You write of the Faroe Islands
of whaling & girls with red hair
I wonder if you've ever been there
or if it's just a writer's fantasy

Can a poet write
of what he's not seen
with his very eyes
or does he always have to live it

feel the blessed fire
of experience
burn his soul & skin
still, I give in

to your vision
of a place I've never been
in return, I offer you my Berlin
pristine lakes & secret courtyards

a City that's fought to be free
showing it's pride in art & grafitti
& international flair
yet you scorn it


just as you do me
turning my heart
into droplets
of Alice's tears

that moment
when she can't get in
through the tiny door
to the garden in Wonderland

why doesn't my world
entrance you, Islander
don't you know we share
the same sacred loves

look closer,
draw near
we are similar
we are poets

we know
God is a Beatnik
& we read
the same books

My Soul
sings of you
open this door
let me love you

let us
fold the stars
in two
& dance

tell me of Yorkshire
don't judge me for my past
let our differences bring us
together sparking desire


& let my love last
until you finally see in me
what I've already
found in you

You've known the ***** of swords
the dresses crinoline
the corsets tight &  bold

the way the camera
lets light unfold
the restless stare

of the director
shouting ' Cut'
the many roles

that asked you
to try to do more
than you were told

the leading men
the parties
the red carpet

the list goes on
you've known it all
so Happy Birthday

Everywhere she looked
they followed her

it was obvious from
all the tattoos

they had on their arms
if she passed the test

she'd be one of the chosen
or else drugged till death

true love, her cause
true love, her wealth

' Stop struggling & we'll let you go'
they said & she froze

unwilling though to lose
their cruel embrace

while they were watching her
nothing could go amiss

so she said
' this is not a hospital'

& wept
they just looked on

I sang ' Here's to you Mrs Robinson'
downed a pint of Thatchers
while the guitar played

& in the empty streets
there was the Moon
coarse & incomplete

these strange suburban nights
bring back memories of loss
& of the coming of agelessness

I never learnt how to drive
& still rely on the bus
unable to graduate from life

yet I hope my torn sunsets
& wasted loves
have made me wiser

whispering mantras
not afraid of being the outsider
forever drawing maps




*Thatchers is a cider from Somerset, England.