The brief needle in my arm
and onwards
the dog with the slobbered tennis ball
the boys braving bare feet in the stream
and onwards
soft wind still with a sharp edge
the brief needle in my arm
the tumble song of the ice cream van
and onwards

Can water know
when it flows and drips like rain
through the palm of your hand
does it understand
and feel for the drops that remain
to linger
on your freezing fingers

Look at us perched again,
anxious dreams set in long gone buildings
where the kids won’t do a thing we ask
and for some reason we’re naked
(except for a mask)

And as my old man says,
the conveyor belt hasn’t so much as slowed
so our wish for a cautious toe to get set
will be whipped from starter to panicked plenary
before we hear the gun crack

Know this, comrades:
the holes in our practice we think show clear
are lost to the fizz and bubble of our charges.
When Monday comes they’ll listen (mostly)
as we carry on regardless.

We were once well acquainted
with the wee small hours
adept at navigating neon jungles
and the deeps of kitchen philosophies
entwined with kebabs and illicit frissons,  
in vino veritas conspiracies
that took weeks to unpick and apologise for
but passed

Now, if seen, those hours hold different snags,
surrounding plants are far less exotic
but familiar brambles cut deep,
immutable truths roar
when the ***** doesn’t do the talking
and morning burrs not so easily dislodged
by a full English and a million teas

As a ring of gold in a swine’s snout,
     So is a lovely woman who lacks discretion.
                                                   Proverbs 11:22

Bang that thing:

Angry piano,

All black keys,

Sharps and flats;

Pull that ring out of your snout

And POUND that thing.



Then, that ring:

take it, melt it down,

make a mold,

cast a god,

and bow before your idol

(a vicious poem).

My cutting tool has lost its edge.

This cutlery is rusted.

   Not because it is growing old,

but because it is growing disgusted.