Thursday, 8 February 2018

The back of the shelf.

All night conversation
The thrill of the bus journey
Drinking till you speak something of the truth
The white noise inside
Vomitting words to 200 beats per minute
Stumbling for a piss
Eyes stinging, borrowed fag unlit.
Loose change and sweat.
Waxen face, painted like a death mask.
You found nowhere.
Drunken embraces.
Slurred words as we cling to each other.
Spinning and breathing great gulps of cold smoky air
by the bus station.

Sunday, 4 February 2018


Winters war is almost run.
Spring lies coiled,
taut and waiting
to burst for the light.
Throwing tendrils,
clinging to tiny handholds,
its grip thawing, digging, clawing,
Pushing its way through hard ground
Splitting tarmac, forcing it up and out.
Smothering winters work.
Woodcut crisp lines made filthy with green.

Monday, 29 January 2018


Green copper is municipal.
Like great hulking metal radiators
Caked with paint but furnace hot.
the smell of chlorine and lukewarm footbaths.
Doors too heavy to yield to a child's most insistent shove.
Preformed concrete and plastic carpet which will skin your knees.
Yesterday's future is tomorrow's investment opportunity.

Saturday, 27 January 2018


Raindrops cling for a while, pooling on vertical glass
defying gravity.
Then running, jagged mad patterns
leaving a wake of spidery trails.

I will walk in the fields.
Stalks of dead corn,
ghosts of a harvest
broken corpses of a summer past.

A patchwork square
divided by hawthorn
ploughed into horizontal submission
revolution suppressed by chemical.

Up and down
a sodden, rutted parade ground.
West to east.
East to west.

Thursday, 18 January 2018


Time is the thief of attention
Blurring the detail, the diamond shimmer of dew on the grass
Smudging the edges, dulling the shine.
Colours fade in the pull of the tide.

Monday, 8 January 2018

I wrote it.

Nothing special this - I just haven't written for a bit and wrote this to demonstrate something about adapting stories for different audiences. I wondered if I could give it some attention later and flesh it out and that and it might be better than it is so putting here to remember.

There was nothing for Mr H. Dumpty to do. He was a fat man. An egg shaped man. Not a pretty young thing. A fat old egg shaped man. He’d had a job once. A job he’d enjoyed. They closed the factory down. Knocked it to the ground.
He wanted to do something but everywhere he went he got told. ‘No jobs here mate’ So he drunk. Cider, vodka, whatever he could get his hands on.
One day they was a parade. A royal parade. At last! Something to do.
Mr Dumpty got up early and went to get a good view. He climbed up on a wall and sat there, waiting for the parade. Of course, he’d brought his vodka with him.
He waited and waited, until finally the king’s parade was passing. The crowds waved and cheered and Mr Dumpty waved and cheered as well. He waved for all his life was worth. He waved, desperate to be seen, desperate not to be a nobody, desperate to be a somebody for a moment, desperate for the king to see him, just for a split second, to be gazed on by royalty, to be watched by someone who mattered, he waved and he waved and he waved so much that….
He fell. Crack. Head, pavement. Skull split like a delicate eggshell.
There was a commotion in the parade. The king had seen him fall. He ordered his men to the scene.

But it was too late. They couldn’t revive him. No matter what they tried.

Wednesday, 27 December 2017

Tis the season for self pity
and bodies in the snow
For bullet wounds
and barbed tongues.
Tis the season to be sorry
Plummeting to earth
Through black and white clouds
To die in checkerboard fields
Peace and goodwill to all men.