September Song

Soft green socks:


Burnished gold:

Growing cold

Amber fire:

Warm desire

Purple patch:

Strike a match

Gravity Sucks


Sleeping on the ceiling

is everso revealing.

Staring at the flooring

is everso absorbing.

Trying to get up

Is very problematic

Being comi-tragic

Is  semi-automatic…

Dance Macabre

Five Two Ten…

Jaunty Jolly Waltz

 gone weird

Khachaturian Masquerade Suite


Two keen school kids,

brother straggling

behind sensible sister,

go back to school

after summer hols.


A tired car door thuds

early for the nursery.

Old Madge pulls her

blinds wide open,

gazes maculate


On a new fall day,

turn turkey

on the dreary

daytime wireless.


Nettles surge: lilac droops.

A grey snail embeds on

the warm west window.

Syrians cycle

Through dripping Lapland.


Thyme and Rosemary

resoud in pots:

O’six, o’seven , o’eight…

O’nine keen as mustard

Come Mithra Shine.

Rites of Autumn

Day began in dark

at five with roll-ups

and reheated coffee

radio news of butcher birds,

seasonal badger culls,

the lighting of a candle

forgotten prayers

sea weather prophecies


The light of day found

me playing pinball

biding time for the right

moment to unload

before hard labour

breaking feet in smokey rooms

lurching haplessly

between ashtray and crucible




Further Reading

It is the evening of the day…

hungry and thirsty I wait

on Junk Food & Spurious receipts.

What no paper money!

Oh My God!

A Bank Holiday

On other people’s



That’s All Folks!

Heed the Migrant


One for you


One for me


how happy

We shall be




Migrant tree

Reading Festival

An irkstacy oeuf jumbles

Gyges’s Knitty-knotty knot

Mad unravelled oakum-pokum

Squirrels mate via screensaver

The August Bank Hillbilly Farce

Weekend descending apace

Single Melt

Poem posted, home alone, drinks at three

with little Me

and my charming, closest, alibi

Myself and I


Panto tuna lute

open gee gnomic

ale eminent tory heir gone

tomorrow sorrow scars

Desultory smoulder

Pine cones gloaming wormcast

Seashell hermit crabs

Grumble gruesome gulls gambol

Shirtless maggots candy floss

straw fedora hats

Buttons elopes with Blue moon

Sickert sicks up cockles

Muscles lifts bar belles

St. Trinian’s run riot

Beside the seaside

Beside the sea


Bird’s Nest Soup

‘Weatherwise it’s

Dustpan ugly day…’


Found enlightenment

in sunshine running

a soap oratario

a sudden inlook

at the parts I play

in the loneliness yarn.


From Buddha to Alhasfa

Dillinger to Jesus

Costume changes.

And So do yours.

How fucking mad is it to

think that we are all

characters at play!


Shoot! That went quick

One moment conversation

Then it’s Old Beijing

Full of shit and twigs

Two thousand and eight

Was a good year for Birdnests

Old Age Home


acid casualties,

a-minor people,

hanging off

the Phalange,

stuck in gunge,

malingering & snivelling

by the out pipe,

doing the what the fucks and who am I’s.

Can you hear me?

Hog Manure

Aint no rainfall

when she comes

Aint no torrents

any more

Aint no rainfall

when she comes

aint no back pain

when she comes

opening the door



know ino

I no in

o I no now

I now no


Aint no moonshine

Then she’s gone

Fallen on the shore







After the Flood



spent cartridge


compound vivid fractures

small perfect green shamrock

blossoms thrive oddly

the earth smells brown


Laud’s Book of Common Prayer

Chimes like drafty field mice

Checking out the winter lodging



By the round


Profound squalid textures

Loom large acute strandscape

Suds weave osprey

The sea smells green

Quick Road

Big yellow sucker

preps the road surface.

Beans harvested.

Road resurfaced


somehow slicker

on the eye

after rain swims.

Before the Flood

On midsummer’s day

In nineteen seventy six

Acting goatishly

During the heatwave

We did a rain-dance

Little did we know

What would come to pass

As we rolled in dry dog pooh

On biscuit brown

municipal grass


It’s quarter past four…

The last machine is

Nearly done spinning

‘Beware of the hums’

The Ice-cream man Comet

Some shit by Mozart

The day’s getting grey

A white cabbage patch

Butterfly avoids

An insistent barrage

‘The hums are dumb, son’

A Brief History of the Third Reich

The difference between inspiration and

desperation is concentration and…shit!

I always drift off when some dictator yaps…

You must choose twixt

enervation and determination,

incantation and renovation…fuck!

Now I’m real, real gone

Weeping crimson tree

faux desert forest : blue crap…

differentiation and elimination…shut up!

You and your nations!

You are my abomination…shit

Now I’m getting doctrination.

After skulling underwater

Tap toe trichology

Set and rinsed

Like biscuits

Already to bake







When I left my trousers

In your heart of hearts

I never expected

Pleats as sharp as these


Black Earth God

Grain is gold as gold

Epic consanguinity

Got kill your tyrants

The Plunge

flappy lead balloon

splashed down stomachish

plosh on frothy briny

gizzard gone rasping

saline runic rigid sprat

nitrogene swallow



It’s quarter to three

Green witch meantime

Just me and a near

Distant petrol lawnmower

A big lazy sun imputes

Soon golden autumn

Which draws to the end

this sad episode

So it’s one for my Baby

And one more for the Toad


The Crunch

Moses, Moses, holy Moses!

A turn up for the books.

Four quick glances

an element of surprise.

An intriguing risk demonised.

I think of you all the time, she said.

Puking in her handbag.

That’s some love poem


My eyes are clouded over with self-deceit,

these words are redolent of feet

that walked proud as punch,

no more for now,

no more,

the crunch

Gascoigne- d’Ascoigne

Post meridian

my little cupcake commits

genocidal actions:

hangs a false lord

by the neck till dead;

visits the haberdasher

after a light lunch

of eggy surprises

deep fat fried in

grand larceny

and hair lacquer;

kicks and sniggers

a begging wastrel

when no-one’s looking;

and indulges in

radical origami.






yesterday gives way

seven tambourines  crackle

ecstasy elides


Donut talk juss eat

Said bulging face


My face with spit

Sure I butted him

Split the orange

Like two thumbs do

Westward Huh!

Gone grey clippers

Tea time approaches

Sound wind & horn

A perceivable absence

No shape, no form

An afternoon


Dry Auden

A struggling writer: a writer struggling;

a beaten brow: a brow beaten.

Quandaries. Sundries. Tuesdays.

Sunday’s Just like Monday’s is…

let’s call it straight, Joey

(not that old crap again!)

you gave me a one way ticket to Pookaville!


urghh, don’t interject, I was emoting.

Yea sure you was.

On the waterfront there ain’t no latrine duty.

Cryptic as McGillicuddy,

Manhattan wept, just like Jesus did.

Left smallholding:

…lead Speckled Hen, brain a grain, fleck a cur…

An iota insightful, just a jot, a dot:

a wimple blip, a new black spot got.

Ceramics dynamic, silica majolica,

cilia and sillier, glass beads rattle

porcelain cattle, free mantle peace,

Cape Codology,

crystal mistral Bristol…

Old Sparky

Eluard was once


Wayne once was


and Wayne



Gone Fishin’

Wistful, windless, desultory:

frugal, fawn, beige, puce _

Elvis has left the building

Pulling a fast one again


Half-six on the dot:

doors slam, off to the coast,

Bodies glide on the high tide,

rolling away to chilling gyres


tussles and rubs

from jetsam and kelp,

nibbled by gulls

eschewed by sussed brill


Trance Dance

Uproarious desires

keep on moving,

bobbing and weaving,

ducking and diving,

slipping and sliding,

eel and ostrich pie

and jugs of foamy gush.

Lip-smacking jallop!

Arabian guillemot

Skulling curvy dunes

Pooh sticks and runes

Popular tunes

Rippling quick,

quick slow sand

Plummeting Skywards

Barbirolli more swaggers than minces

over like D’Annunzio balling crazed

Avanti Italia!’

I am struck dumb by her swan neck

veins taut rope glisten.

Recoil in horror.

You bet I did.

Where’s Duran Duran?

Off busking with a Pink fucking Panther.


Sitting on a mushroom cloud

Buddy curls up neat

now waiting for a kiss.

Hurt goes on and on.

Walking like a sumo

quince in his nappy.

See I remember some bits.


The Dixie Whistlers vanished without Tracey,

I consoled her briefly and moved on

to Fenchurch Street to chuck some bricks around.

This is what I’m like.

Impossible: an impossible person.

Imp. Vip. Rip.

Rest in peace very important, impossible person.

Not moi! Not I?


Here lies big gob, gargling blocked drain

I slept in once in Newmarket…

Wake up, Norman!

Dropped off, must have…

Hurt still on the wireless.

Barnard is risen.



Away from chaos radio and noise gadget

I try to hear my own voice.

It is jumbled, jerky, muddled.

When it hears me listening it shut’s up.

Intruder, it whispers and hides.

Another voice comes, other than mine.

Abrupt  jibber jabber.

Dissonant buzz

It stops


Shadow boxing:

the shadow leads two points:

it is southpaw, dogged, cunning, experienced.

I stand firm, steely jawed, granite eyed,

bleeding, unfeeling, waiting.

Rope a dope, Ali called it;

or, was that Angelo?

Zap, I’m downed


The Joy of Sax


So much to do


no point in any of it;

just plain old survival;

avoidance of mishaps,

relief from pain relief.

No simple sample pleasure.


Eleven it says:

Morning constitutional

To the shed and back

Phantom bouquet

bonfire smoke whispering

Secret trysts at noon

Thrilled to bits I don

A cloak & gagger…



Phone calls to invite me to luncheon;

of course,

I accept with  puerile alacrity.

What ensues is vintage time warp!

Clear the decks for a couple of hours;

put pressing needs on hold;

suspend more disbelief.



Hot colouring book trend offer:

one legged dormouse to play Plato;

Dizzy the Womble pours scorn…

Exasperated! Go touch your heels

Take odd drugs on a building site

Discover unknown places



Neruda Dada

twenty-seven drafts

i ask you

twenty seven drafts

Shut the feckin door!

i ask you

i think you




life itself

is so hard

out near here


when  the bedouins

bought my sequins

it crossed my mind

something was awry

‘thence i placed

a gingham


on my jihad

and danced


just like

peter O’TOOLE

for dosh


Eleven she says:

‘Morning constitutional

To the shed and back…’


Phantom bouquet

bonfire smoke insinuates

‘Sneaky trysts at noon…’


Thrilled to bits I don

my invisible purple

Cloak & Dagger


Black as night at five

as I rose and chose a coffee

from the selection of available liquids.

With this I had a cigarette, which I made myself:

harvesting, drying, processing leaf,

making paper in a big blue pail,

extracting gas from my bio mass.

An exhaustive process

often interrupted by the need

to release toxic waste from the corpus.


On arrival upstairs in my lift

the day was revealed as misty

and the streets sweat wet.

I dropped my lighter on the floor and left it,

vowing to retrieve it later

with my extended manual claw.

A cursory take on the news

clarified the extent of yesterday’s huge explosion in China.

Jim Al Kalili showed me around Sellafield

nuclear reprocessing plant and availed me of a

brief history of nuclear energy.

He looks very like a frog.

Serial Killer

Night & Day

Day & Night

In three parts

Night & Day

Day & Night

To the Outhouse

Yes, why not indeed

Have a wee toddle,

a wibbly-wobble

down the mazy lane,

plunge bracken scrub,

scrump wild fruit groves,

traverse the waterfall,

crawl gasping up arid scree,

clasp hard the giant beanstalk,

peruse the pristine chili pot,

achieve the cavernous outhouse,

home to venerable shallots,

gargantuan sardonic rats,

cold war veterans,

the battered legless Chippendale,

and Billy Smart’s

unfoldable deckchairs


This time every day they prey

acute sapphire eyed

amber hawk circles low

infernal thermals

sizing up some juicy quarry

that toddler on a co-op trolley

the dauphin juggling in the yard

takes cover from a swooping bird


Clean and dry, suited,

booted in cheapo,

garish Primark slippers,

we kiss the hogs,

mount the trusty chair


roll out to face the

world of sticks and stones

that break your bones

and weasel words

that just embalm you

Black Spice

I cook some

runner beans


put the fish

pie in

the top oven.

Thirty minutes at 180c.

Meantime She arrives.

I ate and now I sweat.

The pie was


the beans too populous.

Soon I will shower.

The afternoon is



heavy air.

It is three seventeen.

The dog barks.

There was something.

What was it?

The pepper,

the potatoes…

and something else.

French beans:

Harry Covert’s.

Speckled with blackfly.

A portent of tempest.

Tinkling Ivory


light touches

on the keys

we cannot hear writing,

see sound,

smell light, touch


and you can imagine

what it

would be like

when you write it down


On Platform Four

Emoticon mon amour;

hepatitis or occidental?

Happy, toothy, smiler.

Loner, mon anomie;

hypothermia or

stained glass widow?

Sad, thin faced, woebegone.

Flicking through messages

Waiting for the train

A carriage full of angry

Flashes past delayed

by water buffalo






‘…there he was sat, bold as brass, plain as day,

stone deadpan serious, as if he was my judge.

I ask you!

Bulling on about ‘the great doings & dones’

sounding like a brat bragging about

the darning of the sacred

socks of Nemesis… ‘

In short, one may conclude,

a blow by blow account

of how wind gets out the bag:

why the turtle turns turtle,

and the attributes of the perfect carrot.

It was to his credit that he chose

to demean himself to

the baying hordedlavishers

that dwelt upon every word ,

as if, perhaps, they were his last,


that they would get a mention in the will,

despatches, or the mind of God,

his father,

who was in heaven-by-the sea.

‘…By gum, though, he sported lovely, kind, peepers

and one of those whimsical smiles

that always give you a tingle in the dingle.

Herdsman, craftsman, tradesman

it does not matter a bit.

Once you have the twinge you’re gone…’

Apparently, he was also handy with a band saw and spoke shave.

‘…Jesus! He could come smooth me anytime he fancied a touch of craft work. Have a bit of fun, fun, fun on my autobahn.’


Showered the bloated, glabrous, noisome oxen;

descended, short of breath, to a cleaner pit

to heft pots of beans, defrost a halved slab

of gauche bread, fainted in a serviette, came

to in a perfumed tea tree enveloped in tune

to Donne claiming he’d also given the sun

a run for its money through a wrought iron gate


Ruth shot brute crude sooth

Affable fey leviathan

Always short of breath

Panting on hot diaphragm

Fit to bust the cursed nurse


Green balloon plummets

Petrified screeches

Thud, thud, thud, whoosh, bang

We ran toward it

The scene unfolded

Before we knew it

The horse had bolted


Twinkle, tinkle

Brittle Jar

Far too full

That’s what you are

Sat up haughty

On the shelf

Playing with

My mental health


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