She heard him on the ceiling
slowly sliding off the wall,

sinking, gently spilling empty
promises to break his fall,

she listened for their landing
and they landed everywhere

and she gathered them like corpses
and she burned them, then and there...

I once
met a man
with a thousand
yard stare

and a club
in his hand
in Trafalgar Square

and the blood
on his club
matched the blood
in my hair

one fine and fair
morning in spring;

I dread the sound of its passing
and the call of its merry chime
on the hour every day
the price that I pay
for life is a fear of time...

Waiting for the sea she sits
writing with her fingertips
setting down herstory on the sand;

waiting, with a wistful eye
watching for the rising tide
wondering if stories can be drowned..

When I am old
and still alive
like embers in the ashes I
will burn the hands
of all who try
to tidy up too soon...

Let's dance the next dance
like it's the last dance,
like we know
that it's our last chance
to dance and when
the band begin to slow
hold me like smoke,
there is a flame inside my soul
burning the dancefloor,
let's dance before it goes...

On the day
she turned to dust
she asked the wind
to be her friend
and it picked her up
and ran her
through the fingers
of it's hands
and it poured her
into pockets
and whispered
to hold on
and before the
church had emptied
they were gone..

Summer was spent
on home improvements,
re-aligning old walls,
building new ones,
replacing doors that swing open
with others that stay closed,
and soundproofing,
soundproofing from top to bottom
so now we no longer hear the neighbours,
or each other,
or any one at all...

Is this as good as it gets?   'cause
I'm feeling a little bit tricked,
I'm feeling a little bit foolish like
my dream's had it's pockets picked,
I've been waiting to see
if the hands of Fate
have slipped me a hand
that's not mine,
but it's getting late
and while I've been waiting
she's robbed me of all of my time,
my time,
Fate's robbing me all of the time..

Moonbeams tread softly

on shining wire   

death waits

haunting shadow

hoping for cloud

and an unfortunate sole

to step forward..

I've been
up and down lately,
well..
more than lately,
kinda jumpy too 
Y'know...
Figure if I jump high enough
with the earth spinning beneath me
the way it does
I'll see it all
for free...
Mostly I jump
waiting the next bus
on cemetery hill,
up and down and up again
watching burials
intermittently
over the wall,
my now you see me-
now you don't appearances
are part of the mourning process
in Selly Oak these days;
leaving folk in holes
with dirt on their faces,
their chests
and their feet
frightens me,
seems gravity's got
a hold on them
forever now,
so I'm glad for
the days when smoke
stacks exhale
and the wind
is filled with people,
I feel the bounce
in my sole remembered
and I know
sooner or later
I too will catch an updraft
and fly....
I've been
up and down lately..
well..    
more than lately
I've been kinda jumpy too
Y'know ?

I put my trembling

hand in hers

when I was four

and twenty years

now twenty more

are come and gone

and yet my trembling

carries on

for different reasons

though I don't

remember when

those reasons changed

and all I have

is foolish hope

that one day they may

change again ....

Even the bones
she throws clenched
he thanks her for...

She smashes mirrors

and watches them spill

over their edges

and onto the floor

like tiny glass tears

not birds, but still

she smashes mirrors

she's looking for more ....

He cast off his clothes
and his soul he laid bare
as he knelt with his nose
to the floor in prayer
then someone mistook
his crack for a rack
and parked the front wheel
of their bicycle there...

She smashes windows

and watches them fly

like tiny glass birds

and now and again

she likes to smash mirrors

that capture her eye

to see if she flies

the same...

She leaves me
with secret flowers

each has
a broken heart

and purple petals
for me to hide

and memories
I can't ....

If some day
I should pass you
clothed in shades
of pale pastel

all I ask
is turn your face
from my failing
sense of taste...

I used to think
that solitude would suit me

and on my soul
I wore it like a glove

until the day
your poetry seduced me

and turned it
into loneliness my love...

With backs as broad
as upturned sailing
boats on meadow-grass
the cows look up
from udderneath
the wind and watch it
hurry passed...

She traced
the patterns pressed
by the grass
into my knees

with gentle lips
and fingertips
as light as
falling leaves...

Wherever I walk
always there is an absence
walking beside me..

Like a
crooked
tooth
she played
on his
mind
just
enough
to keep
him
from
smiling...

Trees curl their toes
holding tight
the shifting fields
of yellow grain,
thin air roars
like an avalanche  
through the branches
and a family of rooks
tilt forward like
skiers on the piste...

Each time
he opened up
she took a part of him
and kept it for a bullet

each time
he opened up
he waited ...
...expectantly

and was disappointed

but in the end
because it was the end
she opened up too

with every bullet
she'd saved

until his screams
burned remorse
in to her eyes..

A heart beats thinly
under the winter's cold skin
it's sunken pulse fades..

Heavy with time he
turns the stones of memory
as he pans for gold..

Scaffolders grimly
work in Whitehall raising up
hopes of a hanging..

Stark staring planet
captained by fools
carrying a cargo
of hatred;

watched in the dark by
an audience of jewels
embarrassed they once
were related.

She watches
her image
shatter
and fly
like tiny
glass tears
that fall
from the sky
and fall
with
their falling
accompanied by
the sound
of a satisfied sigh...

I believed a life of solitude would suit me
and mostly it has suited me a treat
but when my tongue is bitten raw
in the company of others
I feel so ******* lonely
I could weep
.

The night
sky spills
past and
fills the store
beneath with
pools of
blue shadow
and silence,
they are all
there, the
books, on
the shelves,
waiting
ready to drop
like Sundance
and Butch
making good
their escape,
if only I'd
seen how
they'd been
squeezed
in I could
liberate them
all, wrong
verb (perhaps),
but.....
     ...... what
use will be
tomorrow's
sunrise
with no
book to read
by it's light ?

Dark-eyed poet
in the long night
come and burn
your time with me
let's set our whole lives
on fire tonight
and breathe each other's
smoking dreams..

She grew tired
of having to hide
from her need
to look deeper outside

so she struck up a match
and she burned
down all of her prisons
and never returned.

I've been watching
the band for
so long
I can dance
like I almost
belong
and I've learned
every word of
the song
but I'm ******
if I'm singing
along...

she leaves
everything
on a page,
all her sorrow,
her love
and her rage,
and I truly believe
she will write
herself free
of the jailers
who fastened
her cage.

She learned the story at school
of the son of the lord of us all,
and it has her convinced
though he's not been seen since
and he isn't returning her calls.

My green fingered great uncle Maurice
ran away with a stripper called Doris
she takes off her clothes
wherever she goes
and she's got ***** hair like a forest.

When the water is warm in July
beneath the Merseyside sky
he sets down his Pimms
and goes for a swim
on his back to keep his nuts dry.

I once had a friend called Mad Bob
who thought being a door was his job
he was perfectly hung
and disarmingly swung
with a sigh when you handled his ****.

There's a forest
inside her
as thick as
the night
and no-one
to guide her
and no
guiding light
no-one
to remind her
that just
out of sight
is a path
she could make
of her own
so she waits
and she ages
like stone...

He knelt
for twenty
years and
more to
fan the
guttering
flame, and
when he
sifted
through
the ashes
found
no reason
to remain.

your words
give me flight
like a child dreaming,

but childhood
dreams have all
of a lifetime to land,

silence rushes at me
as sharp and
as deep as grief.

In the end
it pulls
free of
its chain
and settles
inside like
a flame
and my
only concern
is how
long will
it burn
before I
have chained
it again

she carries
her stark
naked
beautiful
truth
folded
in finely
spun verse;
but sharp
are the
scars that
push their
way through
her fragile
layers
of words.

On the day
her body burned
she asked the
winds to be
her friends
and they
picked her
up and poured
her through
the fingers of
their hands
like a river
without ending
that won't
be tied or
bound, until
every trace of
dust embraced
the freedom it
had found.

We danced toward
each other's wounds

with gentle step
and touched inside

and now the bleeding
has resumed

and all this blood
is hard to hide.

Age
discovered
a heavy
door
and gently
pushed
to look
inside
and as
it looked
it pushed
some
more
and I
ran out
of time
to hide

Saddest
of all
springtime
shows
is the
display of
sculpted stone
that never
blooms
and only
grows
after the
seeds of war
are sown