Category: Just stuff

parts of old poems now presented as one


dizzy sick 

I drove away from city number 2 got diverted through a town where they molest children and some fly flags bigger than football pitches
false feelings of patriotism for a country that never really existed

photos on the floor of ex-couples cut in two and eaten by rabid dogs

I had to get out of that town

but all roads were blocked

all these hours travelling centrifugally

I vomited a dizzy kinda sick


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

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 

longest January 

everything was damp 
kids in massive coats
lost gloves litter the floor
the trees all look pathetic 

naked and shivering

 – de-robed of splendour 
not looking their best 

not looking like their summery selfs 
all colourful and glorious 
   with birds tweeting in their branches 
       the only birds I see now are high in the air
black specks

like shadows on a cancerous X-ray 
circling above