Sunday, 17 October 2021

 Take a long low-slung line lazy at the ankles


Wrap it to the trees


Long low lines tethered to an ankle say perhaps


Loop it over the moon


Loose limbed lines following the footpath of ages


Now slowly descending lines


Limbering up laughing following the line


Formation is important it begins at the back


Of the line. Progress in a slow linear fashion.


Lazy long line don’t panic 


They steal your life away


Strip it silently from your bones


Years go by and you don’t even notice.


Sling a line around the body because it lets us down


Heap armfuls of fronds onto the outdoor fire


Smoke is not linear but dump the lines anyway


smell the burning line between us


The sky the rotten fruit the grave the moon that broken branch


Long strung lines washed window lines steep climbing lines


Dangle on a line time burns it

Wednesday, 29 September 2021

 Stop holding on



The serum is illogical and close in time to drink it. Spores fall short on the wind-blown path; besides she chides too hard too rough for it be inconsequential.

The fateful blow is dealt on a record of excessive violence in the line of duty. Speak up. Sneak out. Control if at all the meltwaters desired folly polished screed multiples in favour of a muscle mine.

Each magical mixture redolent of some invested need; to be sure we will back you this time. If it is at all feasible to presume these outcomes based on information gathered.

Meet group cloaked in ambergris markers divine integral wave fissures up on told the build.

All invoked by staggered drawn smokes of berry purple dangled plastic exploding shark; sort of haemorrhaging a wave we were told. See that space fill it. Do not expect each moment to be burnished in enfolded gold leaf over tight knuckle rapture. Burnt ends this time of year umber flame cosmic jetty stone spoils slate cracks underfoot moss soaked fungus due.

You’re not impossible it’s not that we doubt your first forest favours. Lashed to the mast. It takes time to become brilliant; to dance the dance. In traces were fund distillate multiples of the husband of the famous actress. Sordid fore chance affiliated to prospector’s discourse; untrampled also untroubled by recent events. They chose to close it down out of choice. Nobody forced their hand this time. Moonlight illuminates a slither of street that bows and buckles around a cobbled corner. Untroubled night lights here and there. The distant sound of a motor scooter. The barred windows of tiny boutiques. 


Work bond is law love sample overall entreat egret dance heron on the wing shadow space open round. Now the tempo is raw bound singular with pretty white flowers to meet and greet. 


It’s great now there are no more second-hand book shops left all folded into each other like infinite masks of sorrow. But we will miss the smell of ‘em. Those silently rotting cousins on the till playing at coy intellectualism. Oh wasn’t it miserable that time when and of course come back soon. So goodbye this time off you float piecemeal orange bower sagging serpent’s breath extends into the garden taking sly caresses each newly budding wonder. 

Saxophones reach out with handles your time taking up with train doors slowly closing and opening; the ripe rubbish simmering strafed by cobs and webs dormant fear eternal drilling ancient pipe-works. 


Singing to remind love to come out against the dark. You have to remind it. Next time leave choices and monads at the door. Like you used to believe in things and beings that flourished before beings and things became all but one to notice too soon it’s gone. Dance spring ecstatic throw fresh bags of rubbish high in the air. Exhale the court is majestic once more; inside the walled garden the earth folds in and around ornate orchard succulents. It’s a wonder behind the bin truck crushed gulp of all ours; that we achieve this frenzied celebration at all.


Entertain the lip of the scum pipe suck off the residue spat lime green juice splashed cortisone filial grip-lock. Sporadic bouts of frenzied activity against the stagnant bone floor. What’s all the knocking for mate, I’m trying to get some writing done; trying to make my way across the frozen lake just like you. And all the other hordes waiting outside the gate. Two approach, one is heavy with wode, the other more articulate speaks first. All history has happened now is just an afterlife, you will see. All interactions are merely distractions; this in time you will see. Digital networks our folk lore answers against the dark sound mirrors of the first rebuttal as the human thing. Wake up drugged heavy with panic and dread is this it am I gone what where is this? Just a smallholding is all we need, enough to keep us from holding on dangling. Two climbers entwined skewered by a serac left to unravel on the frozen scree face, left to wonder on it, a cruel death. The shape of the fault hangs dismal against the energy halo of its pursuit. Cold under rotor blades, you’re at home and can wonder on this glow over the mountains. The glow that draws them on to death. What twisted formulations drive us onwards here?




Saturday, 25 September 2021

 Stuck in some crayon canyon

Fog bones drizzle clouding over

Dry air 

One of those just out of reach days

Studded with ideas 

Just try to grasp and it’s gone

slipping into somewhere

Chess in a vaulted room

Summer in the garden house

Free falling into a feeling


Yesterday meant the history of memory

Where we send it spare or awry  

Where do we send it?

Pour granite over 

Spilt slides side to slight fall

Down tomorrow

from whence

the bone the breath 

all else is for us to do

 to compensate to feel good

so as to not feel pain 

that be real or imaginary

fear of night of no warning

of beasts

Of dusky bats flittering  

Bringing memory to bear

On it all.

Thursday, 23 September 2021



Lifted as if out of a fog

Bones barely breathing life rattles

On and on

The piano next door

The knocking on the stairs

How we spend our time

Not really noticing the things closest

Until it’s too late or gone

Little frills of piano flourish

Hold ripe imaginings in their folds

A conker falls and all we know

Is that there will be more day’s like this

Until there aren’t.

Tuesday, 21 September 2021


Beyond a wall of sleep, beyond coughing

Able to function outside abject philosophy thanks.

You ask how it’s great and green and there is noise all the time

Pinned writhing to a board in a dream not washed

Yet the dishes will not]

Wash them selves are not good 

Add jazz jangles to the poisoned toilette and you’ve got it

Mate what’s up are you fucked up

We’re fucked up too

Turn over and thrash against the pillows

The dark clangs around me 

I am falling through space and time to

Get to the cabinet

To take another

The fridge glow

Is a pathway to the astral-plain

How this once was a way of

Describing the A13

By Jah Wobble once bass player with P.I.L

But they fell out. 

I don’t believe in hyphens she said uncommon

Symptoms include washing up and obscure

Single decker bus rides

Get off now!

Thursday, 16 September 2021





This could be the least significant day of your life.

Build a shuttered cave of clutter; 

Dwell inside a freeze frame 

Look up, look out from inside a tree hollow

      we know now things could have been different.

“You can’t always get what you want.”

Internal walls twist and dissolve.

Homely twitching

At a favourite spot, your monogram your coat of arms.

The tragic rivalry of brothers. 

Staying clean; those actions that bring us closer to our dreams ending.

The tattooed hearts that yearn for us.

Delusional thought as self-referential over-interpretations of actual sensory 




A pair of Grey Wagtails work their way up stream.


Cold water freezes the hand implant.


This is manifestly not Saigon.

metallic hues of the river flow deep into autumn green, eels of black submerged fronds twist against the current.

Nettles mind the way reaching outwards to stroke a sting.

small talk reveals a draft 

notice the ripening cloud scape 

in the page layout.

The money has returned to the west end.

sides of solid ripple into humble sound.

They remain resolute.

Ear wax vegetation seeds under a full moon’s glare.

Defend your right to fresh fruit and vegetables.

Live the city under-scape, live in overflow pipes, drag a sofa inside shore up for safety.

Old shop fronts hide a multitude of life times; and oh, shit you left the bath running.

routines run down in houses, keep your hands off my sordid milk.

The routine shove; a hidden children’s playground encased in knotweed and ivy, inaccessible unused forgotten fun.

Clothes in an abandoned doorway.

London, central, abstract.

Faded cans among the nettles old lottery and scratch cards bleached white.

Duck into an alcove heavy with piss; a shit explosion smeared up the wall.

Furtive guilt you’ve got too much you’ve spent too much.

Inauthentic no sex. 

A Red Admiral lands on your hand briefly before it is blown away.

pavement screaming objective 

Delusional thought as self-referential over-interpretations of actual sensory 




Lew Welch disappeared, Weldon Kees walk out; Hart Crane jumped ship. 


Come the trolley men with rheumy eyes of wax


clinging to life clutching a cigarette; the family rally round.


There is still no hope!


Is there still no hope?


Launch a spear, the air rings with the rasp of rivets.


offerings on the ends of branches.


It has been decided you are wrong 


& Operation Hummingbird.


 will be dissolved. 


Literally fucking the cannon.


Dissolute wi-fi by doing nothing everything 


Started to happen.


flowing with insect’s above the surface


jolts the cold metal.


experience doubled.


More a retreat mossy sun mist adrift, my little furry friend.


Genus loci.


fancy bees saunter 




Soaked in humility. 


Get on the over-ground.


The smell of quick lime sausage and potato pie.


Wake with a jolt. It’s not time yet.




have expired your usefulness.


Don’t be embarrassed for wanting a good life.


Drum solo.


centenary of the world’s most vibrant horror society 


Welcomes you to oak panelled bucolic revere.    


Waste deep pushing back against the tide against the 


Sunk. Orange  and blue flames flick under the door


Sexton’s eyes follow the room sparkling against the clash of




morning comes heavy and immobile. 


Dust motes, zombies; invincible heroes.  


that refuse to die. 


come protect us 


from this blank inspiration fashion a lie.


at night our rooms grow wild  




Throw back 


Violent breath 


In towards the ‘whole earth’.


that unbelievably gross photograph of the Earth


Lace maker at post 


Moths asleep in the hall.


here, still sifting 


Old clothes are all that talk.


each intake of breath.




each morning ritual 


can be attained by these words 


Intervention with the blood valve


against a crumbling tower. 


every disturbance every clamour of metal against metal.


solitude as a powerful muse.


live in the head 


life postponed for now


on hold.  

Wednesday, 1 September 2021



Reveal yourself 

It’s hardly herculean;

the words are cream.

Burning plastic fruit swells into being. The maniac communist brat air

strikes a rubber gum; ordnance broken like a seal weathering out some ancient tide pool. Alright then against a maddening decrescendo. Just think what piecemeal vitality is clogging up the fuel lines staring back at a box switching releasing advertised personalities grinning families speeding towards their death like crash test dummies over broken ducts and gull wings. Now flounder off the pier head and make mine a double whisky / polish lager chaser. Nation on wheels humming a line; good copyright sold for goo? Policing human care deflecting baton glance, standing for off duty kebab host. White feathers on tarmac, Peregrine bombs the outstretched hands dog bolts the chain taught; pull back then pan out on full drone shot reveal. Spurts of musk pecoraite teeth full ice pink crushed spill-over mess of mine. Black harmonics rail on green woodpeckers trail the jet flats just ferry that freak out coming over with gripping pipe. Choice of so much brain spill sprouted out concerned with thoughts and feelings. The cult of the individual, see I’m doing it now. Whereas Beckett places you face against the wall and says ‘here it is, here is reality’ now you try to breathe now you’re stripped. Everybody owes, everyone one in debt. Each one sitting at the table analysing  ‘culture’ times a thousand, or a thousand million. Enter the collective mind, the satisfaction of a life well lived. We will soon be there my dearest. Each one clinging to their own rock. Each one cured of depression by Charlotte and Emily Bronte running a hot batch through the heather. Scratched knees and insect bites feather the metal.

Better than science because it cannot be quantified; the literary life can be yours for 12 affordable monthly instalments. Allow it all; the vast morass moves on.

By chip light the lead singer hung himself. In order to remain embalmed in collective nostalgia we at least owe this guy a debt of gratitude. Splendid work. Splendid.