When sun's breath fires
  wire frame.
Displayed behind
  flat sparkling gravity.
Moon's light casts
  dark mist over murky waters.
Ushering the ark
  gliding over crescent waves:
On raging towers of indignant froth
  not serene silk smooth vast ocean.
    It reaches the dove, carrying branch;
     Holding it aloft as it is
      The     Saint    of the sentence.

This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a   poem. This is not a     poem. This is not a
                Poem. This is not a.                       Poem.

I look out of my window
And see clouds lightly
prickled by antenna
And gently swaying leaves.
But really,
I see nothing at all.

This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This

Inside, there is an urge for authenticity;
for metaphor - unadulterated expression -
which strips my skin bare, holds me up
to whipping winds and striking dusts: I am the
  Tanner

preparing my own skin. I would trim excess
fat and sinew and soak and stretch it thin,
like partchment, naked in the world's eye -
  Yet I don't know how
  To make my words transparent.

It takes honesty to thrive in insecurity
And bare the storm that afronts all
  Being;
To make my words discreet
Symbols:
Pillows on empty dreams. She is the
  pacifier, the lover and tyrant - all in one.

So, I don't know how to show
what I want to show. How to
use words, form, syntax and
language to convey meaning.
I say what it is that I want to
say and that is all, no more
Than that. But that is what is
so
  naked
About poetry. The
  doubt

that interrogates every line - really - a
forced-pauser, preventer, wall that stretches
infinitely narrow across every dimension.
It is what makes the end. Never

  the end

Ode to the Stream that sits stagnant
somewhere over Northgate Green:

I have sat by it and observed
Rippled currents falling down
Into murky shallows, an un-natural
Green, like mountain-dew
Breathing frothy spots of bubbles
That circle a rhubarb vape
And a sprite can and a
Heineken can and a
Little hopping Wren darting
Between curled roots.

I remember too,
The drips of
Rain water
Worming
Down the dingy
Alleyways of
My childhood,
Dripping down
Nettles and
Seeping into
Cracked brick and
Sodden dirt
And part of - now a -
Sordid cigarette packet.

And from some
Geography class,
I remember how
This water was
Reborn, once
In massive clouds,
Grumbling masses,
Sky's mother who
Shadows the

Bursting
Writhing
Violent
Rivers
And
Vast Fjords
And
Reaching Peaks
And
Breaching Skys
And
Once
Birthed
As torrent
Rainfall
Tearing
Massive wounds
Into tectonic
Plates

The
Blood of matter
And organism
And that which
Carries our ****
In every form

But that's not all. As, I recall:
The lifting motion of staring
Into 'etched lines of water'
From rain, tracing bulbous
Recollections on opaque glass
And knowing they don't
Know where they are going
And I bask in the significance of
This insignificance.

Controls the world
With soft power.
But like a limp ****
'Soft power' is only
There when it
Can become hard.

The train huffs and bellows;
Screeching tracks sparking
Waves of rolling roaring
Like stretched thunder,
Booming in rapid motion.

Above, a plane traces an arc
Of breathy fury, compressed
And exploding voraciously.
It erupts in ignited screams
Across the moon-lit sky.

Always, too, the forever pops
And sliding-low gurgling of cars
And trucks and motorbikes, vague
Ticks of missing-beats, sparse
Rumbles of howling engines and

Flashing sirens piercing
Continuous above it all.
A cat (probably) somewhere
Screams nearby.

All returns to normal.

The rhythm seems to have gone
From my life, the rhyme and repetition
Too, no longer can I feel the beating
Heart
Or fairy dance
Or magical prance
Of unicorns on the moon.

The silly and the sublime,
The beautiful
Hearty laughs
And beaming faces
Filled with
Overflowing joy.
No
Giddy naive excitement
Or
Fleeting
Blushes
Sweetly nervous anticipation
Of the new.

What once beamed
With significance,
Now glimmers dimly;

An ecstatic spark in
The huddled crevice
Of my mind,
Primed to
Jump
For joy
And slide
Down rainbows
Of chocolate swirls
And frolic in daisy fields
And sing in exalted careless tones
Signalling nothing but the very most
Of absolute and purely
Overwhelming
All-consuming
Sickly sweetening
Joy.