Tuesday, 18 August 2015

The Moment

I remember the time
I played guitar alone
on a beach in Limnos,
watching the sun rise

It was nice to be alone.
It would be nice to go
back to that moment
with you, maybe make
love on that beach.
But that moment has gone.

We chase after silence,
the clamour inside us chasing us to it,
but we can never achieve it.

But I'm close:
the thought spills a word,
disturbs the silence,
but the feeling hangs in presence,
emanating like ripples on a pond.

If there's one thing I know,
it's that there are very few
moments of perfection
in our lives, because we
do not allow them
to be perfect:

we must not snatch the moments
of our lives,
but let them be.
Learn from them,
live in the new ones -
each one a chance
to be free.

A Joke

Some people treat
life as a joke.
And then they croak.

Never woke up
until it was too late,
and by then
it was time to go to sleep
for ever.

So don't wait:
make living
your first exhibit.

Ribbit, ribbit.

Sunday, 7 June 2015

Modern Man

I live for Wi-Fi
My music's hi-fi
I'm convinced I won't die

I've friends on the network
Nice guy, but a real jerk
I rarely cry, but when I do it hurts

I'm so loved, yet so alone
So much to do, the choice is gone
I'm right here, and yet miles from where I want

I am a modern man
I am a modern boy
And, occasionally, more of a
Postmodern android

In a world full of green
And a world full of grey
The concrete crushes my soul
And yet it's where I choose to stay

Sunday, 26 April 2015

David Cameron's Pledge

Long-term economic plan
Long-term economic plan
Long-term ergonomic plan
Long-term ergonomic flan
Long firm ergonomic flan
Wrong firm ergonomic flan

The words coming out of my mouth
are meaningless, man

You'd have to be foolish
or blind
to eat our Tory spam!


Besides, how could you
trust a guy who's so shiny
it looks like he's just
swallowed a gram?

More like a key;
not the key to the city
or a key policy.
Just donkey idiocy.

'Cause Bo-Jo gets his mojo
giving blow-J's
to the Daily Maze.

But back on track:
could you stand
another five more years
of an economic plan

that has barely been able to stand?
It's weaker than an Eton elbow-licker
recycled sneaker-wearing
Tory poster feature.

But it's funny:
whatever happened
to the sneakers, the bicycle?
Did you shut them in the shed
when you entered office?

And whatever happened
to those green fingers, Dave?
Did they fall away
like autumn leaves,
with all your brown-nosing?

Mr Cameron,
you can shove your 
long firm ergonomic flan
up your arse.

I'm voting for real change on May 7th.

Monday, 6 April 2015


I'm soon to be a father,
and now the wind seems
to cut through me like a razor.

I will soon have a daughter:
there is no greater fear
or awe in this world
than embracing the aura
of a newborn child.

My hands will shield her
like two great wings,
and I will protect her

because there is no greater commodity
in this world
than innocence,
and hungry jaws savour the taste.

But if tyrants want to prostitute
the innocence of my kin,
they will find a rumbling mountain
in this man.

Come stand puny at my feet,
as this mountain flower
I hold aloft,
open to the light,
hungry for the sun.

Sunday, 5 April 2015

Welcome to the West

Welcome to the West,
all the people here sleep slow
it's a twenty-first century irregular penitentiary,
we're free walking through our self-made creep show.

Come, be a fly on the wall,
drill a hole in the wall,
come join in our fetishist peep show.
You can hide in your flat whilst the walls fill with rats,
and they mate in a smoke-stenched-out meal-hole.

Outside, the world is tearing its flesh,
we all strip at each other, trying to gain what we've lost,
we tear each other apart, the rich eat the poor,
and now we're paying the cost.

There are many stripes here:
you can wear your colours as you see fit.
But don't count on things changing
if you're central-Asian, gay
animal, or have tits.

Welcome to the West,
you're in the front row of a freak show:
it's a twenty-first century irregular penitentiary;
oh, it's a cold, cold place, but we walk on water!
Look closer: we're heading further out into deep snow.

Tuesday, 10 March 2015

Ode to the English

We have an entire language
at our command,
such heights of precision
and specificity

and yet we blather and blunder
and blandish with bland
the towers of language that people
our cities:

We cloud them with 'dooberidoos',
'whatjumacallits' and 'whatsits',
replace exactitude with 'thing',
'thingymabob' and 'dohick'.

We are known to be charming,
polite and enquiring,
but behind the disarming
we are fearful, mystified little shirelings.

We are tied up in history
like flies in a web,
the future a lame mare
with one crippled leg.

We stumble into eternity
with a mouthful of teeth,
spitting and seething,
with arms outreached.

Oh, God or Queen or Country,
save us from ourselves!
We're beery, lairy - O Blighty!
What's becoming of your once mighty realm?

Thursday, 5 March 2015

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time,
I had a muse,
a sort of female Endymion,
an Arcadian shepherdess.

But I tore myself
from that world
and all its ambrosia
of illusion.

Now I've got the real thing:
not the sort of thing
that's words
clothed in flesh,
brought into a world of sorts
by a wordsmith's brush,

but a thing
entirely woman,
entirely human,
who seethes with anger,
quivers at my touch.

Monday, 15 December 2014

Mrs P.

Now even
the most mundane
of tasks
are a muddle for her:

she chews her oral pills,
she's incapable
of using the kettle,
and now the commode
is seeing use.

Soon, she will be
unable to live on her own.
A life will come to an end,
a new existence shall start
as her daughters

put her in a home.
They will shed a tear
and remember their mother
as she 'used' to be -
as she will never be again.

And Mrs P, she
will maybe cry,
and maybe throw some
mean words, keen punches;
or she will try.

But soon it will be better,
as she looks out
on a perfect morning,
a birdsong afternoon,
the visage something entirely

alien to her, as she
lives her past in the present,
projects the present
into the future,
and her days all haze 

into one.

Sunday, 14 December 2014


Some people
are like goldfish:

they only swim
in one direction,

their brains mute
to possibility.

At the end,
maybe they realise.

But by then
it's too late

and then they die.

Paper Heart (Poem for My Future Wife)

It's only been
eight months,
and already
I know we will spend
the longest time together:

maybe not forever -
and I mean eternity -
but maybe long enough
to keep liking one another,
and raise a family.

Only eight months,
and already
count the times
your paper heart
has crisped with my touch -

gone 'crispy', you say,
in your foreign way.
And see how
our bed is now
a bed of cinders,

and not a love nest.
The girls before,
I would have written
sonnets for them,
waxed lyrical how I adored

them, my adoration
reaching out to them
like the two arms
of the shore.
But now I have more,

much more - and
it's real. So soon,
we will be married,
and not so soon.
And every thing will

be carried, every coin
tallied, between the
two of us. And
we will move through time
like smooth stones

through water, and
maybe one day
we'll become the stream.
But until then, my darling,
rest - dream.

Friday, 12 December 2014


Every moment
is an epiphany.

The pen can be a razor
or a torch:

you could be #Collins
or #Bukowski -

every moment

Thursday, 11 December 2014

The Art of Capture

First, you most be open
and alert as 
a fox,

recognising the right moment 
when you come upon it.

You must act quickly.

Next, you draw your camera,
aim it lightly as
a paw placed upon the ground.

And in a sudden spasm of
awe and terror, you must
force the shutter:

click! click! click!

You have captured the moment
like the jaws of a fox
around a chicken's neck:

no need to shake it,
no need
to break it.

The tender press
of a hunter, the gentle
surrender of prey.

Never has murder
been so perfect.

But move on, go!

You must act quickly.

Some Home Truths

If you think
the universe was
made for you, then
let me offer you
some home truths:

the carrying capacity
of this planet
is 1.5 billion -
the only reason
we are here
is because of oil.

So the next time
you invoke God,
and remark how he toiled,
for seven days,
count the million ways
you are lucky even to breathe.

We've overcome disease,
we've overcome the soil,
the only thing we haven't overcome
is ourselves, our stupidity
a massive black balloon,
so beautiful in the sky
until it climbs too high.

You could say, O! if it were white!
Yeah, guy: like some Romantic fable
will put us at the table,
instead of staring at the grave.

Poetry cannot save the world,
but it can save you from yourself.
And maybe you'll save something much 

dearer, once you realise

you never held the dies.

Because Earth is not a gambling table,
nor is it even a cradle:

no metaphors can out-metaphor
the stupid luck of your even being.
So when you're ready to start seeing,
stop burning the oil: burn down the doors.

Wednesday, 10 December 2014


It's amazing how two things can blur:
you take a brain and a drink
and everything slurs.

You take a century and a century,
and they just glide into each other,
future to past, past to future,
edgelessly, and seamlessly.

You see a plane in the sky
and close one eye, close both,
hold it, then open them: see anew 
how a baby would see
at four months,

or the the brightness
of a balloon
when you were two.

You take a body and a body
or two hearts, and soon
it's impossible to see
where one ends,
another starts.

You take two hands, pressing
but they stay firm:
they don't melt into each other
like chocolate, or
dissolve like dirt.

But in spirit,
they press through
each other,
like water, like air,

and yet they grip firmly,
always holding
each other there.