Saturday, 13 October 2012


Three words fell from the tongue. It took
A lifetime of enunciation to get them right.
A flurry of fingers, detected a fight
It was war.
Within her own mind, affection evidently
An insomnia
Of some kind or other, she concluded
Chin at the wick of the candle
To watch the skin shiver.
She imagined herself
Suspended in beauty
For an instant. Her rounded howl
Closed in on the night
 A Melancholic abstinence she dried
Through fear, every lock of her hair.
Why wonder, they told her
As withered flesh parted, envisaged
The chisel crunching the calcite
Wrapped round the heart.
Or even the needle, was good for her
Slipping the face shut beneath its black chiffon.

It was all part
A mad assembly, tinged with religion
For a minute, in the hours the historian will look back
And grimace. Open mouthed idiocy
At the last woman
And the love they tried to replace with dashboards and pistons. 

Sunday, 4 December 2011


Whilst a-wefting woe on woodlands edges
Your cold curtained breath across the breeze
Slipped to speech, aligned in misty wedges
Salt blistered hopes across the seas.

Each floss and cream of night-time airing
Became the treasured touch of empty hands
Instead fixed in skin, sun-spots layering
Which you had plucked from day and brought to land.

O! But how grey were the copses features
Which lit, the candle coiled within your flesh
Ringed the clean smooth bodies of love’s creatures
And crossed upon their path, aligned to death.


Collected in some correlation
The wild refrain-refracted night
Laid in your eyes – and there again
Brindled, burnt in rings upon a sky.
Were they angles - well?
What would matter
The mind in each inhuman crease
And sealed the wax which went to suffer
Upon mere two, their wicks still weep.

A pulse in tail of pastures heavy
Porous, poised beneath the siege
A stumbled act, in wet wool spinning
Sinew backwards into ends of sleep.

Trails of life aligned between the bough-heads
We crushed whole, in palms of liquorice leaves
Untouched – the mixed jet juice
Of man’s own myth
New veins below the opaque sleeves.


The stale shrew shrunken
Like breadcrumbs, spit-ball-bathed pale
On a pavement, half-opened
Pulse glut grimace failed.
Your shame. Our words once
Woke illocutionary, littered each other
Lusting for blood, when surveillance suffered.
My nails on your cheek
Chastised chinks in the wood, as if adjoining
The vice of your heart, and the mind of the other.
In blood, or

Perhaps it was gold. But you were ashamed
My face failed you
Bitterly, the lamp-light you had stumbled through
To battle my own conscience. Swill wayward
Your dreams
In each awful clasp
Unconscious, Round the back of a failure. Rusty nails reigned
Of eyes, inside, a lapse into labour
Of life, and of toil, this meandering macabre
The chassis of corpse. Burned

Broken in nine
Sweet flints – the sooted air shook to rain
Washed the face of the final scenario.
The hot circular scream of abandoned babe
Red as the frosted fruit which fell
In faces, and grew
Abstract faces, in ages, into the groves.


I will knock you down
The die who serves drinks for ten
And itself for two.
I told cards, stubborn-faced to the
If they didn’t turn up...  They already were.
Someone signalled vaguely, behind
The bar.
In sympathy I thought, acceptable
Black. Hard changes apparently, determined
Young men cutting backgammon, cigarettes.
Connective tissue still dragged
On the unsolved system
In Roulette wheels, Babychams. Spinning eyes in revolvers
A tragic mess
Almost competitive
For the retina, the spades said
Cheating the holes of old hearts
In perfect fields. Adjacent parts.
Triple eights.


The burn and birth of a word became something
Rubbery lipped - lurched dry to their own ash piles
Positively smouldering. Slit. The defaced hour’s wanderings
Ready to die – well, simply meant
Nothing. Any of it
Toasted – wept on the walkway instead of the wipe board
And I moulded myself to a body of grass on a seashore.
I couldn’t let this go, the
Tip of your shoes on my laminate heart
Manufactured dark, the waxy coracles at each corner
Dripping past dry
Falling past you
Back, back, back
The bite of the moon.


Frustration fathoms stained
Rings of Chances, the unfinished canvas
In ammonia decay
Is listless.
Reciprocal rancid though – the words which roll
From the leather mouth

Like some foul emergency
Unheard of
Residual heat slimed off a wall
Into a pouch. Rushed,
Angers curtain comes to settle
Like a sick film

To choose light becomes a moral battle.
Insistence of ills.
Mind screaming
Soliloquies feeling
Shot and ruptured and ripped
And spilt.

The shell-dust conglomerate
In each ear, guilt
The hot sharp sincerity
Like fox-scent.
The redded edge of carcass speared

Bent to pretence. It’s spread of thick
Long whorish legs
Riddled whole in my mind, where tears rest like birds
Coves of bone a-jaw, mildew
Scudding ears.

Unbeaten – well
Disproportionate weekend.
What did you think you could offer? When
My skull, a grey hole
On the horns
Of the devil

Lulled and dishevelled.
I count hours down
Till they slip to the pretence.
Everything mingles
Minces freedom

From its littered window.
You can watch the heavy eyeballs
Blithered, vociferous
Lingering inside a shot skull

And believe this autonomy
Was owned without fault
Of the slipped bedding pane I attempted
To cross. Each year

Raised hands to my head
Felt the shot of
Stone-cast cold in Midas sleep.
In that the peace-pill of one
Slipped to seventeen.