Monday, 23 July 2012


He walks with smiles through spills of budging mumblers
shorn of locks. The sandy tiles reflecting
talking chins. Encompassing music falls
like sleet. A shiny road bordered fiercely
with shops. The staff, like soldiers after war
patrolling fields of cloudy gory jewels.

And in the street they dress as superman
with forms and forceful laughter they descend
and rip the pennies from the bashful kind
for beasts and babies. The photogenic sluts
adorning all their posters with their tears.
He watches from a window safe and separate.

And then he sees the girl with hairy tits
fading through the crowd. She swats his eye
and quickly turns away. He keeps on walking
towards the nearest sliding doors. A modern
miracle of glass that often jams.
Then air conditioning wheezes like a slave.

And in the cafe with a tea and keyboard
he taps away and empties vibeing brain cells
 out on the screen. They look like suited chimps
all woolly, dense and dressed up for a party.
He overhears a woman loudly moaning
about the price of coffee. He hates bitches
with that tone of voice. He hits full stop.

Saturday, 21 July 2012


Yellow stripes across the creamy
curtains. Hanging ruffled by the
solid squares of hunkered cushions
pitched together, front of speckled
windows white with roving light.

Passing motors under chirping
birds. A watered rinse of sky
and fluffy serpents white and diving
down into the swoon of rooftops.
Along the street, no face, no feet

tramp along the crumpled bend.
I, alone, sitting meekly
under floors, under sky
pondering the time and place
 and by what phrase shall it be framed?

Fading brightness storms the moment,
stillness itches with the pace.
Down the road, a silent cyclist
passes on my silent breath.
Windows grey with leaving day.

Creamy patches on the eggshell
curtains. Scrunched and tightly wrinkled.
 Frowning hunkered chairs conspire
together. Before the dappled windows.
Sunny phantoms of the atoms
melt upon my iceberg mind.

Tired Writer

Gentle moss sleeps
Between the stiff grey crags
Outside my door.

Upstairs my ghost creates
stories within the memory flat
I have no key for.

Writers voice complains
in my jar of skull crammed scrap
his sullen war

and who’s to say what notes cannot be played?
Outside, a fat and throaty bird is coughing…
Shall all my keys lay dusty with the weight
of our traditions? Every balding faith?
…in elbow holding breeze. An empty morning.