If you want culture, give it back....

The Blakean Eye

2012-01-15T20:44:00.002Z

The Blakean eye has scanned the sky, seen birds like cold stones rent

and in the marred decay of theirs, the death of innocence.

The Blakean eye regards the babes as clean of earthly sin,

yet watches on as, year on year, their joy grows deathly thin.

The Blakean eye has seen the Drakes, white and pure as air,

as their complexions dim to grey, life emptied, grey and bare.

This Blakean eye has sure surmised the deep heart's darkened core

in whose shadows it has seen the light come pulsing raw.

This eye has seen nature's gleam, has caught its violent light,

and in this dark malay of life has glanced the human fight.

This dappled eye knows not itself, its colours none, unknown;

in place of inward sight it sits atop a supernatural throne.

Mystic vision and clear perception, the eye informs the heart:

it leads it blindly by its strings to territories dark.

In destitution, unfair abjection, it lives not by its means,

surviving not on sustenance: on divination, magic, it feeds.

what is mourning?

2012-01-15T20:34:00.001Z

having never grieved, it escapes me like vapour.

is it pain and shock, pure and simple?

does it change with age - and wrinkle?

is it feeling given in fear of feeling nothing at all?

in that case, I've mourned often, and full.

can closure come only through streaming tears?

or does that type of grief keep dancing for years?

maybe those who grieve best know most well -

after years lived with such love, they inherit loveless hell.

yes, it seems those are the ones who mourn best:

they know their loved ones more fully

than their own lives, and blessed

were their loves, their passions bright and fair;

so now stop all the clocks: there is nothing left to share.

The Open Mind

2012-01-15T20:29:00.002Z

The open and enquiring mind

can wrap itself as if it 'twere twine,

when open means the same, perchance,

as thoughtfully veiled ignorance.

A mind whose holes, plugged as a sieve,

starched and full of little bits,

can only so disguise its truth

before rushing water shows its proof.

Open knows when to close,

and verity when to disclose;

empty knowledge should not scoff:

it shows its tattered smile thereof.

The open and enquiring mind

knows where to search and where to find:

if answers lay at its feet,

it gives warily, lest it give nothing sweet.

Nirvana

2012-01-09T19:33:00.004Z

Do you know why I love you?

It's because without you, my philosophy

would be incomplete.

Nirvana is not somewhere to sit in isolation -

that kind of peace is brief.

No, you complete me,

complete my situation -

allow me to complete myself.

Not through the repeated use of drugs -

no, not that alone.

Love is the gateway to peace -

Nirvana, my heart, my home.

On Social Injustice

2012-01-09T19:29:00.000Z

Social position is all in the mind -

some gold is iron pyrites, you'll find.

Some silver spoons are made impure;

the plainer the silver, the purer the ore.

Some common blood is with fire infused.

The hierarchy rests on a bed of sand - it moves.

You'll find some people in shackles chained,

their minds held down by mighty weights.

But aspect of thought can pick the lock;

there's no such thing as caste or stock.

No, just preservation of blood and name;

through generations, bonds broken and bonds made.

Death

2012-01-09T19:22:00.001Z

Death does not only take away:

it puts something far worse in place.

It gives wise men doubt, superstition;

in place of knowledge it puts supposition

and wishful thinking;

it taketh away eyes and hands,

rendering the sober insensible.

Fear slinks in on its stomach

to bite at the heels of those etched in concrete,

it freezes those whose thoughts were fluid:

it turneth the mind against itself.

Death puts a sword in one's hand -

a sword which it commands we shall turn inward.

And in the illusion of life and spirit,

it inflicts its ultimate punishment.

The ultimate joke -

but no hands are there to clap,

and no mouths are there to laugh,

and no tongues are there to declaim,

and no crying echoes through the great

halls of humanity.

There is no compassion there,

each tongue twisted in the lie of death.

Humanity's Heir - Petrarchan sonnet

2011-12-11T20:41:00.001Z

It started with the planting of a seed:

He ploughed her, tilled down into her rich loam.

After several weeks she knew her home

To have a third member: with child, they agreed.

They began preparations: changes decreed.

She didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, her body a throne -

A royal palace, an ivory dome.

But soon, water broken, she was due to conceive.

In labour for hours she pushed on through

Until she was born, their darling daughter.

But how queer! Her features were so unlike theirs,

Her nose was unlike, her eyes were too.

But for this they did not slight nor fault her:

World in miniature, she was humanity’s heir.

Pain - ghazal

2011-12-11T20:40:00.001Z

Letme start by making the case plain:

lifeis full of constant pain.

Aninvisible tapestry stitched like rain

youfeel its cool presence, the hand of pain:

wemust go buy food again,

paythe bills and appease this pain.

Andyet our masks paint us sane,

noother way to deal with pain;

turnedaway from ardour’s grain,

storkto stork, friends in pain:

secretlylonging, mouthing consummation’s name,

barriersto body inflict their pain.

Wolvesand sheep in a smoke haze

underscrutiny of spyglass pain,

consumed,consuming; dead and slain,

theworld births us, we feel its pain.

Butwhy should we hold this chain,

enchainedin self-flagellating pain?

Itsbonds are cool and it makes us lame.

Oh,how I long for the happy death of pain!

Yetoften have I wondered of its self-shame.

Doesit pity itself, agonise itself – pain?

Ifnot through love then through bright fame–

canthat give restful peace to this wearied pain?

Dynasties

2011-12-11T20:39:00.001Z

My huge skull a cage of curved teeth,

I shall have my fill, shred flesh.

I grind the bones of young and old, feast

deeply: a terrible lizard, it is said.

I stalk this swamp, smelling the air

for the stink of my prey or decaying flesh.

Clumsily, I trundle and comically scare:

my arms prongs, but a terrible jaw to impress.

The outlook for this evening is moderate to fair;

I love this temperate clime, it’s twilight now.

The blackness strung above me is an inky blare

pocked with a thousand dead eyes, rolled white, staringdown.

But lo, something comes, approaching like a ghost.

The horizon is tipped with light, though not by thelantern of the Sun.

A seam of fire splits the sky, descending parasite tohost,

though I am not quickened, too dumb to run.

Somewhere far ahead a lightshow erupts:

plumes of white light reign up, spirits, angels,

suspended far above for the sky to cup.

But soon they rain down in sharp deadly angles.

I dumbly twist my head from side to side:

all is noise and desperation, cries and flight.

And soon I hear a rumbling, a guttural cry -

like the bellows that come with my tender bite.

The noise increases, the horizon grows dark:

a grey wall of ash washes over the land;

shoulder to shoulder as myriad beasts in march,

a dark and infinite all-consuming hand.

As fire rains down, as stars fall from the sky,

I see a small furry creature scuttling to its hole.

I think, ‘I wouldn’t touch you with yours, why

do you run so with your puny bones and skull?’

As I look upon this creature, a vision flashes across mymind:

I see a small shape ascending a tree,

and after eons and ages of geological time

it descends again, larger, with an axe on its knee;

and mirrored in the approaching vortex of swirl,

whose hot breath seems to lap at my skin,

I see it writ, I amman: destroyer of worlds.

Then I’m taken into the obscure, dark wind.

Madness

2011-09-24T18:43:00.000+01:00

You cannot document madness

until you yourself

have become mad,

but by then maybe it's

too late.

Imagine Nietzsche,

his brain out of breath.

Imagine Plath or Hemingway

on the bony knee of death.

Some people aren't mad,

but still there's a disconnect,

something clicked - or maybe it's

a form of genius.

See Hunter S. Thompson

or Cobain, a fine spattering

of blood and brain.

Shall we ride the madness train?

If you get on, there'll be no alighting:

you'll be frothing, fuming, rocking

and maybe, all the while, writing.

The Dead

2011-09-24T18:39:00.002+01:00

Some people never smile -
they are like horses,
only far less
beautiful.

They bitch and they moan,
and they sulk,
and they take the piss,
laughing from green
distended lips.

Some people never smile -
only at the misfortune of others.
They cry at the thought
of the dead and suffering in Calcutta,
but they spit in the faces
of their sisters and brothers.

They give not a nod
of exception,
nor a wink
of understanding,
but rather a snarl, hidden
in the corner of a smile.

They consummate
in the act of hate,
by honour they're beguiled:
they are the dead
of a million
golden, gleaming
graves.

A Consummation

2011-09-23T22:03:00.001+01:00

It was after dinner.
We, in her large and open flat.
'How are you feeling?' she said.
'Fine,' I said.
'Sure?' she replied.
'Yes,' I smiled, and I kissed her gently
on the lips.

A voice somewhere inside of me
cracked my nerves,
and I carried her small, sweet frame
to the bed.

With no thought of proceedings,
her eyes, small twitching nose, thin lips,
two rows of perfect slanted teeth,
calling, but hands communicating
a gentle intent,
I unclothed her, slippered her shoes
from her feet,
lead her upwards to the throne,
sacrificed her flickering innocence
to the god of love.

An Imprint

2011-09-23T21:55:00.000+01:00

You only know

an imprint of me:

a whisper

or a harsh word.

I caress like the sea,

I've all the madness of the Sun.

The anger in me

peels like a rune,

as the Moon,

a stranger on the run.

You only know a side of me;

less like a coin,

more a regular solid.

A platonic shape,

with shades and grooves.

I'm birdsong, and yet squalid,

a rushing wave,

the invisible crest of a ripple,

a seamless green glade,

the nut of a lover's nipple.

I float with tiny levity,

am drawn by such harsh gravity;

the trees and sky call to me,

the buildings and roads call to me

in a fell and whisperous malady.

I lend my ears,

give my tongue,

I'm standing on a lower rung.

I'm torn between sung and unsung.

I'm on the rack. At the front, at

the back. In the light. In the

gloom. In a room.

I am borrowed,

I am loud, I am

madness, I am

peace. I am a white and

naive beast, a soft and jagged

fleece. I am a smile and a star

winking hot and cooling fast.

You only know an imprint,

a side of me, a thumbprint

with a fractured edge, broken

in touch, or lack of it.

Everything resides in me:

the brakes and the alacrity.

P.S. I don't know what the fuck this is: it kinda got a bit out of hand! But I hope you like it nevertheless.

Bones

2011-09-23T00:18:00.002+01:00

Ourbones connect us

ina chalky prayer, the marrow

handsheld upwards to the font.

Yousee a dog.

Behindits canine exterior,

asmall curved skull with teeth,

atail, several bones in succession.

A small puppy, ears
folded over, dog-eared, lolling,
its small feet soft and
coiled tail bouncing,
and underneath
a faint white shadow of bone.

Yousee a child,

notyet quite skeletal,

moreembryonic in form:

youcouldn’t imagine a skull

behindsuch small and perfect eyes.

Andyet we calcify.

Justlike dinosaurs of old.

Weare the dog’s dinner,

andthe dog’s dinner

isnot so bad.

Wewill sleep an eternal

sleep.Weep the weeping

ofeternal and unfinished dreaming.

Weare connected through

thechalk of our bones, andwe
rub off on one another,
a white sea unseeming.

Pool Pickup

2011-09-22T17:22:00.003+01:00

forChris Peckett

I was splishing andsplashing at the shallow end;

sploshing and splashing,wanting a friend.

Swimsuit-clad women doingeager lengths,

whilst I crouched in thecorner panting for breath.

On the tail-end of a lengtha girl came my way,

a brunette siren – I’d needsomething to say.

I saw a face coming closer,hands parting water,

then she rose, makingripples,

and her breasts made mefalter.

(Her boobs were more likefloating devices –

like buoys out at seapreventing a crisis.)

She came to the end, eagerto go.

I longed to grab hold so she’dtake me in tow.

But what to say? Hello, love,

theysay we’re different strokes,

butlet me give ‘em a feel – show me the ropes.

Or come here often? Fancy havin’ a swim?

There were many things to besaid on a watery whim.

But all that came out was aweak wheezy ‘whaaaaa....’

It’s safe to say my poolpickup failed.

She left me behind on thejetty of fate

and made for the deep end,my sensuous mate.

I did one more length andrecoiled in cramp.

Fuckit,I thought, I’m going home for a wank.

Food for Thought

2011-09-22T17:09:00.001+01:00

Ionce met a man with a Cumberland sausage

wholiked a lady with Yorkshire puddings.

Shehad a friend who was a right Lancashire Hotpot.

Thisfriend fancied a man with Brighton rock

(althoughhe had limpness in his stock).

Hepined after a man from Eccles

whohad a flaky face and freckles.

Thisman had a friend who used food-related language,

andfor whose sake? He loved the Earl of Sandwich.

‘Atrip to see the Earl’s Grave?’ he’d say.

‘That’dbe Kendle Mint Cake!’

Thisman’s friend’s lover was called Patsy,

Cornishby birth –

apparentlyshe liked hers with extra girth....

Herfriend, Eclaire, had chocolate hair

andshe’d always make a mess –

cake,ice-cream, Snickers... she stained her prom dress.

Shedanced at this prom with a boy from Stains

(thefood references stop here, I’m afraid).

Thisboy’s older brother was giving the shaft

toan Oxbridge girl, her bony knees like a giraffe's.

Apolitical prodigy, the Coalition picked her up.

Anawful mission, she did nothing but stress;

shethought, What’s the point? What the fuck?

Itell you, it’s a right bloody national Eton Mess.

Holocene (villanelle)

2011-09-20T11:18:00.001+01:00

Somewhere,on the moor, the river fills.

Theriver turns, the river breaks,

Theriver runs the ragged hills.

Theriver’s wild, but the moor is still.

Theforked sky heaves and shakes.

Somewhere,on the moor, the river fills.

Theriver seeks to quietly kill;

Thewatershed is peaked and quakes,

Theriver runs the ragged hills.

Thetors are swallowed, the river wills

toflood the reservoirs and lakes.

Somewhere,on the moor, the river fills.

Lightningand convulsion, the clouds distil

theirheavy load, the ice to take.

Theriver runs the ragged hills.

Theriver has the land to till;

Theriver turns, the river breaks.

Somewhere,on the moor, the river fills.

Theriver runs the ragged hills.

For Les

2011-09-20T11:12:00.001+01:00

Fancy having a granddad who died

ten years before you were born:

was he still a granddad

if I never knew him?

Fancy having a granddad

whom was a football whizz:

would I be different

for his being alive?

He just fizzled out
like empty wine -
a eucharist
for no one's tongue.

Despite all this,

I sometimes fancy

I can hear him

whispering down from heaven.

He held my elder sister,

though he never held me,

but sometimes I can feel

a soft hand on my shoulder,

a firm hand cradling mine,

my granddad’s voice

whispering Les,

echoing along my spine.

The Whole of Me

2011-09-06T17:22:00.000+01:00

If you really love someone
you must let them go:
they settle beautifully,
but fade as snow.
Impressions last,
love lasts,
peace comes fast,
but life fades.
If you really love them,
tend their grave;
walk them home,
even when they're not there.
See them descend
the eternal stair.
Take their hand,
go in stride,
but let them go,
equal in tow,
a narrow boat
taken by the hands
of the tide.

Sacrifice

2011-09-06T17:19:00.001+01:00

his suffering is my suffering.
he takes the blows with relish,
looks to his foes
for peace.

his suffering is your suffering.
his gaze gentle,
his compassion vast.
grace is a soft rock
borne in a perfect cast.

our suffering is his suffering.
the to suffer, the
have suffered,
children playing games,
the strong and the lame,
the fickle, short-lived pain.
we do not suffer
alone.

the vagabonds, the nomads,
single men
living in vans,
furnished cars beneath stars,
widowers, Mongolian sands....
we do not
suffer
alone.

Life Favour

2011-09-06T17:15:00.001+01:00

Maybe I'm saying all this
not because I'm full,
but because I'm desperate
not to feel
empty.

We are souls with lips
connected in kiss,
our words
harp notes -
discordant at times.

Communicate, don't alienate;
come together,
brace the weather.
Take my hand -
lead the way.

Angels

2011-09-06T17:14:00.000+01:00

I saw two angels
kissing on the corner,
lipping each other
in an all-consuming ritual.

The old,
the ones whom missed the war
but saw the bombs,
think passion is dead,
but passion still exists.

It dwells beneath
lamplight,
on dark street corners,
in the mouths of the young.

Violence is dead
and the world is perfect
whilst these seraphims
kiss, spittle and hungry will
on their lips.

Their mouths seek
the fruit of love;
their hands seek
the gods of sensation,
to feel, to hold
to shake the opprobrium
of the lost love of old.

Morning

2011-09-06T17:09:00.000+01:00

Morning breaks grey
upon the ocean
of the horizon,
Sun spills its way
over the land,
climbing up the sides
of the Earth
like a hamster
in a wheel.
God bless the Sun.
How unfortunate
it gets to watch us perish.
But, my God,
what golden calves to cherish.

Celebrate

2011-09-04T12:42:00.000+01:00

Come celebrate with my family,

and I'll celebrate with yours.

We'll tell of how we crawled

to light

from rabid shores,

seething seas of teeth,

to deserts and oases.

Come dance the eternal dance,

come laugh with your aunts.

Love is easy here -

love is everywhere.

We are one and the same;

we play the fighting game,

we love hard through the pain.

We cling like creepers

to the house,

the house of humanity -

how we defy gravity,

and then land with a bump.

We're knocked about

by love.

Come celebrate with my family -

you're a sister I never met,

a brother I never knew,

caught in a different net,

a lover love chewed;

a blanket or a cover,

the desperate warmth of the moon.

Peel your lips,

lift your hands,

give palmer's kiss,

sophist's bliss,

and we'll celebrate.

Blue

2011-09-04T12:21:00.001+01:00

for Chris and Holly - and Kayleigh

I follow a trail

of broken heels

and torn stockings

to find you,

my right cheek

red raw;

my love

blistering with pain.

To hold you violently,

kiss you deeply,

impart to you

the utter delight and despair

you work

as you pluck me up,

move me about the land.

We dance clumsily,

hold each other up

by our haunches,

drink until drinking’s done,

fight our way into our bed,

sleep till wakeful-spun,

run when waiting comes,

sing the chorus

of our blazing love.

I’ve trudged through pits of cigarette ash;

swum through endless oceans of vodka;

juggled the hot coals of your eyes;

been pierced by your temperament,

your slings and arrows ever sharper,

ever more the narrow.

I’ve breathed the thickest smoke,

sweeter than alpine air,

and I’ve throttled despair.

I follow a trail

of broken heels

and torn stockings,

palm your small feet

like wax pears,

kiss your hair,

show you what I cannot say,

gesture my words away.

We clash like sea and headland,

crumble to the deepest depths

of the bluest love.

Illuminated

2011-09-04T12:20:00.001+01:00

Those others –

they’re not you.

You see me in a different light

because I am illuminated.

I am a fool –

I froth and spill,

my vessel a drunkard’s tankard,

but I would chisel away at myself,

pick my bones clean,

revealing whatever’s left.

You could take it or leave it,

leave me barren,

shivering cold on plutonian shore,

in Arctic waste,

but I know you’d capitalise,

come back for more –

not enough to taste.

You could sculpt me,

pulp me,

I’m formless

except for my desire,

my body a hull

haunted by joy

and an animism

urging me on

to climb higher and higher

and carry you with me.

Love is a Wild and Raging River

2011-09-03T18:45:00.002+01:00

Mylove for you is such

thatif you were to ask me to freeze

inthe perspective of eternity,

Iwould bound ahead,

crashingthrough frozen waves

andgolden sun,

becausemy love knows no bounds.

Anidyll must be held up,

thrustup to the gods;

anidyll cannot survive on mere breath –

itneeds Ambrosia,

lungslike kilns,

armsstrong enough

tocling to the clouds.

Mylove for you is such

thatI cannot say for certain

whetherour love is certain:

agood thing must change;

allthings die.

Onlyillusion can sustain

sucha feeble thing

andfeed it as it clings -

itsoaring on the wing.

Mylove for you is such

thatI would stake my sanity

onmadness:

Iwould hedge all my bets

ongladness.

Iwould delude myself,

givemyself away.

Iwould lose myself

andseek the way.

Anidyll must be held up

againstall odds;

anidyll can never escape death –

itmeets its closure

inthe mirror;

itwill crumble with grace,

feedthe winds of change,

run,as a wild and raging river.

Night Angel

2011-09-03T18:44:00.003+01:00

You are afine wine

and you go tomy head,

I swimlengths,

I swallowwater,

I drown

in yourbouquet.

You arelove’s swine,

a perfectnarrow line,

the prick ofa porcupine,

with spittledo you shine:

in radiance,

night or day.

You drawsense from chaos,

bring me into rest,

a loving,peaceful test.

You weave me

into yourvision,

wear me onyour finger,

sew me withprecision.

Never a harshtongue,

always a softattitude,

I am bornehigh up

above theclouds:

how can oneperson

bear myweight solely

upon theirback?

But you doit:

you don’teven know it,

and that’swhy

I wash yourfeet with kisses,

a baptism oflips,

(though mylips aren’t worthy to kiss

such blissfullyclean

magnificence).

Solace

2011-09-03T18:44:00.001+01:00

Yourlove is like a secret field.

I’mwont to sit alone and ponder,

thepond is lily-crusted, leads to wonder –

myheart grows fonder.

Isit beneath your willow,

harkthe many minnows,

givewing to bright sparrow.

I’mleft wanting winnow.

Ilook inside your chest,

agreen and pleasant crest,

openas the sea,

itopens inwardly,

thenleads to great expanse,

infiniteexpanse,

wherecheap’s the word romance:

lovegrows unhindered there,

unwatched,unwashed,

exceptwith rain,

sacredcows idly champ

thelush grass of your hair,

apalliative for pain.

The Hardest Hands, the Softest Palms (for Guy Garvey)

2011-09-03T18:43:00.003+01:00

So strong,

such a burly lad,

but what vulnerability

in his voice.

Do you sing to us

whilst we die,

in moribund lullaby?

Or do you sing

to keep us alive?

You can get in our spines

without artifice.

You know the quickest way to the heart

is a bullet wound,

quick and painless –

but yours never heals.

We bleed for ever.

Because of you

and your terrible

glorious beauty.

The hardest hands,

the softest palms,

such sensitive elbows,

naked psalms,

and a face made from clay -

fired up by the gods.

We Were Lions

2011-09-02T16:38:00.002+01:00

We were lions - still are.

Our gaze went far.

Standing on the edge

of understanding,

pushing at the fore,

fingering the thread,

we turned fear to dust,

hate to rust,

air to crust...

we were lions,

and we still are.

For You

2011-09-02T15:56:00.003+01:00

For you I’dsave

a keenexchange:

‘How was yoursummer?’

‘It was neverover....’

For you I’dturn

away theyears –

one life tostretch;

stretchedthin,

never broken,

doors to open, leading

to doors toopen.

For you I’dgive

both myhands,

and still I’dknow

your touch,

its memoryburied deep,

never acrutch

to catch me.

Never a lock

to latch me;

my mouthwould open like a rose

and my lovefor you

would neverwither.

Eternal Life

2011-09-02T15:55:00.002+01:00

Havepassion, burn brightly,

mournthe sun nightly,

keepyour joy dancing spritely,

andyou shall live.

Keepopen your heart,

neverfinish what ye start,

giveall for part:

youshall surely give.

Don’tthink away your stars,

don’tpuzzle after Mars,

setpeace to capture qualms;

rapturecannot be sieved.

Don’tthink on the morrow,

givebut never borrow;

doall this and you shall live

andset a golden light to sorrow.

Don't Spit on My Grave

2011-08-11T16:49:00.001+01:00

Treat me like waxed paper,
don't spit on my grave.
Don't wear kid gloves
or skirt the pain,
but lift my memory
like a candle,
and, please, don't spit on my grave.

Take me whole
or take me part,
set the flame
into my heart -
reach into
its darkest part,
but don't spit on my grave.

I always had my mode,
truth is refracted
in emotion's prism,
but don't embellish
and don't compact it,
try not to give into elision.

But mostly, all I ask
is for you to save
the best of me.
Don't spit on my grave.

Desert

2011-08-11T16:46:00.003+01:00

The wind scowls so loud
I can barely think;
the thirst lingers so long
I can barely drink;
the glaring gold
soon falls to ink;
the desert cold
cuts my bones to sand.

Acacia, lizards, scrub, flies,
a place where death patrols the skies,
a place where breath comes in sighs,
a place of shifting seas and land.

I wandered lonely as a dune,
swept past brothers,
watchful clouds loom,
there's something holding
my bones to a tune
of desert death, and its scaly hand.

Note: form was an afterthought - please tell me if you don't think it works.

Squashed Right Down, but Still the Size of God

2011-08-11T16:43:00.001+01:00

The clouds catch the wind
in their sails,
pushed along
the rim of the sky,
great vessels
cracked by the sea
dashed by the sea,
they sometimes end in violence
and you can see their
huge greyness
shuddering
in anger
at end's coming,
but pray do -
please pray do -
and remember their majesty.

Word games

2011-08-11T16:41:00.001+01:00

I am like
the wino's coin: spent.

I am like
hatred's letter: sent.

I am like
anger's tenancy: rent.

I am a
curtailed adjective: gent.

Up and swollen: pent,

the lover's mail: forwarded, magenta,
burnt once read.

Sister (Moon)

2011-08-11T16:38:00.001+01:00

The late heavy bombardment,
and what thanks did you get?
A pock-marked face
and a night light.

We've trodden on you,
swam in your seas
(with machines, in dreams,
down your estuaries).

The Sea of Tranquility -
o! what humility!
A thousand wonders
all begun in pain,
but when do we look up?
When do we crane?

A milkbottle top,
a smooth, pale rock,
the puller of seas,
self-luminous cheese,
the huntress Diana -
but we threw the spanner.

Sod the wonder,
come the blunder;
great sister of night,
we forgot you, all right.

The stars could outshine you,
the Sun could outline you,
its corona like fingers
caressing your back.

White bride of night,
as you wait at the altar
do you sing to the stars,
sing in light?
Or do you mourn the black?

Father (Sun)

2011-08-11T16:33:00.002+01:00

He was always so far,
his alimony merely manna,
rays raised in the depths
of his tumult.
I can almost touch him,
but the memory of him
still burns

my eyes, my hands, my
feet - especially
the eyes.

He'll puff up in death.
never the case in life;
he'll breathe his last breath
and we'll atomise.

Father, did you ever care?
Or were you merely there?
A father must always swear,
but you hold your breath,
a lungful of air;

and after 9 billion years,
puffing red,
you'll say you love us -
that love you'll swear -
but by then we'll all be dead.

Mother (Earth)

2011-08-11T16:30:00.002+01:00

Pregnant with minerals,
iron baby churning in the womb,
cornstalk hair bristling,
brushed by the Moon.
Her nerves are trees,
her blotches seas,
oceans her eyes -
corneas the skies.

She sees herself,
her perilous health,
but always she heals;
her lips are sealed.

In the cold of space,
in ancient wastes,
in nothing's womb
where nothing blooms,
she sits in peace.

Beneath the fleece
of atmosphere
her little darlings wander near,
their hearts purloined by petty fear,
but near to them
embrace of love.

The gods are cold,
there flies the dove.

Scar Tissue

2011-08-11T16:27:00.001+01:00

I bought 3kg of beef,
cut it into quarters
looked at all that waste
of cow
and thought,
How can I live with myself?

Poems are Tigers

2011-08-11T16:26:00.000+01:00

The imagery
should splash up into your face,
creeping like a sea
with an ocean on its mind,
its watery tendrils
climbing up your skin
to drown you.

Take it all in,
one breathe after another,
filling your lungs
filling you up
taking you off
up into the sky with it.

It comes quietly
screams violently
dies silently
lives bashfully
enters skilfully
leaves whole.

You See It at Dusk

2011-08-11T16:20:00.002+01:00

It's a miracle:
you exist!
Ring the bell!
Sound the horn!
Breathe it in.

You exist!

The sweep of cloud
on high,
the blue sky.
Open your eyes.

You exist!

This is not a simulation.
The light is perfect, the words adequate,
the heart laid out
like a great red salt pan of flesh
before you,
a fan of muscle
so huge,
shivering its wafers
like fingers,
possessed
of itself,
so alive.

So run into
the red waters
of your heart,
because

you exist.

Plastic Dolls

2011-07-23T13:32:00.000+01:00

I love serious young girls,
so adamant they're women,
so drunk
on their own little experience,
that first little hit
of wine.

They brood and they
sulk, and their shoulders
are cold,
their moods
are precious flowers,
not flowering
in their own gardens.

Light them up
in sexual experience,
and they will go out
quickly
like a blanketed flame,
their warmth not kept
by the coals of passion.

The Madness of the Crowd

2011-07-23T13:30:00.002+01:00

I'd rather have
solitude for a companion
than
several hundred
loose talkers,
dancing siphers,
merchants of
alcohol lip-service.

Why join the crowd,
barbaric,
idiotic,
when you could
fester alone,
in a more civilised
fashion?

Then again,
I'm not Bukowski -
I've got a long way to go
yet.

Life is

2011-07-19T16:35:00.000+01:00

one man
eating alone.

Life is a man
at shopfront doors
smiling
a weak smile,
wearing the face
of an organisation.

Life is a series of wins
clouded by ultimate defeat;
the loss of time
and everything sweet.

Grab onto its tail,
ride it -
try to avoid the horns.

(But they will get you
eventually.)

A Token

2011-07-19T16:27:00.002+01:00

A cigarette
is a life:
born ready made,
ready to be
lit.

But will you light it?

Burning down to the nub,
its amber eye
slowly dying,
being smoked
of its will.

It was lit.

Born ready made,
a beautiful thing to hold,
to feel
between your lips,
but never a cigarette
until met by flame.

Will it, light it.

Killed by flame,
born in flame,
dependent on flame,
fearing flame,
loving flame,
it is a beautiful thing.

But will you light it?

It Comes

2011-07-18T16:56:00.001+01:00

The worms are squirming

under the house,

down

under the house.

The weeds are rising

through the concrete,

the dandelions rise.

Frost-thaw is

breaking

the roads,

cracking

the roads.

Humanity

such a heavy load.

Requiem for the Living

2011-07-18T16:50:00.000+01:00

Modernism's return,

the fatigue of existence,

bury the living

in hopelessness,

flowers might grow from dreams,

the death of the eternal

zero point

might sow a vision.

Eyes fixed on the distance,

the grave invisible,

the horn of death now

so clear

and so loud.

The marching has begun.

But where are the marchers?

Steel, Flowers, Future (eternal life)

2011-07-18T16:49:00.000+01:00

Whatever the crest,

I shall be riding it,

borne forwards

by the winds of destiny

triumphantly,

eternally,

the 21st

century.

(Only kidding.)

My Gift

2011-07-18T16:47:00.001+01:00

With poems of clothes

I spin myself a gown,

I wear these colours

for you:

I hope you like them.

Free

2011-07-18T16:42:00.001+01:00

Water and a seat,

a river and a log;

the sea of the sea,

the bog of the bog.

That's all right for me -
I claim my claim;

I get mine for free,

give each

its given name.

My City

2011-07-18T16:40:00.003+01:00

The strange thing about Brighton is
that everyone takes it so slow,
the buffalo
stampede
so quietly here.

Any other city
would spin on its head,
its thread
threaded
that much tighter;

but Brighton is quieter,
slighter,
mightier

than any city on wheels.

Brighton is a hush
of colourful mouths,
a blush
of colourful blouse,
the rush
of a single mouse,

but, my god,
it seems to press in
so tight.

You're Invited

2011-07-15T14:37:00.000+01:00

Empty laughter
comes from the fullest lips,
and pointed fingers
grow like sunflowers
from the gentlest hands,
their large
yellow eyes
like beads watching the sun.

Bukowski

2011-07-15T14:34:00.002+01:00

If a child could write,

Bukowski.

If innocence,

tarred black,

glistened white

beneath the moon,

Bukowski.

If a child's words

were knives

and it

spat

at the womb,

Bukowski.

Youth (for Hank)

2011-07-15T14:31:00.001+01:00

youth

is a white horse

running into the hills.

as it runs,

its legs become

supple, strong,

terse,

like the tendons running through

the most brilliantly simple prose.

but then lines begin to develop,

sink

into furrows,

its legs buckle.

it dies thirsty

beside the clearest stream

never seen,

and the nomad's eyes

weep

as he looks on

past this scene of loss

to the gloaming

descending down

the white fields of nirvana.

The Calling

2011-07-14T15:45:00.002+01:00

my heart aches,

my heart sings,

my heart wants to

leave

the confines of

whatever four walls

pin it in.

I have

a higher

spiritual calling.

a moment in suspension

2011-07-14T15:44:00.002+01:00

a cloudy sky is powerful:
there's unbroken tension in it;
the colours like a bruised thumb,
some god's thumb,
some inker's thumb,
tinker's thumb,
that bruise spilled outward
as clouds
in the act of creation.

crepuscular rays come and go
as cumulus stray,
and the sun blends
the earth
in yellow yolk.

A bright reflection,
a sky full of tension,
a moment
in suspension.

The 80s

2011-07-14T15:39:00.001+01:00

Duran Duran

were hungry like the worm,

their eternal squirm

a squelching in my ears.

Tears for Fears,
the eighties peel
away, old wallpaper
not pasted sufficiently.

Come on down to
the Waterfront
to drown yourself
or drink to your health.

And maybe you'll see
the iron skull
of Mrs Thatcher
staring back at yer,

the sea the colour
of bad money,
slowly bruising grey
under a perfect sun.

On the organisation of words

2011-07-11T15:47:00.002+01:00

Ifyou were to look up my bowel

you’dfind

theugliness

ofbad punctuation:

distendedhyphens

withgaping mouths

anddumb

pointingfingers:

lookat me,

Ilead you somewhere

andI’ll show you where.

Allyou need

iscommas

andfull stops.

Semi-colons

arefor the faint of heart.

Hyphensare like

boulders

perturbingthe stream.

Todream, to dream, to dream,

perchanceto write,

beautiful,complete sentences

thatspeak and give light;

butsometimes

youhave to break your own

rules.

The ugliness of extrapolation

2011-07-11T15:44:00.002+01:00

Agalaxy at one end

aturd at the other;

lightshines on all,

andwhat a shame that is.

In Archibald MacLeash's breast pocket

2011-07-11T15:42:00.002+01:00

Poetryis like a flower:

itsconditions for growth are

invisibleperfections

andits season lasts

onlyso an hour.

Poetrysweeps the air

insearching for the sun

butoften finds

onlydust.

Aragged wound

inpain is spun,

itspetals blossom

outand red.

Poetryis like a flower

bledof its essence,

yetstill it stands,

itsstory to shower.

Poetryis a flower, a flower

onlyto show;

totell would be impossible:

ithas no mouth, only hands

andto touch

isto know.

Capable

2011-07-11T15:13:00.003+01:00

Theuniverse is absurd,

whichis why we must

fight

againstit.

Theuniverse is quite beautiful,

whichis why

it’sso painful

toconceive of.

Likeangels born of flame,

aheavy mix

offire and ice;

darknessand light

thename of the game –

tunnelledtowards death

likeweary-pawed mice.

Theswagger of youth,

thedreams, in fancy dream’d,

snaggedby the root,

anidle spray of leaves.

Doall you must,

thepower in your hands

islike cutting, jagged dust

callingyou to make a stand.

Eachday is like a howl

fromthe lonely wolf’s lungs,

as,alone, your time you prowl,

eachhour its only one.

Theuniverse is absurd,

whichis why we must

fight

againstit.

Theuniverse is quite beautiful,

whichis why

it’sso painful

toconceive of.

The creeping time

2011-07-11T15:07:00.004+01:00

gets into one’s skin,

changes it inexorably,

leaving behind

an alien thing.

All my life,

all my pain,

all the punches taken,

all the lumps swallowed,

it builds up

like a mountain of rice

(but I gave

as good as I got).

Alone. Is it so bad

to be

alone?

One wants for nothing

on one’s own –

a man cannot

know himself

until he’s alone.

Why do we need people?

Those voices,

their touch –

why?

And why do I

shatter

before them?

The days are growing dark.

I don’t know whether I

seek the light

anymore.

I’ve never been in love,

never made love,

never fought with my fists.

Piss, piss it all away –

all the time, every day.

Limp, like the softness

inside a limpit,

hard

like the hardness

of a confused and fleshless life.

To Have and to Hold

2011-06-28T11:39:00.003+01:00

To peel theorange segments

of your lips

and sheave yourleaves with paperclips.

Bronze is notbronze nor bold,

if I’ve not youto have and to hold.

Your starry eyespull an eclipse

over my planetas it dips.

Your sun is warmand would not scold:

I long for fireand gold, sweet embers

of your fire andgold,

to have and tohold.

Your back archesacross my night,

its milk likemilk beyond milk-white,

and I fear you’llleave my sight,

to never havenor hold.

And down theriver I’ll be sold,

the stars forever far and cold,

and the rougecup, at which I’ll never drink;

neither had norheld, but proud to sink.

To peel theorange segments

of your lips,

and sheave yourleaves with paperclips.

The truth byangels’ brass shall be foretold:

will you bemine, my love, to have and to hold?