the first egg 

embryonic chickens inside perfect shells that are as fragile as a babies skull 
– I have nothing but respect for the first man who saw a chicken pass an egg 

and then thought 

“I’m going to eat that”- 
good lord that man had guts 
and a brain full like a filling cabinet with topics called;

-school memories, June – August 1986

– favourite albums 

– conspiracies theories of North Korea 

– etc etc 
he knew the lucky ones were mainly white and born into privilege and wealth

(an ugly chasm was beginning to open up, nasty and brutish)
    sneaking away, a few hours after the curfew you could hear the loud music 

it stayed with me for days 

a constant hiss

I pushed ear plugs in 

I pushed them so deep my eyes became dislodged 

I could see round corners 

I could read two pages at time 

one eye for each page
it was a useless skill
I added it to the list 


chewing over the word tundra 

   weather report advised me of danger 
cold fronts and Siberian winds

– ships blown off course 

Rockall, NE Atlantic 
  – – artic explorers with stalactites of ice hanging from their beards

a backpack full of tins and powdered food –
constant dreams of warmth 

constantly thinking of the colour red 

– chewing over the word TUNDRA 
the weather reports segues into

constant re-runs of 1970s cop shows – 

cars crashing through cardboard boxes 
–the trees outside bend like a contortionist 

extract from a diary 

an uneventful train journey through a landscape of  wasteland & acres being developed barns and silos cows standing meaning rain &

empty roads and church spires that disappeared 

into the past that is over there
and all the people outside looked small faceless blurs as if sketched in a study called

people in the distance drawn at 100mph

and I arrived and went underground

where physical money isn’t recognised
I re-surfaced and it was cold
I then meet two friends 

one I hadn’t seen since the funeral of another friend

who had been blown up by a badly wired fridge 

and who who cremated by a Buddhist priest

and his ashes were flown home in a plastic box 
we drank and left to go to a concert

and we saw a car crash of bent metal &

police sirens screaming everywhere 

and homeless folk asking for change 

while telling us rehearsed stories of their chequered past 
and the concert was fantastic 

and it’s been playing through my head looping over and over 

and there’s some footage on You Tube
& since then my dad asked me “who did you see” and I explained

you wouldn’t heard of them and he said I was probably

right and we talked 

and we said good night

free verse 

        the promenade stretches along his field of vision


like a school text book on the first day of term

      the sky is grey the floor is grey with old chewing gum glued to the surface and the angry sea is grey and the fisherman sway like they’re listening to a ballad at a concert 
     the world looks like an elephant 
              & the weather means everyone has retreated indoors

         &. the local council want to legislate the towns magicians 

to follow a single code of practise 
   (precise measurements of top hats 

from which they will be allowed to pull identical rabbits ) 
    & when the thaw comes we will walk in the wet world

down streets with human names 
   & and the kid on the bus

takes aim and shoots me with his imaginary finger gun 

little Lee H O

Lee Harvey O smelling of cordite

Lee Harvey O reading dense Marxist tracts 

discharged Lee Harvey O cold in the Great Soviet Union

Lee Harvey O in Mexico
Lee Harvey O in Cuba

Lee Harvey O in two places at once

communist Lee

wife beater Lee

– a loose thread on the jumper of history – 

Lee Harvey O pictured in 1993 in a Nirvana tshirt in New Orleans –

– little Lee O 

masquerading reality with parts falsified 

 O’ Little Lee falling down a wormhole 

con artist 

a con artist in the big house

   the tiniest hands the easiest of crimes 

  a stolen nation

stored rock by rock in safety deposit boxes 

above him

out of his league
toss him through the window

leave him at the side of the road 
into a pile of plug in girlfriends

discarded as hard to clean for  

fear of damaging conduits and coils 
that hiss 

and fizz and the sound of a can of Coke opening is the sound of Satan leaving your soul 
said the priest 
the church of Coke: 

artistic glass bottles of the 1950s 

shaped like woman you wanted to fuck