Category: Automatic writing

parts of old poems now presented as one


automatic writing to and from an interview 


taxi with Mohammed who tells me his other car is a Porsche 

but he can’t get the car to move

he tells me it’s something to do with its memory

or the cold weather 

                                  he’s not sure 
later on a man walks past me who looks like Lenin
the train smells of coffee and aftershave and someone softly taps a keyboard while a woman in silver shoes applies make up badly as the train wobbles through the Pennines and a backdrop of industrial units and disused mills 
  my stomach is empty and rattles

  my stomach is empty and rattles 
( if the oil solidifies in the compressor ) 
( who doesn’t like the taste of beer? )

( I liked him till he told me to fuck off )    
( people want to trust

 big companies )
( take your personal belongings with you )

    in another taxi and on the left a church which is older than some countries 


I think I’ve given a bad impression of myself I didn’t use my words correctly 
heading towards a skyline of glass


a cats cradle of tramlines overhead cuts the sky into grids and along the embankment 

along the train sidings  

     •a rusted pram

     •stained mattress 

     •broken stuff that once had meaning 


cuddling with deaththe story of a boy from Florida who was eaten by an alligator 

and grew up in his belly

prison bar ribs 

– he feasted on undigested carrion 

and used a kidney for a pillow 

– his parents cried every night and held vigils next to swamplands

– they sat in garden chairs with a candles in their hands buzzed by fireflies 
when the boy grew he would lay in side the alligator and look through his triangular teeth at the world outside 
one day he crawled from within
walked home 
kissed his parents 
sold his story to the local news 
his father found the alligator and shot him right between the eyes 

people don’t like poetry

when it comes to poetry people run a mile ITS JUST SENTENCES CUT INTO SHORTER SENTENCES

someone shouted at the recital



“I’d rather crash my car into a

wall then read poetry”, your brother said before he was taken away

and outside the library the cars pile up their fenders hanging like frowns

broken lights and hot air whooshing from tyres

I am a shit renascence man

some children lean like saplings

bent, blank and thin like sheets of A4 paper

holes in their teeth

empty black spaces


and then some children just look like scratches on a painted horizon
still and motionless

she stepped close to me

I heard her lungs rattle

a deathly black rattle from

damp lungs deep with under her skin

the petals fell off the flower

one at a time

one by one

and that cloud that floated overhead resembled Elvis

I awoke in the lost room

I had doubts about everything

emy poems were found lacking

my photographs were out of focus

the subject matter weak and trite

– someone said BLAND

– my drawings were childish scrawls

what I gained pleasure from was rejected by others
dismantled like a child’s toy

boxed up and stored away for the winter

I am a shit renascence man

post title here

after two days in the trench I put my head over the parapet and they clean shot the cigarette straight from my lips


                mud and grime 

                drying to cement 

 in my head 


          I returned home at night my wife said I’d changed 

I was beginning to fade 

to a grey facsimile of the person she fell in love with

— drained and washed of colour 

a slow death in front of spreadsheets 
I still hadn’t written that novel 

or made it to the edge of the continent 


     and in this new landscape

 it was so easy to get lost like the blind tourist who touches his way around the world 

    finds his way back home by following the smell of cinnamon 

    the roar of traffic won’t put him off

    the Doppler wail of the red fire engine moves around him 


like flowing water 
       milky ovaries and we smoked autumn leaves in those days that failed to appear on a calendar and the lunch time barber found a secret door in the back of my head
unlocked and looking in he advised me of what he saw

500 families and forgotten memories and posters of David Bowie 

I paid and left and made an appointment to return in a month