when the words live on and we want for more

                          i can now see the new portion of the roofs extention


if it growls later throw in some meaty extraction

                            timber can be used with caution as to the porosity of its border


strata and sub strata have a co depended relationship

                            GOD IS A LOBSTER

accordingly theorists will tell you that the border is porous/invisble

                          you take over now if you want

terms and conditions apply   

                          witchcraft was all over me yesterday

i felt it strongly passing under the city

heaviness and pain

in the story corner

Over wondering wintering

wandering down paths of vast obstruction

when the way reveals it will call up and grab

you by the hands

curly overgrown shed in the back

with moss trees and a bower

frankly object oriented does not

begin to account for the haze over our eyes of Essex

rusted bus depot scotched and walking

frozen and still trying

it figures you have left

the old boat smoldering in the freshening wind

tides come in a' bubblin

swampy in their glory

fresh smells ripen the wind nostrils tang

at last the memory comes back now recall

old faded film version reel in head

so your idea of 'being' the

where is it now and how exactly do you begin to belong

do you have to have lost a thing to find it again

seeking wisdom looking for cheap food becomes what makes the day

stuttering then threatened he leaves the bar area

drugs or mad

when a child belongs this cannot happen

trees cold wind rain darker getting lighter now

dust worrier chest heart lungs teeth legs chatter

bus winds almost throws you

the pulsing grind to a halt of tubes

the living city the cellular dwelling the seat of power

get to know your way around spend it wisely

live up not down

try to enjoy and not to withdraw

the bread man's  there again, clearly it's not right

to throw chunks of bleached white Turkish bread around they don't like it
and it's not allowed

you might as well feed the rats

cut up

Their male, in his resentment, pitches

Looking for something.

Bringing a young witch.
Her robe already licked by flames,

saw behind us, looming like the dusk
of someone else’s day, not hers, or ours,

a darkening
that still might be transformed

You can take the temperature of the writing from the very opening passage, where it is stated that ‘We have placed men on the moon, yet ... ’

He made sculptures from jockstraps, and hung near his bed a ‘masturbation machine’ – a ‘mirror with dozens of white lights that blinked off and on, like a carnival roulette wheel’.

The American Dream ended bitterly on that cold evening 

idiot bliss

accept this caress
 this cold clammy compress

something in the trellis in the quivering privet

pouring out the lemonade she realised that she was not alone

and further more

utopia's round the corner they used to say

get used to the future, you ain't got no choice mate

the trees are your future, the treeze, the breeze.

suck at the rim of your cups, puzzle the hanging washing on the line

climb those pock marked ravage foothills of your wilderness years once more

as the bus lurches up the Holloway Road in a wind swept rhapsody whatever

sudden freeze make way

ample rooms make way

make way

The past is shimmering

it lies

Its dark meniscus hovers

on the horizon

tentacles reach out to clutch a cup of coffee

now lucid

we drag a cowl around

draped in  sumptuous splendour

 the life left to live

"don't give up the ghost" it says

you have young ones to feed

they take like robbers on the nest

endless forays into the world

bringing back morsel after morsel