Wednesday, 26 October 2016

The Great Escape

Coming back to hear

from clandestine 

She dances a delicate dance
precision movements 
that tack
one moment to the next

Wake with a tune in your head

try and remember
try and remember

Silvery, the stuff of moth wings 
sounds like water…

Shake its powder 
from the lining of your pockets
the cuffs of your clothes

try and remember
try and remember

pin down the lines
for the future

Saturday, 22 October 2016

A Poem Made With A Fret Saw

Fret saw of thoughts set in permeable compartments

bungle body a shimmer of gold
gilds the thunder
scintillations of the storm

spirals lift
each sound
into a sea that 
becomes sky


strange buildings like white cubes with shadowed archways
in far off cities white, white bones and stones

the helter-skelter shock of looking down
on your own body

as black wings spread over the white mountain
gold and brass sunsets

remind you
of the planet you once called home

Saturday, 15 October 2016


You hear a music in the fire, feel the heat from a blaze of chords -
warm your bones to a song in the flames, a song that confounds 
and calls for a moment of being brazen - who dares enter this white 
circle? Black guitars so close to the flames the sound boxes  start to blister 
(smoke exhaled in the key of D and talk of shakers, the roll of drones -) 
a brazen blister of sound and the fire grows, spreads ink black wings 
with shadows - like interlocked hands - that char the canvas walls.

Sunday, 9 October 2016

Two Guitars

You learn to assimilate distractions here: 
the click clack of flip flops 
in the quiet times you try to think - 
the space in your head clear as a bell 
as three circles calcify 
into the sound of two guitars.

Monday, 3 October 2016


Photo: Su Joy

Mesmeric, the elastic stretch and slinky spring compression of a white accordion with a silver plate that hosts a constellation of black holes, the wheeze of the tune as the plate turns gold in the firelight accompanied by the drone of singing until we finally fall into sleep like children in a forest crib. 

I keep my appointment with the dawn, gun grey sky and no knowing, too early to tell in this circle of hill, which is north or south. 

Later, a cluster of tents and flags and streamers - a sort of cross between a war time field hospital and knights of old jousting festival. 

Tired, unshaven men sealed in cars, each responsible for his own tribe within a temporary tribe, Smart phones plugged into cigarette lighter sockets engaged in an exchange with the outer world, none of us quite ready, brave enough to make a clean break of it.

Photo: Su Joy


Morlock Oil

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The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
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