Wednesday, 30 March 2016


Aside from machines designed to kill 
there’s nothing more terrible than a doorbell. 

Shall I stay here, hope that whoever it is decides to go away? 


The person on the doormat always knows: 

can feel the presence of someone trying 
to still their breathing 

Will circle back again, 
maybe take a look through the window 
or ring the bell three times longer. 

Whatever: they won’t go away and anyhow, 
it doesn't feel great creeping around 
like a thief in your own living room. 

Not that there’s any skullduggery going on in here. 
Just this notebook and pen.

Tuesday, 29 March 2016

Bonfire Of Vanities

High trees whisper 
spokes of sticks 
smoke and ash.

A life lived with no mirrors 
improves all of our looks.

Monday, 28 March 2016

Cloud Watching

Water and vapour,
the cloud 
is like a 10,000 
piece jigsaw puzzle: 
with time, 
the seemingly impossible 
will fit together 
an eagle, a dragon
to make a picture.

Friday, 25 March 2016

In This Way

Another turn of the red dial
brings green perfume 
in a crystalline phial.

A blue van coasts down the lane. 

The driver, in candy stripe cap, 
wears a brass belt buckle 
that depicts a horse 
with flowing mane. 

In this way, (perhaps)
winter lets go
of the frosted reins.

Tuesday, 22 March 2016


Some use a pen; I come at it with a sledgehammer. 

In rumpled suit with an oriole of sweat on his forehead, shadows at his armpits, the man keeps 
on following, 

charcoal jacket drapes his shoulder, burrs speckle his trouser legs. 


turn in with a dead feeling that can only be partially escaped by the killing of the light, 
nicotine no longer connecting synapses, just serving to further erase…

However hard this journey he sticks with me.

Wednesday, 16 March 2016


Snow, the enhancer: optimum medium for raising the ghost
tangoes with the whip-snap wind in the twilight walk from the churchyard.

A triplicate figure appears

one after the other after the other, in a Doctor Who regeneration. 

The arrow falls 
wide of the heart. 

Saturday, 12 March 2016


The need to impose some kind of order, although impose is, perhaps, too strong a word here. Nonetheless, it is difficult to play tennis without a net. 

Logic, if that is what it is, steers your car into a cul-de-sac. You still half-expect to see the blue car on the drive: the blancmange pink curtains in the upstairs window instead of the cloud transfer on blank glass.

Headlong bull-at-a-gate won’t help you here. The pond in the bracken, sunlight making gold snakes in the tarry water, you stretched out on your belly lying on the jetty scooping a handful of dripping green algae. 

Thursday, 10 March 2016


Film loaded, 
ready to be wound on.

Something going on here,

a momentum where the destination 
is naturally uncertain 

(and desirable all at the same time)

sabre tooth shoes keep traction
until the blur adjusts to recognition

sky, white as coconut flesh
although the sun went west 
long hours ago.

Reassembling becomes a further unravelling.

Monday, 7 March 2016

The Foresters

leaves veer, 
dart from the flames, 
some spark - 
others burn 

(in the shape of a heart)

too many pictures here to compute
except the yellow apple, 
the pale pear

green fire, leather-studded
coach and horses

candlestick bric-a-brac
the ghosts with white moustaches

tobacco clouds

out at the elbows farmers
long before the camera
the clock in the grandfather
the easy defeat

of this sun den simulacra 

Thursday, 3 March 2016

The Tears Of A King

The century
won’t hold all of the story
in the half sweep of a movie

see… the celluloid raconteur ends
the stage, the bones.

I sip my pre-dawn elixir and ponder explosions. In particular, the words of a white-coated witch. Her spell bubbles in a cauldron, and when it is done you will seal the deal with the silver blade of ice and place the tip on a burning lightbulb.


You face your face in a circular mirror. Rub at a dry patch of dead skin. It peels away to reveal a patch of powder blue.


Slow train a’coming. The men laying down the tracks, the iron engine with grinning cattle fender crossing the sand.


The working man’s gymnasium is a crowbar, a lump hammer. The work is heavy going because the blueprints are blurred and the brain is in at least six places at once.


Morlock Oil

Morlock Oil
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The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
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