‘Dreamworld: a vast, almost unexplored continent in the southern regions. The American explorer RANDOLPH CARTER visited several of its wild regions: BAHARANA, CELAPHUS, DYLATHEEN, ENCHANTED WOOD, HLANITH, INQUANOK, KADATH, KIRAN, Jungle of KLED, LENG, NGRANEK, PNOTH, SARKOMAND, SOUTHERN SEA, THRAN, ULTHAR, URG.’

The weekly itinerant

Exercise muscle

Sport banters

Listen to weird music

That isn’t ‘music’

Gather provisions

Listen listen listen

Respond and then clear up

Think next move

Wash up

Think next

Physical work

Wound flex watch listen

Think

Work unload

Dryer wash

Up response now 

Recoil

Drowsy with stress

Take 

Medication

Sleep 

Listen to music that isn’t music 

Connect a few connectors

Observe: (rubbish on the street, horn honkers, street battles, mythological connectors, news reports on the radio, political diorama, birds on the tree out back, crushed by fate, supermarket offers, cultural intrigue etc) (also invisible maps to imaginary domains, future music pans etc other stuff that never happens)

Communicate at best 

Like music that isn’t music I wasn’t there

It is pastoral yet effectively bounces sideways

Regular in its refusal to allow chance fluctuations

Getting in the way of a costly time please 

We beg for our hearts’ entertainment

Out sourced ethics

But what you ask is the story over

There now

It is shows it is pitting your wits against 

The life

Irregular heart 

Beats now

Unbearable heart break unsolved

In five French parts but the sub-titles where often too late

They flashed in a frame

The dummy was floated to the exact spot

But nothing added up

Pattern of numbers retrieval and starry-eyed surveillance systems

Broken we laugh on the wing

And hope that out offspring will thrive this year

Ripples in the earth slowly expanding like

The froth on my beer breathes early demented spectral loops

On the horizon floatation tanks hustle and bustle

I chose you to be my god my guru

Puckered streaks of night rain thudding

Tropical train rounding the jungle

Bend in the rancid night

Of cigarette smoking eyes without faces

Slung the pack on the floor with a thud too fucked 

To move or care dragging all possessions

In a disintegrating black bin liner up the high street on a Friday

Night with fear bubbling behind the eyes historical legacy of 

Heavy oak framed memorial device languid star clad 

Gentle waste fund corporeal blister pack head rest

Over long sprint gas light beacon mist homage surfeit

Of hopeful longing to the restless 

Competency and Evidence

A macabre head carved out of a vegetable

Slice off its head and place a candle inside 

‘Without destination or intent – onwards!’

 A stunning expose of life at the margins of culture; of an existence in-between Being and becoming in the no-man’s land edged out grey zone classless and invisible. A geology of life between the cracks and the colossal strength of will required to prise oneself out of obscurity and into a meaningful experience in society. Submerged in silence regretful insouciant still breathing a hollow sound, come over drink wine with us remember the humble mist, the hollow-eyed living quarters. Today we will take lunch at Ikea it is a cheap day out overlooking the stunning vistas of the Tottenham Hale retail park from the observation deck. Tipper trucks thunder past, tents encroach from the corner view, clustered near rough clumps of bushes and scrubland flailing like carrier bags against the wind bodies embalmed inside escape the insidious cold. Meatballs. The relentless pace of the days marking time in a vacuum. The cat limps about the place. What exactly is the expression you are looking for? The craft of writing, the unveiling of a vast and unique array of spiritual and emotional contrasts uniquely summarised in the form of incoherent prose poetry. The list is endless, more coffee please. 

Asleep awake asleep awake asleep awake aw sleep sleep sleep

The bicycle wheel turns over wet tarmac slipping by the riverside rowers determined looking straightforward doctors and lawyers taking care of the business of life for us some are coxless others row in time along the bank rough faced interlocutors hurl advice on how to finesse performance it’s a daily task for some out there in all weathers.

                                           

crafting nothing out of thin air

recycled

endlessly

Swimming                  

        
through the seasons

a cantankerous old fellow just floats 

on his back 

occasional languid 
slow back stroke 

barely there 

                                                                                    floating on the breeze

Straying across lanes buffeting the divider

Looking up from underneath the baggy beach shorts liquid billow

A hand dangles under the water a watch old and tarnished by the sun

Consulting notes once more the poet speaks of

Artfully arranged trash piles in the underpass next to the canal

Stylised rubbish has a ‘vitality’ of its own, soon it will require an agent

Social gatherings liquify in the rain

A desperate looking face covering the side of a house

At the crossroads of ‘just getting on with it’, I give my best curl up and die face

Rain in hell stuffed cattle we are trundle this way

Now that for ritual imaginings sparks to light up the winter gloom

‘it’s because your worth it’ the advertising screams lifting a child

Aloft the rapids towards the precipice

Crunch, lurching forwards a seminar in progress by feminist theorist

Gabrielle Shattuck on the legal rights of compost

Rinsing plain language through a sieve

“did she kill herself?” (1) we ask, the few traceable pamphlets would suggest so

And hells breath it’s time to be moving repulsed and appalled mesmerised by it all

Like metals mutable melting malleable macabre

(1) Reference to the tragic early death of poet Veronica Forrest-Thomson aged 28 in 1975 when I was 2 and Marc Bolan was the king of glam rock.

An eternity of mud / visionary genius / pack soil on soil / earth removal / endless development

Absence of cynicism / watching and waiting / an oasis of Regency / the muted quiet of Kennington

On a late Friday afternoon in November / the cloistered calm of a Westminster mansion block, 

unhurried and unaffected by the rapacious change of the city, everything sits silently here as it 

always was / the smell of incense burning in Westminster Cathedral the hushed expectancy of the confession booth the low drone of the organ gazing at the shrine of the Sacrament the gold glittering in low level light we feel suspended calmer around the believers / a purple priests robes hanging in a shop window / the Regency café is closed between 2pm and 4pm / the Thames is over there / peering at Blake through an A4 lens / are things better or worse than then / a rich old man struggles to find the keys for his Landrover Discovery he is wearing dark green corduroys farmers shirt green gilet / one of the mansion block’s has its own built in restaurant the whole area looks like a film made by Americans set in London in the 1980’s perhaps a feature length episode of Murder She Wrote or parts of An American Werewolf in London the smell of shepherd’s pie is strong /  a Thames barge full of dark brown gleaming mud glides under Vauxhall Bridge like a piece of giant conceptual art where is it going we ask ourselves maybe they are building an archipelago off Purfleet.