fo-r go-
d’s sake do-
n’t le-
e- be -a
nother- like0
on’t str-
etch y’our
n-eck like
ribb-on to-
the other
side of your b-
rain bu-
t only f-ight
off the feeling
knowing then pyhrric-
you will be
s-cratching t-he wax
from bodies
f-or th-ou=sands of
hours more a-
nd m-ore an-


Early On

Sometime you’re selected
to make a mythology.
After trying too hard
for not long enough
you develop a coherent
image, pattern, flavour,
the destructive metaphor,
the unifying theme,
a word or two sung,
often by twenty thousand of these newly fluttering people,

in the same tone with
the same look at each
other. Floating chandelier eyes.

Early on it is all
discovered separately, like
the first time you found

that author;
either side of foot-thick glass
with not a top and not a bottom
but layers receding apace.
Glancing amazed through clear atoms –
Look! The reactions are the same!
Carefully. You want to smile
and make sure you don’t
say it all
out of sync.

Later, you learn all the words by rote
and have lost the desire
to fit your mouth around
the syllables. Someone
or something
turns it into a vapid fable or
a dream you never had. And
your single hopeless wonder is
that you’ll ever be amazed again.


Sometimes donations are
made of plasma
in the blood. Without understanding
it is a liquid negative for the cells stringing together
in a cradle
intricate, like
the light from the front room
through glass to outside where
on her face
she repeated the
lines about the
disappearing boy.
A paramedic stare
told off that
adolescent lust of
yours. It was one of the first times you
wanted to be held.

Thickening, yellowing,
behind coloured circles.
Autumn is always a reel of film.
The last time you had thought
without the chain reaction backwards?
It starts you on the old
internal bleeding
for a second or two
in a doorway – and you were weak already
maybe two pints weak
blood/beer –
back of dirty blonde hair as sat down, sticking
and pulling musthavebeen painfully off the dust brick wall,
well it must have been painful
clarity ten year old texture
that dual instance of loneliness old texture
isn’t lost and molten, but seems like an action
you made moments ago, despite

all those cell divisions.
Veins start to spiral out around a new heart.
But, even so, there is a spot  or two.
There is a still red spot     d    or two.


two hands clawing at your
internal organs, apparently
all it takes is
magnificent desire, an
elongated look
reminds you of
inevitable up,
now ridiculous those
hateful glances
in the street.

Wonder that
your heart wasn’t
pantomiming its delicate little way
through dead-sensible-realism
into a space off-stage where supporting
beams laced with eyes of ivy stared
into creaking fissures, spaces between stars,
getting off on the sound of
splinters forming
in darkness unrecognisable,
the raftered bats weren’t quite black and
disembodied lines of dialogue
were ink blots to
misinterpret, a collage
pasted in obsession to the
inside-left wall of the skull.

Wonder at difference and
latch limpet onto gestures.
The fall of their hair
as the raucous chaos
of the episode’s end
decays its way hours
afterwards sorry
sorry forgive me-
I didn’t know any better-
I didn’t know we weren’t
meant to understand one another


Mustard light at end of
Degraves is
noise next to
three thousand footsteps,
two of which could be you in red hair
Chequered sideshows decide
book coffee cup smile
worth two parts of a second.
Their aesthetic stare;
just look at the brush strokes.
The disinterest.
The going-somewhere.

Breath in another cemetery;
nitrogen takes over
temporarily, then oxygen
manages an epiphany of hydrogen
figure glancing past which is
almost – almost
a beautiful moment.

Unicycle between thoughts
a beginner, because
different time
or zone or actually –
– this – perhaps – no
ridiculous – trying too hard – nearly
balanced –
keep falling off in
hilarious ways
every minute or so, still

getting after the shadow of
that digital tick
which wakes you at five in the
morning, each blink a distinct
colour, the room, street,
city altered but not strange.

For now, you live in the
unwitting walk of the other –
whether you dumbly fall in love with
them or not. In modest afternoons
gently flavoured by decrepit
flower of English Autumn,
there are those who are jealous of
a history you are only
partly aware of. Instead keep
throwing darts into
olfactory glow,
vain hope to pierce
basalt pavements so molten that
the air drifts from underneath
into destructive positions and
faint before hypnotic
new concrete sipping days of days.


Here a wanted element.
The pair of birds
next to the pair
sharing a seat.
In chair, in lap.
Look of strangers’ smoke.

Could be the story change
– contrived twist
fractured thorny
metal arc,
now gilded line
reaching out over water
into little
jacketed utopia of
indigo afternoons, closeness,
novel alterations to
your gentleman’s clothes.

The Next Two Years

Whilst there is a lamp light –  
a table for one,

the couple next cover
seem to be four
or five years along,

I take solace in
the words of
persons dead.

Future is slipping
through the lens, panning
into terminals, white noise
contains every world.

Feel some dark, textured destruction.
Tonight – miles of miles away –
rip skin off the map.

Incredible illumination begins
gem-like: she, a thought, or a day
start to transcend. Perhaps
the next two years.