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A W Bullen Jun 2020
"Helmets back on"

sighed, Fox to The Owl

"the lock-down is lifting,
they're coming back out...."
Take your ******* home.
A W Bullen Mar 2017
Get back to me on this one...or not....Smoke on, drink on, be one XXXX
A W Bullen May 2016
I have to unhand her, unhold her,
spell a widdershins wander
to unpick the stitches of time
sewn together.

I have to unlive her, unlove her,
-muster a fiction, a line of defence,
a charm of protection, a cobbled pretence
to convince that I'm better without her,

- but to court a dementia
that summons a shade
to centre upon the mistakes
that we made-
is, itself, a deceit.

For there were such pleasures
embossed on the soul
to remain in forevers
that cannot be changed.
A W Bullen Jul 2021
No wonder
ants have flown

a ***-full of this pitiful metropolis
has seen them blow
their savings on a thermal

made them dinner
for a ministry
of manic snapping mandibles
who,wheeling on the gables
of the capital amenities

cannot believe their luck..

reeling high in my eleven
is a one-stop- tuck- shop
no-*****- given

as I'm peeling
off the sitter
on a forklift truck
Ants flew today!!
A W Bullen Jul 2022
new words
to see
it through.

a pseudo
grown easy
on the eyelet,
fits, apparently

the derelict
it cannot be
this much is all

The All, we are
to ever have
and less the time
to take

Seems aeons
since the badlands
let, their Agincourt
of arrowheads,

projecting from
the epicentred
of Your

a softer
than before

yet, pertinent,
as ever


back to you
A W Bullen Aug 2017
Beware the Incredible ******

The One who comes in the night.

He's a fleet footed ******
of minimal morals,

and he will steal your bike.
what an absolute incredible bike-stealing ******

I'm's all good...
A W Bullen Feb 2023
it begins..

tiptoes down the bantam
skin, one bird awake

water holds both
cold and oldness
somehow fresh

and freezing air
grows, unaware

that yesterday

A lorry carries
off the stars

The barking dog



insistent as the car
alarming movement
at the window
A W Bullen Mar 2017
Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where

The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.

Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.

She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.
A W Bullen Feb 2022
I note
the bird sings

but does not
sing for me
A W Bullen Dec 2021
And I shall
flinch the brittle creature
from the rock face

with frightening

to your glorious embrace,
I must comply,

vulturine, delirious
impervious to pain

near that place
between excitement
and all possible regret

I will go by
A W Bullen Mar 2020
" It's why
these things
will always be
bigger than us"


In truth it's been
a long time coming

Something only seen
beneath the scrutiny
of microscopes
has found us out,

our house of cards
and sped us to
our place
of fear

over pasta
milk and money
we appear no more
than primitive....
This pandemic has given rise to testing times, but what has shocked me is the hording mentality of many shoppers.
A picture taken of an elderly woman, with a shopping basket looking at empty shelves, really ****** me off. There is no need for this to happen at all!
We should be absolutely ashamed of ourselves, at this wanton display of greed...really!!!!
Some of our older generation can still recall rationing- and our avarice has subjected them to this- it's ******* disgraceful !, our knuckle-dragging first-come, first-serve attitude needs to be binned off, right now!!!

Fair play to the Supermarkets who have set aside specific hours for the elderly and the emergency/ health workers.

Shame on the people who made these specific hours a necessity.

Get a ******* grip!!!!!!
A W Bullen Aug 2020
It was there
we ran like
lambs to laughter,
loved by landscape
further faster,

faster than
a smarting starlight,
hoofed in dew-soaked
volleys from our meadow
kicking feet..

and onward, upward

those tracks
of flattened rye,
then took the dry-stream
bed by storm,

leapt the dams,
with air-sprung ease,  
and wore our leaf-haired
voices wider

quelled our glare
in sky-torn ponds
at peace,
our surrounding....

where, to, now
the Birchwood boys,
our atoms split,
our cells dividing

from our
founding frolic,

gone to chase
the last day down.
A W Bullen Jan 2021
Bet you that
the jet-stream brings,
the split ends of
old hurricanes,
pensions off
their stroppy baggage,
coughing up their
weeks of rain.

Feels wrong
without the cold

without Siskins,
without Redpolls... outside chance
of white-winged gulls
appearing down
the bay...
A W Bullen Sep 2023
Long time - no sea

and feelings of the ocean-pull
have gained the upper hand,

There is nothing here
in writing,

just pigeon- breasted
increasing stipulations

All that meadowsweet
and moonshine ran,
to desert sand androgony

sank lower
than the daily dip
of fire's head in middle distance

Dizzy social densities
imported inner-city syndromes
proffer only impotence
of temporary reprieve

seems hard to bed
the disenchanted,
sickening for cigarettes
for solitary epithets


So, hide away
demands that breed
the need to know the answers

Been peeking
round the prism bars
empowered sense of self defeat

For sugared-melon hedonism
far too many lines have soured


Long time - no sea...
A W Bullen Jul 2017
Head notes

Of loam fringed apple trees,
of near-but- nether fuchsia roots
A timeless travel of ridge top tiles.
Steepled spins of weathervanes,
A sobriquet of pre- dawn rainfall.

Heart notes

Of hornbeam,
of coriander deer path.
Memories of bonfire- hope
in ragwort sprays of yearning.
A hint of feelings half remembered.
Of longbows hewn from churchyard yews.
Of rope swings and of scaffold

Base notes

Of river mist.
Poseidon wreaths of furnace ash,
allied to a merlot tint of afterglow release.
Endings are, valerian,
patchouli heads of linen musk.
A lasting peace of closing lawns
that wait approaching snow.
A W Bullen May 2016
No sound disturbs
The cloud curled steeps of sea green pines
whose clinging oceanic thoughts
are freed, released from malted slopes.
Respired slow , the sallow spirals
herd to high, still, corrugations,
Their purse; a billion brooches
For their keep.

And, then a Raven
Barks its gloat across the drab pavilions
A dauntless hermit sculls away,
on myth buoyed strokes, to beat the bounds.
Carried from the pinioned ridge
away to secret monasteries.
Climbing from embroidered
oriental looms of Beech
An Autumn day in the Eifel region of Germany. The verse is really just selected field notes.
A W Bullen Jul 2021
I feed the Bees.

the Bees feed me.
A W Bullen Jan 2017
When the torque of speech is such
that stapled teeth would seem a wiser lot.
When thought is but a hemlocked lash
of passionate disdain..

..then to the water I return...

A sack of cats for Naiads, hatched
about the reedy bridge, I’ll give
my all to them.
To cross their palms with lighter steps
I call to them from oily depths of
worn illumination.

Here, patience sees them come..

In winter cools of briny shift
to press their vagues upon the lips
of tinkers, by the flotsam slum..

..As Canton sirens pilot tension
through the gentian-violet haze,
so distant trains commemorate

  a quiet absolution.
A W Bullen Oct 2020
All abound
in crimson throws,
low lamentation
bids farewell,
for beaten folk, who,
troubled tread
for light has failed
to find them.

Endorphins dull
the sting of use
as fractured boarders
pall away.
Three times removed,
yet leaving nought,
save footprints
far behind them.
A W Bullen Jun 2018
Those cranes have earned

their sack of seed

They pulled these pencil turrets

through a sturgeon curd of feckless wet

to leave them where they lay.

Because of this

i sit indifferent, satchelled

in an unmade bed,

a simple- headed almanac

of beige and sable rhetoric.

My heritage;

an Eton mess

of trampled roman candles

left, by careless midnight masses

that come scratching at my door.
A W Bullen Aug 2021
We were only ever
moving through..

A transient
encounter pinked
in sprinkled serendipity

had synchronised
our step

and having met
before the bested peaks
of all that seemed unlikely
we stayed close.

needless plays
of problematic metaphor,
we laughed and wept,
deplored enforced morality,
embraced a great unknown,

explored the cultic
sympathies, arrested
in our infancy
and swore an oath
eternal to the greenery

..while knowing
well, the day will come
when one moves on
take and embrace your chances
A W Bullen Jul 2016
The melting toll of empty hours,- chaste

Among the dry-stone steeples,-stirs

The cobbled rune of foetal wonder.

Forgotten waifs, in teasing, see

The scheming torpor of our ways

Then mingle in the vaults of our regret,

Through half closed eyes the

Unremembered rise on drafts

Of innocence, to spell their names

In Spirit in these scuttled, pin drop Realms.

The utters of an arcane tongue  that

Whittled horses from the hill,  now merge

Into the chiseled henge of lanterned Citadels.
Those born in the " Chime- Hours" were said to have " The sight"...
A W Bullen Nov 2016
A Robin, sang by lamplight,
unperturbed by herald evening’s
gathering throng..
As if gloom could be dispersed
by an almost, fragrant burst
of poignant song.

The carriage clocks whirr
now the hour has spoken
it ceases to be..
Oh to placate those
untouchable hands
of fortune and destiny.
A W Bullen Mar 24
sleepy gathers

in the bombed-out
church of expectation,

fundamental frequencies

too cynical to pray

the senses crave

I worship
from afar

these days,

when everything
that's ever loved

leaves something else

A W Bullen Nov 2021
Leaning more to
Winter now,

I set a silent
time aside

become a thing

led in and out
of twilights.

This vintner's loss
of glass-blown height,

too intricate
to comprehend,

like promises
we occupy,

leads meaning
to an end.
A W Bullen Oct 2021
At the zenith
of sartorial sloppiness,
frittered loosely in my scruff,

I clobber,
combats, sneakers,
faux-fur coats and baggy t shirts
stuff that wraps me up,
and I'm OK..

You can keep
your first- world

I've always
been this way

part scarecrow, hermit,
vermin, pirate,

all at sea with
modern stylists.


And by the circle of our
strange unwritten rules

for a season, once in twenty years,
I, somehow, become cool.
I recall a mate saying, that, come the weekend,
me must go shopping for some cloves,
This seemed a bit niche, almost a bit too leftfield, but then , hey! , maybe he was going through some grit with an iffy molar, or fancied early ( as in August-early) pipes on some mulled wine

"Nah, Bruv.."Cloves wiv a "T-H"..

Schooled, I was.
A W Bullen Nov 2019
Took, passing, as
my chosen word
a comfort-food of preference,
celestial confectionery,
indulgent mewl of movement.

It's a prudent lie
I stir myself

this spoon
of porch-light parable,
a home-brewed benediction
simpers, intimate angelica

as love....
A W Bullen Oct 2017
I will always be
that enemy
to myself.

Of loud mind
Of unsound habits.

An anthill scratching
at boiling blood , a
fractious, migrained, timpani
taking high- speed bends
on ruptured grips

My surface slipping
ever outwards.
A W Bullen Aug 2017
An open cage of aberrance crow
the secrets that torment the globes
of doctored equilibrium
watching for that taci-turning
vital sign of change
that onyx collared stare that
needs to drift the dared bubonic lanes

to skirmish with those corvids
flown from aviaries of reckoning.
To meet with past life memories
in some overrun Gethsemane of
remembrance and shame.

And you know that I am waiting ...

...a warm malaise of liberty that spiders
at the corner of your crumbling resolve
I know  the colour of your squalor,
horoscopes of hopeless coping
written by your every sign and sealed.

I deal in escapology.

I, Corvus Medicinae,
am a Gentleman of medicine.

I shall lace the flavours for your taste
so you will think no more of me.

Until I let you go.
A W Bullen Feb 2021
Disposable face-masks
make excellent hammocks
for Bohemian hamsters,

perfect for them to unwind,
while practicing their music
on those little hamster flutes

So, take it easy..
shin back and smoke out
those sunny afternoons
with the haunting
scuffle of hamster-jazz..
A W Bullen Feb 25
Old skin,

I swore,
I would not make

But here I claw
In all my flaking majesty...

Some sordid Lord
of  all Misrule,

a gruelling fool

to pitiful anatomy...
A W Bullen Jun 2016
The beryl high land smoulders….

Where skinny manes of cloven trailing, cuff
the rake of jumbled scree,
a porous crux of timbered carol
matins from the mossy shrine
to urchin on the bluff and draft
in nooks of birch and bilberry.

On that high dais, Corvid tribals
potter on the reeks of gale.
Fell boatman of the troubled storeys
quarter in some sleet cabal
to throw their onyx gauntlet down
a slating arc of fallow sky.
A W Bullen Jul 2020
Whist now, love
speak quietly,
and keep your symbol,
close about you.
Only meet in darkness,
while this zealotry

for they will
raze the sacrosanct to
filth of unkempt alleyways,
in mutilated outrage of
their tyrannous brigades...


stay your song
inside yourself,
go placid into nothingness,
say little of your learning
hood the wisdom of your word,

They will come,
these new Inquisitors,
with torches for their narrative,

our difference is a Witchcraft,

and the Witches must be burned...
"Crimen Exceptum"
A W Bullen Nov 2021
our culture
of elusive truth

my faith
in doubt
A W Bullen Nov 2016
"...What other sound could be like this?

Which other note could trespass on
to where the likes of tears are formed?

What else speaks so well
of wilderness, of loneliness?

Which alternate voice could manifest
this desolate deliverance?

Such trifling themes as life and death
are kept in Curlew's calls..."
Curlews!...Heard one call in a white-out, not seen, just heard..stumbled across the corpse of a fresh ****, ..there was blood on snow,...shock breath mingled in the vapid loss of horizon.
We , like Curlews, will always feed on the margins of the everyday.....
If my voice could be anything like theirs...if only....I would swallow my share of lugworms to know their truths....
A W Bullen Oct 2023
Pre somnabulation
I would taste the breeze

the dew-lit louche
revealing airborne revelations

soft of foot, divining
cool uncomplication

drinking deeply of
the hill-born wood

passive eccentricity,
I celebrated unison

a humbling becoming
only dignity condones

When transitory laxity
forgave my foreign callowness

I took the private brook
to where the quiet rooks row home..
once  upon-a -time

louche/ absinthe
A W Bullen Jan 2021
That we
are even here,
in this strange
existence, is
incredible enough

but of our peculiarities,

consider love...

You see,
I'll wager
love needs more...

despite knowledge
to the contrary,

when our time comes,

when all
that I have shunned
and scorned, comes
home to haunt...

I will convince

myself, some part
of us endures,

that we go on,

A W Bullen Jun 2017
It is
a lazy nod of orchid shift that sees
the poppies lean in times, where
glockenspiel lanyard clings are
goat herds on a Cretan rise.

Sweet boat-words claim a beltane fare
that calls to mind all Summers gone
in spools of warming solitude
that talk of when the Earth was young.
Bee Orchid
Goat bells/ yachts
A W Bullen Jan 2022
Today is a duck
sort of day,

grey and windy
with waves
on lakes..

good for choppy,
not so great for

but ducks find ways...

to our
stuck look,
they're doing
duck-type stuff,

just as
the text book said


while they paddle
are they pondering
their station in the universe

expanding on the mysteries
of bread.
A W Bullen Jul 2021
The house has gone

that box that grew me wrong
is now
the storage for another's lot

and may the crate be good to them

Let them bring
it love and further, turn
the pile into a home,
to fold the walls around themselves
be welcome in their sanctuary.

God knows
the place deserves it..

but open doors
and windows first,
to set the spirits free,

For I wish you not
the likes of mine
that cowered
in its secrecy
a house is not always a home-I hope it now becomes one
A W Bullen Dec 2020
one-rolled-bone away
from sweet inconsequence

thereby, the flicker
of an exit-sign, the
grand idea of life's
unlearning flirted

hands around
the throat of fate
were ultimately mine...

and to the
suitably anesthetized,
the rubbing clean
of canvasses,
the pulling down
of blinds,
appeared enthralling...

a cobbler's thumb
of fumbled ruse,
the blueprints
to a master-plan,
a calling card that
meant no other morning
after all...

one-rolled-bone away
from all that greatness

an acolyte
invertebrate, upended
in some milky way,

the lateness
of my dragon-chasing
thawed all rude persuasion

reanimating appetites
in dubious remains.
A W Bullen Mar 2022
I was going
to text you

to let you know
I have your phone

but I have your phone,
so I couldn't text you,

but I guess you
didn't know...

I tried
to call you

you were out,

left a message
for you, bro..

like, I said,
I have your phone..
A W Bullen Oct 2023
has banked,
-grown little teeth-,
portentous new alignments
meet , exaggerated,
weather veined,
behind impatient

Flames divine
entrancing shivers
breath, a ghost
an omen passed,
fragments carried,
Icy river

She dances
A W Bullen Sep 2021
Come the Hill
and contact notes

arriving in their droves,
they'll sup the berry-blood
of hedgerows,
in the cheese-and-ale
mist that hove the woodlands
from their mooring

My love for this
remains undimmed,
if anything , intensified,
as in these clock-wise hands
I clutch,

both epilogue and origin..
A W Bullen Aug 2016
Toss these brackened antlers
to a Babylon of early crows
where slim repels of cirrus
lace the marches of Orion.
I wore you as an amulet
hard pressed upon my pestle arm
as charms of montane lunar drift
rebelled about your peacock gaze.

There is balsam on the Eastern run
in piquant writs of clementine ,
where jubilees of Persian mote
reveille in the waiting still.
As hieroglyphs of scrying palm
lay wraith about the cindered pane
you harried in ancestral bell..

The name of some forgotten God.
A W Bullen Dec 2020
When waving
to passengers
on passing trains,
I have observed
that a I elicit
a more favourable

when I remove
the clown mask and
put my clothes back on.
'T'is The  Season
A W Bullen Nov 2018
A quarter past
The afternoon,
back on the chair
of bevelled legs
with the hex
of number
by the brooding
threat, incumbent.

Never been too
good at tables,
Better that
I eat alone
Seen, faceless men
in grim apparel
waiting for
a chance
to come,

with their
bare contempt.

And, I
the part
of all my sums,
cannot explain
where it went wrong.

Sat playing
with the cornerstones
of new denominations.
keep title simple
A W Bullen May 2020
You remove the joy
then as sure as endings
faith will follow..

It takes time to beat the boy
the young can mend,
are resilient
but persevere
the cracks will

Fill that space
with fear,

let that

in isolation.

There you
have him.
Have him

So kick him out
as Man.
into the plan-less
waste of living,

Then watch the fruit
of all achievement
cast from your
own spiteful holding

rot beneath
the tree
from which
it fell....
not gender specific

there are many shot down by the starting pistol.
A W Bullen Sep 2021
A while to get the eye back in
reconstitute the faculty
for feeling without

-the repetitious ritual
makes for cover on the open road-

A villainy of tree-lined habits
camouflage, dissimulate,
reject the townsmen fidget

and all must age inside the barrel,
thicken in its oaken recess

slivered for the minutes
of its instinct
A W Bullen Sep 2018
Found meaning
lost in empty rooms
The lump of my
impostor stare saw
time collapse
in pixel thought,
reduced to
liquid molecules.

I brought you
out to open water
kissed the lighting
from your head,

Sent fire- ships
to steer you clear
of awful loves that
look for you in places
you can never be.

Forever seems
a long time gone

and this could travel
on for miles....
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