She’s fighting the last love war
trying to fix whatever went wrong
making the new one into the last one
then wondering why he’s gone
I wish I could be a force for change
for herself, if not for me ~
but she’s fighting the last love war again
and I’m just ammunition, I see.
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 6:45 AM UTC
You can’t have it on budget
Can’t have it on time
It’s a great British underachiever;
It also can’t go
Where you want it to go ~
And it can’t be high-speed either.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 10:11 AM UTC
It used to be the hardest word to say
A word that kills and steals and takes away
The chance of making ‘us’ of ‘you’ and ‘me’…
But I make that chance eternal now, I see
By saying ‘goodbye’ with joy and pride and flair ~
And knowing I’ll say it soon again, somewhere.
It’s only cruising; it’s only leaving
It’s only flying; it’s only freeing
Performance video:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbBKWHd4E_0
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 7:22 AM UTC
Wednesday, January 4, 1967 –
The ray of steel cut through the mist and took a swooping turn
At the far end of the ice-edged lake in a wash of wilful glow
The lady of the smooth lagoon had seen curses in the cards
‘I’m going, he’d said, ‘I’m going’ ~ and she had begged, ‘Don’t go’
Skippered at a master’s hands she set off on a run
If any flags caught bonnie eyes then only he would know
The mordant man of money had warned of ruin in delay
‘I’m going, ‘ he’d said, ‘I’m going’ ~ to be curtly told, ‘Well, go’
It might have been a wayward wave or a log awoke from sleep
But she began to ***** and twist in a battle for control
The muted bear of memories sat always at his side
‘I’m going,’ he said, ‘I’m going’ ~ and it seemed to whop, ‘Let’s go!’
Her nose turned brave towards the moon; she seemed near set to fly
Until the deep tore back her tail and cast a deadly roll
I saw what I’d been afraid to see; the radio made it true;
‘I’m going,’ he said, ‘I’m going’ ~ And I said, ‘I know.’
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 4:42 AM UTC
The calf lived, sadly, not as long as I
And had as much decision in its end
As I did in my start. I am a monk
Because an abbot, seeing in my eyes
A sense of understanding o’er my years
Instructed that I should be given up
And sent to learn the silent ways of prayer
In grey and brown and cold dark abbey walks.
Before my second sleep I would escape
From blank recitals, to the room of books
Where ****** and points of colour brought to life
The words that we were ordered to live by.
Among those pages I beheld my call
As distant from and better than my kin –
The art that called my wayward eye to flow
Was sense that moved as easily as air.
It must not be that simple, I was told –
The rules are more important than the work;
And while I bowed and took their words as law
I sensed their fear of power as from God.
For word of law to them was everything:
It kept the abbot in his house of gold
And every novice living in the thought
That one day such a life would be his own
If only he ignored his sense of self.
I pricked and pinned and copied sacred texts
A line a day, the pigments dull and flat
Until the moment came to decorate
The words of God impressed on pelt of calf;
And then I felt as if I were in charge –
The choice was down to me to use bright tones
To turn the eyes to points upon the page
So the Word was told, but under my control.
I truly felt that I was in the place
That God Himself appointed me to be;
That every shape I crafted passed His Word
In such a way that no one could reject
The power, truth and honesty bestowed.
Yet, while my masters revelled in the fame
That texts which I had drawn brought to their house,
I could not reconcile within my mind
The knowledge that the work I made was seen
Only and alone by parish priests
And not the congregation in itself –
The folk who needed most to see my art.
Kings and cardinals have made a much
Of certain pages that I came to make
Once seniority brought me to a place
Where I could do the which that I believe
Will bring me to the Lord beyond my death.
And yet as I observe my life’s labours
As work to be collected, traded, sold;
While I am told my only best reward
Is to be left to do the which I do –
I find I cannot live a moment more
Without accepting that, within my soul,
I always had to do what I now will.
The calf lives, strangely, further more than I
But had far less decision in its end
Than I have in my own. We are the page –
And as I realised, seeing in my eyes
A sense of understanding, oft denied,s
Instructed me, myself, to end my years
By teaching that my colours are a prayer
For grey and brown and cold dark abbey walks.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 2:35 AM UTC
We know you know what we are:
Fried embers of a murdered star
Learning nothing; flying far
Not knowing where to go
Inhaling fuss and bleeding rust
Stalking souls and burning trust
Functions of a fractured lust
We’re just the dust
We’re just the dust
A raging ball of angry aeons
Flamed out; flailed by zero seasons
Debris of a thousand reasons
Trying to be more
Selling hopes for boom or bust
To get there fast but get there worst
We must, we must increase our ******
We’re just the dust
We’re just the dust
The shadows of tomorrow
Cast a thick and anxious gloom
And you’re more scared than I am
And that just fuels my defiance
But we’re just the dust
Inhaling fuss and bleeding rust
Stalking souls and burning trust
Functions of a fractured lust
Selling hopes for boom or bust
To get there fast but get there worst
We must, we must increase our ******
We’re just the dust
We’re just the dust
We know you know we’re just the dust
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 8:05 AM UTC
And tell me you remember where you were
When they dropped the second algorithm bomb
Sun-shaming ball of temporary hope
Tarnished by a deep, cold, looming wrong
The screens all froze on maybe-later promises
The half-lie post-truth fakes of future’s bloom
Solidified in data mines of darkness
Embedding us in long-dead limestone tombs
You come to stand and stare and shoot the warning
A muted clip to tick-tock down the wire
Expressed in harsh, scared timeless sculptured screams
As Fate decries your digital desire
The new clear winter lasted long enough
For history to be retold and fast forgotten
Leaving us as Nagasaki shadows –
Making bombs of us, and making shades of you
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 8:00 AM UTC
I got there six thousand years after he’d gone. It took me that long to find where I needed to be.
The message was still warm, even under the frosted stones. I felt it at the moment the steep hills finally bent towards the glen.
Whoever he was, if it hadn’t been me, knew words would change; so he left the message in a feeling. In the cold that bit my fingers, in the frost-fingers that spread across the stones of Temple Wood, in the silent solitary standing-stone fingers that stretched up to the pinked midwinter sky.
The message didn’t reach my ears – it missed, or I missed it. And the poisoned modern part of my mind pretended to dismiss it.
I almost felt like I should bend my knees to catch it. Every stone on every mound begged to be stolen; promised an explanation. I resisted. They let me go.
“You can’t have this,” he was saying, I think. “It’s lost. It’s not even here any more, just an echo. Where is it?”
Well… I know where it is. It’s behind a door in my mind. It’s not the time to find it. I’ve waited six thousand years. So has he.
But he’s asleep, and I’m not.
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 7:58 AM UTC