Sunday, 26 July 2015

A Year In A Day


Friday, 24 July 2015

This Is An Emergency

A picture postcard blue sky. The sun is one big infectious smile. Heavy traffic on the dual carriageway. A BMC ambulance doodles along in the slow lane comfortably observing the speed limit. The ambulance crew are in a relaxed mood, the shift over for the day. ‘Better get our skates on, Bert’, the man in the passenger seat says. Bert nods and presses the switch to set the blue lights flashing and the siren ringing, the old two-tone dee-dah that existed before the emergency services decided to go all American. Bert pulls out into the fast lane and puts his foot down as the other cars slow and filter left to let the drama pass. The 1974 FA Cup Final, Liverpool vs Newcastle is due to kick off in twenty-five minutes and Bert’s wife has put a chicken in the oven. 

Tuesday, 21 July 2015

Airfix Glue

A plan can be comforting. Components sketched with black tipped arrows pointing to the place where it yearns to go. The whole is bewildering so you take it one piece at a time until the design starts to fall into place. The toxic glue sticks to your fingers. The whorls of your fingerprints get etched into the congeal of peel. Scaled down paint pots set out on the table, the oddly satisfying sensation of prising the lid with the tip of a negative drive screwdriver. 

Paint and glue, open a window! 

You follow the puzzle. Fatal to panic, if you bypass any stage without maximum concentration, try to speed beyond being in the moment you’re sure to have a botched job on your hands. 

The days do not come in a cellophane wrapped box with a folded insert of paper. No ready made sketch to follow. 

Maybe we should sit round the table and think about this for a while.

Saturday, 18 July 2015

The Long Windows

The mannequin wears a Virgin Airlines air hostess uniform with a badge depicting a single feathered wing and heavy buttons that may well be genuine brass. There’s already a certain museum credibility surrounding the uniform. The mannequin doesn’t have a head.

On the other side of the room, a heater/cooler/evaporator contraption that has a vent and cylindrical body suggestive of a Dalek. 

A white carpet with several inches of pile and Venetian blinds – also white. The windows are long slots and the glass is like water in a river. There is further greenery outside so it is difficult to tell where outside begins or ends. 

A bearded man sits in a wicker bucket chair watching a round TV like an astronaut’s helmet. He leans forward, props his head with his hands in the manner of the thinker.

Now to sit for a while, gaze out of these long windows. 

You, the observer, have no idea what he’s thinking. He could be planning dinner or murder.

Imagine no-one could interrupt you again. 

That you could go on sitting by these long windows following your own thoughts forever.

Friday, 17 July 2015

Curmudgeon Man And The Old Car Barroom Routine

Drives over sand, 
through the watching dark.

An agile moon laughs up  
peroxide gloom.

The call of the boredom 
results in slow cigarettes

and fifteen minutes 
of Facebook fame.

Saturday, 11 July 2015

Another Ace

When you are rooting for your hero to win
watching tennis on television 
is almost as exhausting as playing. 

Hold your breath, 
will he hold his serve?

He goes for the break.
You still forget to breathe. 

On your feet, 
did the ball cross the line? 

The players take a break, wipe sweat
from their brows, 
guzzle water, slurp strange juices 
from foil tubes.

You pace the lines of your living room
wipe sweat from your brow
take a loping stride into the kitchen
drink a whole sky of water.

Maybe if I stop watching…


This is it. Now or never
everything hinges on this point.

You try telling yourself 
that whatever the outcome
life will go on just the same 
simultaneously convinced
that the power of thought 
will result in another ace.

Which it does. 
It always does.

Tuesday, 7 July 2015

Leaving Town

The moon is an orange transfer on teal blue
A man sees his own face in a train window
The life left behind, the future fragile

The moon is a teal blue transfer on orange.

Sunday, 5 July 2015

Clouds Of Quartz

Clouds of rose quartz enhance early Pink Floyd records.
A sea of green leaves hang from a teal-blue rotary 
washing line: weird antennae to collect signals 
from spacemen who wear immaculate snow white suits.

For days now I have been running a fool’s errand.
Perfectly timed messages give a benign twist
to the phrase world wide web.  A grinding like a worn 
shock absorber in my left hip, a loose wire in my back.

Thursday, 2 July 2015


Sighing in the trees mimics the dreamer’s breath. 

Conversations wear the clothing of memory
the colour of an idea. The afternoon sky 
rises on rolling wheels above a park subway.

Colours in clouds shake the leaves 
invisible trees threaded with weather.


Morlock Oil

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The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
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