift by all the crew,
Who threw their lot in with the mate,
And left to float along the current
Trend of its commuters urges,
Who were oblivious to anything that
Wasn’t contributing to their ends.
Suffice to say the vessel ran aground
Amongst the rocks beside the bay,
And when no account of anyone on board
Was forthcoming the boarding records had
To be used to identify the passengers, and
Eventually the bureau arrested every
Pensioner in the area on charges of grand
Parent larceny and worse than gross indecency.

Passé.

Did you ever compromise
Any choice that you made?
Wonder if you noted the change,
That the board had voted away,
Everything you ever held up to light,
Anything you ever thought water tight.
Common place or very sacred designs,
Memory takes a little while to decline,
Never being too aware of the signs,
Akin to your history and mine.

Pardon.

Tell me, once refreshed,
If you really knew the ancient
Planes of death.

Tell me soul of educated reels,
Of studied solitude and
Surveyed fields.

Tell me, saint, if thou art pleased
You were thrown aft
And soft released.

Tell me humanely if time will teach
That amnesty extended
Will have a goal to reach.

Tell me, wise one, if you care
About the leeward side and sad
Upended souls that shelter there.

Tell me, my love, was it really worth it:
To have endured my seed and not
Quite known the strength to birth it.

Painted Lady.

The bitch in the fixture
Was making the pace,
With acres of make up
Applied to her face.

She’d accused me of actions
Indecent and lewd,
In the first intermission,
With some ingénue.

So she made it her mission
To spruce up her part,
By the winning of sympathy
Upon the restart.

But her bib came unbuttoned,
Revealing to all,
A mistress of mutton,
Whose curtain had called.

So her cue cards were eased out,
Whilst my encore played,
And ran for all season
With a new protégée.

Out between work rounds.

He was as strong in the belly
To a well timed punch,
As I was soft in the middle
Of the day after lunch.

Our town races.

There are no models
In this town,
Or clothes whores,
Or even horses;
This is not that place,
Its where
Mismatched tracksuits
Sit on similar bodies,
And trainers
Never die.

Original thing.

Hearing your voice,
Herein my head,
Here is the news
Daily, it is clear to me.

Therein it lies,
There of our time,
They are, together,
Living it for real.

Fortunes happen,
Forever to,
Foreign objects
Clearly undeterred by me.

Whenever sorrow
Was wearing faces,
We were, somewhere,
Living in a dream.

Only me.

Fumbling for keys with numb fingers
until released from their chains
and flashed incorrectly into other
keys’ holes. Fast and snapped and
dropped in favour of sticks and stones
to break the windows bones with, as
words will never harm them. Falling
through broken glass and catching strips
of cloth and things beneath best not
thought of, whilst landing on your head,
and piling yourself up correctly to
fall once again. Scaring the dog in the
kitchen and likely as not the one in the
neighbours’, before scrambling on all
your fours to the foot of the stairs. Taking
them one hand, knee and ups-a-daisy at a
time until summited, and staking your
claim to the climb with a much needed piss.
Leaving a line of clothing for your missus
to meet, leading to the spare room,
where you wake up in turmoil in baking hot
sunshine that slams through the curtain less
window, and onto an unopened bed you don’t
recognize, before realizing it’s morning
and you’re home, once again, in one piece.

One today, forty tomorrow.

On her first birthday I sent
Her a packet of cigarettes;
A soft pack, of course, as I didn’t
Want her cutting her gums
On hard cardboard corners.

One night man.

I’ve shared many beds
With men and women,
Some without an equal,
In flat and house,
Town and city,
And all without a sequel.

One last message.

There will be news that calls for you
one day when you’re unavailable, and
turning to leave will lay upon your door
step a calling card accompanied by a single
rose. You’ll find the items on your return, but
forget them once stepped across your hallway
and left on the furthest table. The flower will leak
its ink onto the paper underneath, blurring the lines
of the message written there carefully, slowly going;
whilst the card will withstand a few more days alone,
until it too begins to break down into fibre on the
wooden surface it long ago sprung from.

You’ll find the place stained permanently long after
you’ve remembered that you once left something
there you found outside, but never know the
worthiness such tarnish used to colour or
even care enquiring. Covered in fine
linen it will be hidden and
rehoused by superstore
bought flowers more
in tune with what
you’ve come
to be.

Once by the sea.

Don’t imagine that it’s as real as it was anymore,
Though the shore is as long as it need be,
And the pebbles and shells
Will know my feet well,
And compel me.

Over looked by a cliff that has probably fallen
To the softening touch of the sea,
Where the shingle and shale
Will know my feet well,
And hotel me.

On the Edgbaston ledge. (08.08.05)

With the dazzling one prematurely gone
From the five day game,
Freddie had the treasure and required measure
To make for himself a name.
He was hitting sixes and picking up wickets
As easily as fame,
And the scene was set for chariots
To blaze their path again.

But on the fourth morning, as clear as warnings,
And closer than comfort allowed,
It was pin drop time, as the hour chimed,
And runs knocked back the crowd;
Whose hands were full of fallen skulls
And deals with God avowed,
As all was ending as unintended,
When suddenly, Jones, Bowden...

Old pea soup.

I thought my glasses had steamed up,
I took them off to take a look,
It seemed the sky had fallen down,
I streamed as though inside a cloud.
I moved as through a muddied sea,
With something desperate leaching me,
Roaming in strands and binding sight,
A foaming illusion on an unhindered night;
Bordered by an ordinary evening and morn,
And lasting much longer than dusks should adorn,
Threading so coldly between earth and air,
And treading through tweed until bare.

Old fashioned lover boy.

He was a great traditionalist,
Preferring old fashioned forms of love;
“Bend over you fucking bitch,
And let me give my boat a shove”.

Of course he knew the ugly sisters:
Misogyny and misanthropy,
But they never knew his whispers
Or his fantasies.

Though he had a tenuous grip on his life
As it was,
Without the onset of disease,
And he wasn’t about to evolve
Just because
A virus was doing as it pleased.

Off your belly.

The more feet you use,
In the art of pursuit,
The quicker your quarry
Will fall.

So replace the pace
You currently race,
And feel how much faster
You maul.

Of seasonal good will.

Woeful fallen all fruition once
Decisions rendered badly either
Highlighted or frightened it.

Though over optimism risen sought
Provision within courts of refuge
Once used solely for reproach.

And achievers levied even as
The heaving masses fled ever
Faster than collapsing systems.

The armies of alarm had garnered long
Ago a store of bottled water to
Allow a fast extraction.

Whilst stoics stockpiled for that week
And had to eat each other after
Only two days passed.

Not smoking also kills.

We know what would have
Come to Westminster;
What make of dust would
Have sifted passed crushed
And greased bone.

We see, as we should every
Winter, what’s done with
Dry powder, with paper
And plastic and lightning
Rod timber rhinestones.

We cheer in that manner
Of ours that’s winsome,
But forget in the face of
The pyre that the cause of
The quarrel was homegrown.

Not living forever.

Dope heads
And coke freaks
And ketamine snorters;
E boys
And heroines
With PCP daughters.

Muggers
And druggies
Imposing their tax;
Dealers
And wheelers
Selling you your stuff back.

Old souls
With habits
As bold as said thieves;
Middle aged
Managers
With weekend relief.

Youngsters
And younger
Prematurely stale;
The living
Reminders
Of unholy grails.

Not Bill. (E mail to Kev on 22.03.05)

Don’t go;
Just don’t,
And if you have to
Then don’t.
But if you do,
Go alone,
And at night,
When it’s closed
And light’s low,
And there’s no
Fucking parody
Man show
In sight.

No way to play.

He told her he
Was a terrible satyr,
But she replied
That it didn’t matter
As she’d played
Most kinds of guitar.

No sounds in town.

We followed the sprinkled signal
For as far as we could,
But the broadcast was lost
Not long after ourselves.
We sieved the airways
But to no avail,
Then decided to camp for the night
Before night pitched in first.
We rose in the morning
To a funeral siren,
But it wasn’t what we sought,
So we continued on,
And eventually found ourselves
Without that sound either.
In silence we hugged one another,
And saved our names
A voiced procession of well
Wishes and their blessings, these
Being the property of honest individuals
Respectfully discharged, and we
The tallied few who dared make our
March with those souls whose
Works did not require an uttering of praise.

No home guard.

So sweep the streets of litter: the
Greased and finger print proof papers
Still containing food stains in their folds;
The smashed glasses and throttled bottle
Necks pooling mouthfuls of liquor spat back
In defeat; the defiant cigarette buts as fixed
And permanent as hands hung limply from the
Picking and the passing of the baton, and each
Shiny trinket more abundant due to the lack of
Corvine birds which flew once funding slumped.

And whilst you’re at it sweep up the
Streets as well; scrape the surface of the
Road away, the pavement and its pith, and
Shred them for the skip man’s business plan.
Take away the houses stacked for the soldiers
Of the revolution, brick by picture sash window,
And replace these fairest breeding dens down in
The deep with walls that replicate them, but are
No longer terraced for their dwelling, as hygiene
Has been inflated with the status of house prices.

Nexus.

You need a live one
To work on
With finger nail pullers
When tackling
Fanatical
Foot soldiers and mullahs.

And black and white
Overnight
Clothes may be duller,
But it’s easier
To free them
Of unwanted colour.

Never ending parental duties.

When your bairns grow
They get old and go,
And you can get on with your life,
But all of a sudden
Grandkids by the dozen
Are dumped upon you and your wife.

Neglect full.

What use this life
If just for sake,
And pointless story making?
Binding moments faithfully, though
With loose recollection;
Too weak to lace complete but one,
Unless revealed interiors
Where nature wreaks it way through
Our apartment until done
But leaves well seamed our cover.
And what use this secured canopy if only to
Collapse under the void of our chronicle,
And be cast off else it reminds the left
Too honestly.
And when all our engine’s body works,
And soul and spirit bide a
Better purpose to
Support, then
What use this life
All if but to
Lose it.

Needer.

If it was up to me love,
I’d take you any place
Where you could be warm.

If I could make you see love,
You’d have a better view,
And we could reform.

If it’s a case of reason,
You’d let it fall apart
For me to mend it.

If in the face of reason
I’d strive to bend it back,
Would you extend it?

Narcissus bound.

I know
That I’m the finest
Person I’ll ever know,
Even if I do say so,
And all the
People who know me agree,
(Except the ones known carnally.)

Myth of children.

I will ask you
Quite reasonably
To shut your kids up,
Or I,
Unreasonably,
Will.

My unemployed thrombosis.

I’m losing
The use of my legs
As I’m lying
Too long in my bed,

And settling
My private frontier
Long after
Footprints disappeared.

More locks.

I’m not in a particular romantic state of mind,
And poetry and motion are reserved for those
inclined,
And lying in a bundle in a hammock is denied,
As rules and their conventions have been clearly
defied.

Moongoole.

To moon
We’re gone
To fall upon
Respected face
With tested pace.
A meal
Is made,
A maker paid,
For bacon back
And vacuum flask.
By morn
And more
We’re taken o’er
Yon eyebrows crest
‘Til fall and rest.
Then seeing
A vein
Where to find rain
We bathe a day
Then well away.
And by week
End
Happens the wind
To take our worth
And back to
Earth.

Miscarried East Midlands.

Eager,
Anxious and eager,
Over nervous and aflutter.

Apprehensive,
Unsteady and apprehensive,
Extra cautious and unsure.

Uneasy,
Easily uneasy,
Precarious and strained.

Restless,
Relentlessly restless,
And uncomfortable with it.

Troubled,
Ill at ease and troubled,
Unstable and insecure.

Ambiguous,
Certainly ambiguous,
And unpredictable enough.

Hesitant,
Definitely hesitant,
And unable to get out in one piece.

Middle class act.

Your avarice
Has made you rich,
But average.

Mentally challenged Archbishop.

They chopped off the top of
His head
And soup like scooped out
The contents.

Meander.

How great those late eighties albums
That shored me up through
Innumerable break downs;
Screaming from a beaten
Cassette player and escaping
Through permanently wound down windows
In the middle of winter.
Driven to distract me from whatever
Reality assailed, and allowing a
Cigarette crook’d elbow to rest
The weight of such burdens that kept
Me awake with all my tangents showing.

May.

Certain urban blossoms
Shed their essence in the evenings
For your pleasure in the break
Between birdsong;
Tendered by leftover daylight
Too keen for its own benefit and
Slipping from existence once again.
Handed to the still fall of
Nocturnal air and cradled
Gently to the local
Cobbled ground.

Max the lad.

He had the manners of a drunk,
When sober,
The aggression of the pissed,
When fought,
The odour off an ancient
Hobo,
The contrition of a fleeting
Thought.

The wardrobe of a straight
Man trying,
The hubris of a gay man’s
Pride,
The humour of a young man
Dieing,
The anxiousness of age
Applied.

The social skills of pupils
Playing,
The arrogance of teachers
Not,
The empathy of lads
Out laying,
The ugliness of England’s
Rot.

Marks out of men.

A colon was raised upon her neck,
And a horizontal dotted line with tear along writ under.
Speech marks were placed beside her mouth,
Whilst a bubble drifted up above as if to lift her
thoughts.
A question mark cornered each eye,
Which appeared to be the last things in need of
answers,
And two full stops beneath her nose,
As though her humours had dried up a while
before;
Around the time she’d found a laminate,
To cover and protect her from the erasure of my
light,
But once coated over,
She was unable to coordinate her loves with her
dislikes.
And so with a face of harshest white
She moved towards a type that could afford
her,
And finishing with words
Left her chapter without need of
puncture marks.

Manometer.

Grown sympathy
leant for the length
of an aisle
Returns vaporized
to its owner’s
life style;
The halls where the
muster of me take
the place
Of whispers once
saved for a worthier
case.

Man and the land.

Sleep
Sleep drink
Sleep drink eat
Sleep drink eat learn
Sleep drink eat learn smoke
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex earn
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex earn fuck
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex earn fuck drink
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex earn fuck drink sleep
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex earn fuck drink
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex earn fuck
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex earn
Sleep drink eat learn smoke sex
Sleep drink eat learn smoke
Sleep drink eat learn
Sleep drink eat
Sleep drink
Sleep.

Mad love.

How I miss our
Mutually assured destruction,
Causing swollen lips to rise,
And being unsure of whether kiss
Or beating fist was used to
Raise them; bruising burned around
The neck and unknown if fetish
Found or etched from some
Impassioned place.
Wrists and ankles chafed,
And all adhesive tape remains
Unable to be seen the same again,
Bound either in request or in restraint.
Broken bits and pieces,
Hits and misses?
Or tipped over by mistake
As the authorities were alerted,
And we unwilling to be parted.
I ache for it,
But only in the wake
Of our ageing.

Loving an old primate.

When he was younger
He was hung like a tripod,
Now he’s no longer
As strong as a biped.

Lost in Morzine.

Uphill full of hope and ill health,
And at crest for a decent last breath.
Downwind from the rest undiminished
Whilst mulling the length of descent.
Pushed well and plucked bare of mistrust
When manhandling crusts once refused,
And finding an uncertain edge
Much quicker alone than when led;
Concluding at ends unconsidered,
Complete with once lost confidence,
And realizing how easily rivered
When no other option was left.

London in July.

The bolster on the bed
Had fallen through the head board,
Which meant the lonely pillows
Had more labour than they hoped for,
And the two shapes oh so weary
Found less peace in their evening,
And did not enjoy the night
Or the next morning’s reason
As they were woken by the bad news
Of blasts all over town,
Which meant they had to rise again
Until the light changed round,
But their rest was less than easy,
As the heat condensed their stay
To a shared and soaking summer night
Of prayers for yesterday.

Lips serviced.

You were going at it
Stammering tongues,
And you had no
Air left in your lungs
As it was frothing up
Out of your face
With the syllables of
Youth’s bad taste.

Light ventilation.

Afraid of a tail wind prevailing
Too swiftly and leaving me in need
Of another sail, as I’m unable to rely upon
The one already unfurled because it’s
Been holed too many times.

Drinking at forty with the throat
Of an eighty year old due to consuming
Twice my weight in whisky, and
With the penmanship to prove it.

Transferring too much weight from
My back to my shoulders than is necessary
To feel the desired effect, and still with
Knees unbent and other bones having
To hold my rig together.

Feeding the antipathy not quite as
Fast as righteous men warn us against,
But still fleet enough to earn their dislike,
Although I thought I’d avoided it.

Close, but not breath bearing down
My neck, until I least expected it, when
My lungs were full of water on the side of
Pools I ought to have avoided, and brought back
Into the arms of everything I tried to hoop
Jump through.

Light it then leg it.

Feed the media
With something seedier
Than what they have on you,

Then flee the scene
Before there’s been
The time for two plus two.

Less men remain.

His last kiss lays upon my lips
And stays all else from brushing,
Its film informs my sponsorship
With colour fit for blushing.

His last smile lifts my sunken heart,
Adrift beneath the flood,
Its purpose beating to impart
The things he understood.

His last breath fills my empty lungs
For them to blow with ease,
Its fuel equal of the sun’s,
Expanding on the breeze.

Left in their own mess.

The French
Were defenceless,
And as everyone knows,
When France
Has no chance
It implodes.

Leader of the opposition.

He tried to hide inside himself
to avoid the noise he’d known,
but the violent island of his life
was too rueful to console.

Convincing him of winter things
he’d never covered over,
his foes left him believing
that his salient lines would suffer.

But friends battled for their bishop,
even when he wasn’t with them,
and furnished him with worship
in the worst moments of mayhem.

Kirsty and me.

When those huge present
Opening sessions of yore
Are over, for want of more
Padding, you’ll know your
Childhood’s end is due, and
All there will be for you
Is money well enveloped to receive.
Take it and make of it what
You will, but use your
Imagination well, until you know
How it was, and then ensure the
Connection works for you.
Never forget who you are
And what you have made of
Your birth, and never regret
The years you did not know its worth.

Jupiter and Mars.

In the summertime please be aware of the gut
Wrenching stench that overcomes me, and
Attracts comet like creatures to orbit between
My gas giant and your rock.
Provide a sufficient supply of older clothes
For my attire; ones with little need of figure
Or finesse, but with a parasite’s capacity to soak
Up more than sweat.
In the day don’t leave me to broil too long
In the sun once the bottle’s beer has fallen
Down my throat, and its glass smashed after
Slipping from my hand.
In the night ensure that I sleep furthest
From the window, and closest to the door,
And it’s best to keep a floor between us,
So open up the sofa bed.
And in the morning if I’m redder than any spot
Or more copper than your surface, and my
Satellites still here, then keep me closeted so
I can excavate my innards.
And if I’m still avoiding water like a rabid thing,
Then ring your mother and advise the situation;
She’ll lay down the law like a good goddess of
War should and condone space exploration.

Jaw opening awe inspiring.

It’s the angle of the
Letters in the words,
They have to lean differently,
Mean different.
It’s not good enough to
Pick them
From a book
Left open
For all to steal
Or rent.
They are not yours to
Bust or loosen as
The thread that
Connects them together
Never leaves itself
An optional use.

Jam.

Towards the end
He resembled a traffic light:
The first few weeks
He was coughing up green matter,
Which changed into a viscid brown
Before eventually turning red,
When everything stopped.

Invert.

His unbroken brow led to a
Less successful nose whose
Tip slid long from base and top lip,
Which itself barely registered being
Buried beneath a bee stung better half.
This ripened pout leant itself
To likenesses of surly types,
And was sourly allowed
To slither into chinless jowls,
Which no longer operated.

No throated neck was noticed,
Only collar bones protesting
At the weight of fallen assets,
And the whole damn mess was
Fastened to a fading chest,
Which heaved less rhythmically
Each passing week and slowly
Found itself exposed, as clothes
Unbuttoned evenly, and turned
Their insides out.

In the future the past looks presentable.

Every new one
Supports the last,
So the first can relax,
And the following
Completes the followed,
Until the stages are stacked.

Whilst a column
Is placed with a row,
And between them a graph,
Where the points
Are joined up with a line,
And the rises are mapped,

And are used
In the future to confirm
The tenure’s success,
Without ever realizing
That sometimes declines
Were oppressed.

In her ears.

I thought you were on tow,
You were that close
Behind me,
And I know it can be hard
For sweet hearts
To bind me,
As I make it my business
To generalize
My feelings,
And am cautious,
Almost nauseous,
When dealing
With undue haste,
Or rashly misplaced
Reaction;
Especially those moments
Of trailing
Attraction.

Impression of a desperate man.

He’d brought an
Assortment of shit in,
As he thought it
Important to fit in,

But was told
To withhold his appearance,
As it clashed
With her last lover’s clearance.

But Bringing
The thing in half full
Can directly affect
The results,

So he lay with
His luggage in boxes,
And succumbed
To her crumbs there by proxy.

Ides of March.

Wonder if we’ll ever see the year?
See it all way through.
Wonder if we’ll be holding on?
I hope for you.

Waiting within the wings,
For what?
Some kind of altruicity?
I pray for you.

Now that the ides of March
Has gone,
What else is there to worry me?
This one’s for you.

(I know your name.)

If it’s a choice
Of never knowing you
Against the cost
Of ever loving you,
Then I rather would endure the pain
Of being the one who knew your name.

I know you know my name

If you can wander
Through your solemn days,
Tracing the course of your life,
And find a time when
Your mind was all amazed,
Then that’s when I was your life.

I dotters and T croosers.

Bottom feeders and arse lickers
Stick together, don’t they;
Playing politics better than me,
And you as well probably.
Jobsworths and middle managers
All of them, and employed by directors
Who haven’t got a fucking clue;
Criticizing positions when they were
The only things complimented upon.
They squeeze any resistance
Possible from someone once
Assumed faithful, and accused me of
Swearing too much and having a
Bad attitude; fuck her and her
Posture, I hope her tits fall off.
Left me no other option than
To refuse a written warning
By submitting my own –
Basically: Stick your Fucking job
Up your arse. I felt better;
Lost my house and had to declare
Myself bankrupt for three years,
But I’m still here whilst they aren’t there.

Hunting season.

I have no tolerance for
Time’s horrors or
Its timid followers
Cornering the pick axe market,
And hollowing out
Frames of reference
Set in stone long ago;
They pass before
My eye line without
A puncture mark,
Or look in my direction,
As they know where
Not to linger.

Hundred years war.

There is where the workers toil
in steel and silver grey,
And here is where their bosses coil
themselves up tight all day.
There cock and duck and na’then thrive,
and creased blue collar wit,
Here bud and marrow bone survive,
amidst the art school shit.
Rare arctic primates roam the streets,
and Tinsley Park still works,
Whereas above there’s Prussian chiefs,
and brand new building perks.
For there is Sheffield in the hills,
with warrens for its labour,
And here is Leeds with trousered bills,
more Rome like than its neighbour.

Huge news.

It would appear that people
Who are constantly active
Are unable to do nothing,
Whereas the contented soul,
Holed up in his house,
Can’t be arsed to do anything.

How many givers does it take...?

The bright ones
Are the right ones
But there aren’t enough
To fill the trough
That turns everybody’s light on.

How.

I want to love you
More than I love you,
I want to do it now.

I want to feel you
More than I need to,
I want what touch allows.

I want to be you
More than I am you,
I want it to be true.

I want to free you
More than you are now,
I want to free me too.

I want to stand up
Higher than landscape,
Hindering desire.

I want to bankrupt
All of the thankless
Of their old supplies.

Home to seize her.

The sea carries
Upon the breeze,
The beach despises
The sea’s surprise,
The cliff tops trim
The beach’s brim,
The blackcap sores
On it’s applause,
The man on top
Makes the seagull stop.

The street for home
Is as straight as Rome,
The rain that falls
As strong as Gaul,
The crown he wears
Keeps the water there,
The king is back
To make his mark,
As sheets are spoiled
And women oiled.

Home to please me.

This book reminds me
Of a different time,
In the Mayday garden
Of a house once mine,
Grounds now removed from
Where I lay,
Not gone forever, though,
Just today.

Home help.

They plead
To be heeded,
Seeded
And fed.

We feed
On the pleading,
Heeding
What’s said,

And cede,
Once they’re feeding,
That pleading
Ahead,

We’ll heed
What’s been seeded
Once feasted
The pledge.

Hoe down low.

There’s a firm in China
Can bury cheaper
Than any shrine
Or western reaper,
So if you find you
Borrow steeper
Than any climb or
Bad book keeper,
Then with a miner,
Burrow deeper,
Than any kind of
Heavy sleeper.

Hit don’t kick.

It’s hard to crawl back
Once you fail,
So don’t fall,
Or be bowled over
Or struck out
Or assailed
By any batted ball,
Or use feet to foul back,
As those games
Don’t attract anymore.

Hindsight’s second theory.

Back is a place
Where I made some mistakes
That I’d like to re-make
‘Til they’re not.

Him.

In the forest,
There I’ll go;
Hallowed hole
Where I’ll live me.

In the open,
There I’ll be;
Shallower hole
Where I’ll love me.

In the ocean,
There I’ll swim;
Swallowed whole,
Where I’ll die me.

Hermetic.

There are enough people out
There to unintentionally piss off
Without doing so on purpose,
So don’t make me nervous
By saying I’ve done so,
Or I’ll have to live
Under the stairs
With my snipes.

Held up to the light of the levee.

When the forces of nature recall
the primordial fury of ruin,
And the law doesn’t care anymore
or is unable to halt its undoing,
Then the soul of the city is lost
to the jungle’s first rule of the fittest,
And the whole of the world counts the cost
and must humble itself to bare witness.

When the seat of an empire’s vacant
or its occupant less than unwise,
And defeat in the desert adjacent
to demands for a low income rise,
Then the worries of all the impassioned
are employed to prop up the sea front,
As the monies that should have been rationed
have been void under Middle East suns.

When the stars of the south are in shards
or bound up in the stripes of disease,
And America stands in its back yard
surrounded by its own refugees,
Then the heart of a nation is broken,
like the carnage left floating behind,
And that part of damnation awoken
that can damage much more than shore lines.

Hand made in England.

You roll your own like a docker,
And smoke like a cooker
With broken doors.

And you’ll take them if offered,
But you’ll never give others
A toke on yours.

Gushing.

My central emotional
Bubble burst,
And you felt it first.
Your uncommonly particular
Intuition failed,
And I was inhaled.
My essential bodily
Fluids coursed,
And you felt the force.
Your unusually buoyant
Condition drowned,
And I swabbed the ground.

Greenhouse affection.

My saviour and I
Strolled out of the yield
To a clearer path
Underneath spreading trees;
A familiar soldier
And a once unknown road
Held what faith between them
Was left to unfold.

In heather and wood fern
The edges dissolved
Until tangles of new shoots
Consumed every one,
Leaving only a freshly grown
Surface to meet
Our pace now attending
Comparative needs:

As my companion appeared
More easy than I,
And slowly allowed me
To outpace his stride,
Until only myself
And the vanishing route
Were left to encounter
The future’s pursuit.

Got you where you want me.

If you don’t
Need enlightening,
Who would know?
Not me babe,
Ain’t it frightening now;
So please say
If there’s anything
To tell me that I ought to know.

You can go
Through the elegance,
Of the day,
Genuine
In your ignorant way;
Just so long
As you feel it’s not
Important that I ought to know.

In the end
You’re conventional,
All the time,
Every day
You’re intentional too;
Let’s bequeath
All your history to
The nation and away we go.

Good to be me.

Or maybe love like a thing that has love,
And then know little of what
There is left.
Following a long girlfriend,
Waiting for a look to end,
What I know I know is no good but
There is something wrong with me,
Something like a tiny seizure,
Umbrella and a coat and
All the sea and all the sand
Await a new landscaper.

Now don’t you anoint like a pencil has point;
Don’t you expect like a mirror reflects,
Or maybe move like a thing that has moved,
And you know better than what
You should love.
Following an absent friend,
Waiting for their trail to end,
What I want I know is too much but
There is some surprise in me,
Maybe such the world can’t see,
I’m standing here to tell you all
To wander home and make from your wall
A gate for your escape.

Good credit record.

The trouble with me is that
I’ve got more sense than money,
And I offer my advice too freely.

This compounds the issue,
And is no longer funny,
As debt is surrounding me.

Gone south.

His over burdened mind
Was like the under London world,
With pipes and crowded lines
Crossed everywhere,
But the capital is a pot
That everyone has pissed in,
Where people are free
To aim and get missed in,
And so it was with his attempt,
Entwined with fair momentum
Until congestion
Closed him down.

Gone north.

Proper weather offered up
its sympathies in the face
of the fraudulent blowers
blustering around us.

It sent remorse in several
envelopes, to ensure correct
delivery, which once attended
to poured forth concern.

How lovingly it made its
message known and intentions
clear; how certain it was
that we did not approve the
current occupant, and sure
of its own succession.

It pulled us from the sulks
that we had stolen from
our children, and gave us
an honest optimism not
embraced for quite an age;

Boasting an exaggerated
coating of effacement, in its
workplace, it convinced us
of its worth.

Getting myself gone.

The ankle bone deep shadows
That you own
Are enough for me.

The chromosome wide fissures
You try to hide
Are the proof I need.

The militarized zone of
Your pubic bone
Is sufficient indeed.

The subway train smell that
You exhale
Is notice heeded.

Get him gone.

Best thing you could do to this man
Is peel and chip him,
Juice and pip him,
Render the rest,
And spend the profits.

Froydiddlyoydoydle.

A creeping thing
With crawlies in
Its fur,
As teeth baring
And tongue lashings
Occur.

That slouches red
And slumps once fed
To ground,
Where frog like legs
Ungainly spread
Around,

Then overturns,
And all relearn
A lesson,
It’s best to run
Once it’s begun
Digestion.

From Felixstowe.

There’s rheum in my eyes
And the sleep has been left out;
Feeling so forlorn
And mindful of my doubt.

Before I wear my clothes
They’re freed of any crease;
I lift their edges up
And places underneath.

Close all the doors tight,
And polish the impasse;
Let the world outside see
What’s beyond its glass.

The impact of an incident
Unfolding in the sun
Can begin to undermine me
Before it has begun.

Forgotten and found.

Bones had been stripped and cleaned
and classified well before being dog
thrown, and left to be discovered later
by any good pot hunter; though whilst
crunching underfoot the glass fragile
scraps of past adventures we still trod
lightly.

.......Earth being what it is, for safe
keepings sake, it worked its wonder
upon them; soaking instead of draining
them of significance. Dug whole from dirt
without shatter or tear or tooth mark
about them, and wrung viselike for the
shine of airtight cellophane things; not
bought in shops but efficiently ordered
to the door, and placed in front of eager
fingers to be opened with Christmas
morning zeal and mountain fresh upraised
faces. Although once emptied they were
handled too abruptly to last the morning
out, but all the same appreciated from their
grave by those without a stone to adorn.

Forgiven trespasses.

A figment of memory
Or shrill burning ember
Of fragmented summer
Untended.

Shrapnel well felt;
Distilled from events
And deposited when
Spent
Whilst staggering back
From the brink’s banks
That lack anything
Thankless.

Wired and tiring of whys;
Ready to compromise
And about to try
The tested
When gently, it’s there,
Without warning or fanfare,
And you cannot tear yourself
Away.

Footballer’s wife.

Soon you’ll be seen in the street,
With your night shirt on,
Dripping piss on the pavement
As your bladder will have gone.

First mate.

They say that every journey
Begins with the first step,
But this is useless without
A second to support it,
A back up adoring,
A coat holding
Sidekick confirming;
The next best foot
Forward,
The following
Stride,
The more reserved
Pillar of balance
Or the devil’s best friend
If the original’s path
Is offset by it;
So if you have
Any strength left,
Then take a step back.

First crash.

You were moving towards the
Eternal
Even before you moved,
Though I believed the texture
Of my hands
Would save you from arriving,
But in the event I overestimated
The power
Imprinted in them,
And you overshot your destination,
Unaware that the ground had run out,
Or that I had no spare skin to arrange
Your return.

First flight.

Some words like these appear flat,
But what about my memories,
Stolen, like as not by thieves;
But still
You should know the ropes by now,
Living as you do right now
Between the seasons,
At ease from me,
Where money lies,
On fizzy breeze.

Finished.

Finish the things you started darling,
Climb up here to me:

The future’s new
But I’m getting older,
My back is not as
Strong as it used to be;
I’m often tethered by strands of heather,
And my staff is no longer a tree.

The world is high
But I’ve being lowered,
The sky is not as
Clear as it used to be;
I’m easily feathered in unfair weather,
And my sight ain’t as far as I can see.

My mind is warn,
My emotions wasted,
My face is not as
Full as it used to be;
I’m held together with rope and leather,
But my life is to carry for thee,

So finish what you started doing,
Climb up on my knee.

Famous weekend breaks.

The booze fuse was lit,
And left to ignite,
The few who were fit
Danced on with delight.

The puce juice was spilled,
Like blood on the deck,
While crass glass was filled,
And thrown down the neck.

The sex texts unfurled
Were answered by phone,
By toy boys and girls
As young as their own.

Fair dodging.

Call me specific if you like,
And always contest me as you must,
But make your connections palatine,
As not only noble junctions seek your trust.

And hold the fast approaching apex useful,
Before the view has clouded your decision,
And convinced the unfair takers for you,
Leaving you to ride along another’s vision.

For I can only counsel you in outlines,
Whilst strangers will not share my enterprise,
Consigning you to windings more inclined
To cling long after you’ve arranged your ride.

Failed in love with me.

Every day
A different shade,
A familiar conventional warning.

Every night
A similar sight,
With neutral attention adorning.

And when the time to go
Has come before,
I have always failed to follow it,

But now the time to go
Has come again,
And I’m prepared to honour it.

Exterior decorator.

He treated you like an under side
with ground in filth and hanging strands
of dried things planted there to veil their
dreadful sight.
But you were shy of this design;
kept in the darkened places he created
out of ordinary interiors, and adorned with
piecemeal furniture that he had grouped
to suit his purpose.
Being aware of your surroundings but not
informed of their condition or the pain of angles
squeezed into planes unused to them, and bolted
to restrict return;
Twisted into other shapes’ existence to confirm
the full unnatural ambit of his state of urgency,
and especially for you to feel less comfort than
accustomed to.
Shadowed but not so much so as to distort
completely all the lines of walls and doors;
all inclines without concealing their distress;
all the softness of the bedding whilst inuring
him below and the tip of your appointment
without fully understanding what was going
on beneath.

Evolvers.

A plague of individual sheep
Is upon us,
And there’s nothing
More dangerous
Or honest.

Evensong.

That poor little swimmer
Had a bowl of shark fin soup
Before his late afternoon dip,
And was too full to see the
Selachian astern that ate him;
Blessed are the lessons that are
Learned before vespers.

Even.

Fool let me shelter your
illusions for you and taper
fair replacements for abuse.
Send me your expectations
and I will matchstick box
them for their striking.
Let me set your captured free
and fill their cells with
less willful needs,
and confirm your roots
before cold animals collect
them for their roofs.
Give up your yearly mention
and let God receive it from
me, strengthened,
and achieve what service
of contrition has the length
to save a shadow of yourself.
Allow me to fortify your stockade
doors in order to protect them
from the pressure of it all,
and forge from the degrees
of your world a purpose
to preserve.

Entwined.

So they purchased the steel,
And the horse power’s oat meal,
And clearly laid out the facts:
The helicopter
Would adopt a taut line
Whilst hoisting,
One piece at a time,
All the apparatus
And swift calculators into place,
Where together they’d cover
The roles of the lover
And the leaver who could not subtract.

Entrenched.

Less than one year on
And my tin foil thin
White gold wedding ring
Has dug itself in
Around my finger,
And will not be removed;
More a part of me
Now than you.
But as slight as it is,
It’s all the proof
I’ll ever need to
Remind me to
Keep my head
Down.

Engineering resigned.

One minute it was working
As it always had,
The next it wasn’t
As it never did,
Powered as ever was
With nothing undone,
Buttons switched on
And leads plugged in,
All lights flashing
In correct succession,
But nothing emerging
Upon closer inspection.

Engineering design.

My exhaust pipe is
Pumping out curious smoke,
And I know I’m not
Electing a new pope,
So there’s something
Right wrong with my vehicle,
Or the injections
I gave to its fuel,
Or it’s maybe to do
With my reasoning
Of technical things
Learnt at evening school,
Or it could be my
Biology lesson
Was taught by an
Unqualified person.

Easter.

The treason
Of the season
Is sedition,
A favourite
Of our saviour’s
Position.

Ease out.

There will be no peace will there?
No rest for me.
Amidst the gaming of the day
Results remain,
But have no effect upon my outcome.
The frame resists
As pictures change within,
But still convey
An image’s consistent message;
Sometimes left,
And sometimes right, but always
Up above the
Point of most resistance, where
Sleep pursues
Unloved, unused to fools like me.

Dredging up.

Everything by the book,
Except the words themselves,
Which left to find an author to
Enlist them.

So deferential hooks
Were swept beyond myself,
And snagged upon an artist’s true
Existence.

Now every little look
Is kept upon my shelves
In case I needed another view’s
Assistance.

Draft excluder.

Now the dust behind the doorway
Must be thicker than it was when
It was open,
For I know it levers inwards
But I cannot push against
Its closure.

And I’m told it isn’t locked
And that the room is bare of
Any trappings,
Having been appropriated
By the house clearance
Contractors.

And there are no people in there
Or I would have heard them call
Once shoved against;
So unless they’re dead and propping
Up the door I’d best assume
That no one’s present.

And the landlord isn’t helping,
As he’s left me all alone
With idle hands,
And I’m feeling rather certain
That the door will only give
To devils’ work.

Down by Primrose Valley.

A cloud drifts calf high from
The approaching snake of dry
Sand rising from the beach;
In sudden bursts it nips up
And bites your face before
Gently settling behind you.

You take the opposite direction,
Into town, and follow only
Coasts that warn of their approach.
Over tidy inclines and in and
Out of little stores; leaving as
The shore resolves its business.

Up rising steps eroded by
The wear of generations old
Approval, until home arrives;
A little caravan of privacy
Where youth can find the
Time to age in peace.

.....and Mary and me.

No mother ever loved a son so much,
But then
No son ever had a mother such.

Douglas and me.

Creatures on show
Are not compared to each other,
But their measure,
And my measure
Was my father,
To whom no man compares.

Don’t go learning daddy's bad habits.

I will say for you
All the things you dare not,
And take for you
The risk of being caught.

Debenture bond.

How strange the world is
And its changes:
My sister’s children,
Whose father left,
Bear his name;
Whilst my child,
Whose father left,
Bears mine.

Crazy John.

He could talk the knickers of a
Ninety year old,
But his work with frozen chickens
Still did not establish whether he
Was a giblets in or out kind of man.

Couldn’t understand the options.

Thank you for calling and please
Take one of the following options, press:

1. For a hand grab,
2. For a blow job,
3. For the full works,
4. For the back door,
5. For a quick fix,
6. For eccentric or
7. To talk to an operator dirtily.

But please be aware that you may
Be recorded and used in our latest commercial.

Contagious arrangements/

Sharp scraping edges everywhere;
Chiseled teeth and nails
Used as though gutting something:
Hooking,
Fleecing,
Plucking,
Easing hair away from skin away from
Flesh and bone until heart pierced.

In between tender caress
That, once revealed, condemns me
To another volley’s hail;
Making,
Pressing,
Taking,
Dressing up as affection over anxious
Panic and fear until appeased.

Contact lens.

Oval eyes
With solid whites,
And firm outlines,
Shine out from their position.

Unfolded lids
With equal sides,
And lashes without
Need of any crescent.

Focal length
With deepest well,
And no defence,
Alights upon its purpose.

Opposing eyes
Of high azure,
Receive your sight
Without impediment.

Conclusive proof.

You like your seafood platter,
Whilst I take my fish in batter.

Concentrated English at the Modern School.

It made you sit up straight and crystallize
Those wriggling things into butterflies,
That inevitably entered your cavities
In his presence.

So you focused what you could attentively tune,
As he spoke to the class, but you thought only to you,
About how you were not to be taught by the spoon
In his lessons.

And in time you agreed that his methods were sound,
As you learned more than all of the others around,
And realized you were one of the lucky who found
The one and only Mr. Evans.

Compo nation.

You owners of wealth
Afford more and more health,
Whilst the poor
Must make do,
And are forced to sue you,
Using only your guile and their stealth.

Coming out.

All removed from reality
and fallen from story time,
All internally search engined
and far away glazed eyed.
All soup kitchen altruism
and winter stock piling,
All definite advocates
and jury enquiries.
All children adorers
and baby sit finders,
All cared for the elderly
and karma reminders.
All vendors of instance
and future franchisers,
All buyers of dreams sold
and tired improvisers.
All globetrotting veterans
and air crash survivors,
All clients of faith clubs
and slaves to devices.
All hot politicians
and coolest conspirers,
All forsworn blood suckers
and clandestine vampires.
All tree slumbered monkeys
and ground hopping mice,
All recognized hunters
in gathered disguise.

Chucking back flak.

The town had not seen
A blackout like it
Since the Second World War;
He wasn’t just drinking,
He was setting a score.

Can’t swim won’t swim.

You think you’ve got it
But you haven’t,
You think you’re on it
But your not;
You better watch
As it unravels
And begins
To turn and clot.

Because you’re dreams
Have been impinged on,
And contracted
Actual woes,
As their seams
Have all been singed off
And attracted
Undertows.

And you can’t move
Ever inland,
Growing higher
Than the ground,
For the ditch has proved
Resilient
In its desire
To surround.

Business assistants.

The weeks are speeding by,
And we’re no further down the line;
Indeed we appear to be behind
The times.

And the distance has been ordered,
And our efforts well accorded,
But our progress has afforded
No reward.

So either pace will need increasing,
Or our burdens some releasing,
Otherwise we’ll be appeasing
No timepiece,

And we’ll have to let it by us,
And sit idly compliant,
As our wonderful alliance
Takes offence,

And leaves us in the distance
Where it found us in the first place,
With our bluster and our business
Unconvinced.

Burgeoned.

Men made war
Until those fought
Were smothered,
Then paid for more
Upon the shores
Of others;

Helot of death
And its process
Of vesture,
Until the breath
Of loss arrested
Lustre.

Passed closeted
And those widespread
Completely;
The fastest dead
And those festered
Discretely.

Brokered out of peace.

Too awful to be,
And increasingly
A disservice;
An ill prepared quarrel
Regardless, but started
On purpose.

Though lawful at first,
And logically versed,
It defaulted,
And out staying its welcome,
And freeing old venom,
It halted.

Reshuffled and shaped,
And urgently draped
With investment,
It couldn’t persuade
The natives to change
Their assessment.

Broken into peace.

If I ever find whoever did this
Then nobody else will,

Bits and pieces will bare witness
To the alarm of being still.

Brand New Britain.

Several more laws to endorse
Before leaving,
And further rewards to ensure.

Certain new layers to enforce
The old evening,
Which is long overdue for renewal.