In the green folds where we lay
star light from creation reflects
base ideas that explode in the sky
at once jettisoned and refused
real pain diverts from faith
in essence to revere night vision
we looked at the Hubble at its shining future
peeling back invisible light
to behold our essence
in machinic grace
the long extending arm of love
reaching through a hole in the cosmos
to pull us back to love
Is that smoke over there
on the horizon signals forming words in the sky
un-folding grey balloons of matter
a warning signal to guide us
to the right path
coming up from behind tower blocks
the pine cones of red pin prick light
dot the buildings at night
where the money grows over night
blossoms of concrete form like spectres
of humanity living burial grounds
we walk on bones crunching underfoot
all futures mingle together with pasts
the citadel is gleaming
the rats are thriving
they like these unstable conditions
it gives them hope
for the future
they want to live
to go on
to have families
to be unburdened of worry
to drive the freedom road
burning up the efforts of labour
in plumes of callous smoke
the birds are tweeting still
the sun comes up over the edge of town
where homes peter out into industrial estates
a few gaps on the map
old tracks
closed shops
fancy goods
underwater theme parks
where you can scuba dive among the wreckage
find codes hidden in the weeds
remember how they use to live
the ones that came before
when the charity shops begin to close
then it’s time to worry
The Cost of Living
Is an interesting phrase. What happens when you can’t afford to live?
When is check out time?
Not another list of questions.
A life that incurs debt the sinking weight.
No benefit cuts here today. More books please.
In debt and in life.
Smiles forever.
Ashes sin and longing.
Jump onto the pyre let the vultures descend.
Escape route to the astral plain.
Meet Sun-Ra along the way, he says hi.
From his cosmic contraption burning up fumes of purple smoke.
Orbiting the east London waste lands that still exist.
Cheer up everybody he says in his curious way.
Metaphysical harmony is the order of the day.
Not right or wrong just now.
Atoms breathe.
Sun rise in outer space.
The Owl Lives Another Year.
This poem should not be a diary entry it should not be about how I am waiting to go to therapy.
It should not be about how the noisy exhaust pipes of boy racers disturb me to my marrow each time they fly up the street.
It should not be about how my thoughts race uncontrollably through my body as a sickness.
It should not be about how I love my children in a way that scares me.
It should not be about how I stare backwards with wonder and horror forgetting so much laughter along the way.
It should not be about paranoia against a backdrop of savagery.
It should not be about benefit cuts and murder.
But rather the undefinable joy that costs nothing that can be found here.
The thrill of creating something so insignificant yet so real.
The extravagance of knowledge, of knowing, of seeking out. Then sleeping.
It should be about poets for hire throwing their words to the wind.
Hot salty chips covered in curry sauce.
The hovering silhouette of a kestrel.
A new pamphlet by our favourite Cambridge fellow.
It should not get smothered in sentimental attachment or mired in dystopian gloom.
But it does.
WHAT SEPERATES US FROM THE STREET
Joyful fear incline concrete bones matter
Pick up a new script empty old found things
Scatter them between us and the street smeared with
Everyday fluids blood piss etc
What came before will come again they say
Yes we are talking about the apocalypse
That separates us from the rolling news
Steam rolling its way into oblivion
Our favourite world
A swift kick in the nuts away from the broken tarmac
Roots push up through patchworks of paving
Rejoice they say.
One End of Fear
Poems lost in error
replaced with new words
like peace
and rest.
Let’s repaint the world outside
with the grief explosion of our aging hearts.
If we have the chance
to lift life’s heavy rotation
can we also broach these congested roads with other journeys made?
Let’s take away today’s crisis vote
where we are willing to concede
that the rain is right.
Even if what we have done to it was wrong.
Excited for a silent feast that sits upon the matted mind
growing faster than bulbs in the dark
slipping over the edge
into the slow retrograde infinity
of the open mouths we need to feed.
