Category: picture

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

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 

homage s.24

helicopter over a smokestack spitting out a bilious tar 
your face is beamed on to the moon
– clothes : models own


the clouds are gathering from afar
verdant Albion where the street fighters kick 

full of knife victims &

lottery winners 
in the snipers scope 

in the snipers scope

            bellicose eyes 
the sick clog up the corridors
              the submarine remains 

a submerged skeleton capsule 


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