Our Buddleia is now in bloom
as a ' Butterfly Bush' also known
The water gathers on the purple flowers
from July's  slow, sultry rainy showers
Oh what a lovely summer sight!
When in the sun, butterflies take flight
& land upon the bush in their glory!
The Buddleia stands abandoned today
the Sunday city lies beyond
it in the distance & I'm reminded
this is such an English day
the kind we don't see on postcards
( though is talked of much)
& has to be lived through & felt
A day breathed in in great lung-fulls each
time you come back from being away
in case it disappeared & left
you reeling & sank into your memory
like Atlantis sinking eerily
into the restless Sea's waves
the Buddleia knows of this
& calls me to admire it in the rain

Buy fish! Fresh fish! Sir, you drive a hard bargain!

Look, if it helps
scrawl ‘ I love you’
all over the school toilets
Use braille
to defy the government
Angels aren’t made
In barracks
War is the price
we pay for ignorance
& the last time I checked
all the tickets
to that movie you wanted to see
were sold out
so lets *** text through the night
write our own apocalypse
fishing for compliments
strung out on neon lights
& don’t forget to smile
for the camera

moonbeam hides
in the corner
counting it's blessings
rooks settle onto old rooves

This is what comes of it, living abroad
you become used to programmes
talking about what it's like to shop
somewhere & the upkeep of capitalism

that very much has downsides
just as back home, communism had.
And now your prime minister is cutting
aid to the sick, disabled & the poor

& is almost shouting
' Arbeit macht frei'
from the Westminster rooftops
& calling in psychiatrists

to label those unwilling
to work as 'mentally ill'
e.g  one step from ' undesirable',
which is, ironically, a similar thing

to what they did back home
while an aged Lord takes drugs
with prostitutes & an MP
claims hundreds of thousands in expenses


'Arbeit mach frei' ( germ) - a **** slogan, roughly translates as ' Work gives freedom'.

She wakes up at 4pm
leaves the house
only at sunset

she talks
in feline nothings
to her cat

& reads
Rousseau
in the afternoons

10 years ago
the last time
she saw her friend

not her fault,
the distance
of course


sometimes
she goes to the pub
where she doesn't

know anyone
& drinks
half a guinness

comes home
drunk on the night
& it's thousand stars

I'm folding origami birds
from old envelopes

                                                      ­                           with stamps from the US
                                                              ­                   as if hoping they'll fly back

there & greet my friend
& blowing bubbles in my tea

                                                            ­                                     Yesterday I heard
                                                           ­                                 Yuri Gagarin's voice


for the first time
& thought it strange

                                                        ­                                       that such a simple
                                                          ­                            sounding man should've

been allowed into Space
rather than picking a Poet

                                                           ­                                   who could've made
                                                            ­                               more of it than him
the last three letters I sent
to my friend

                                                               ­                                      didn't get there
                                                           ­                             so I don't trust the Post
anymore & rely
on e-mails & phone

                                                          ­                       sometimes we don't write
                                                           ­        or speak  for months or even a year

& then when we get
back in touch

                                                          ­                                                 it's just like
                                                            ­                                  hearing from Space

So come, feral night!
wind blowing stars off skyscrapers
eyes growing damper
all that lost might
& power of beggars & Kings
a disconnected phone
that never rings
you in your cities' homes
letters unopened
kisses unsent
separated by winter & discontent
like gamblers conned
out of their winnings
trying not to show their feelings.

She tells me not to talk about my life
true poets write of other things, she says
then reads a poem about her marriage, husband

I'm reminded of Sylvia Plath's struggles
how she would not have followed such advice
or else not become the icon that she is

besides, as Langston Hughes said
' No great poet should ever be afraid of being himself'
or something like ( replace that with 'herself')

& does not a life contain universal topics
that ties us all together in one universe
so all I say is write, write what you know

Sugar-loaf burns
the clock strikes midnight
I look into your eyes
outside the snow is falling
the last train has stopped running
& your friends have just sung ' Let it be'
this could be the night
to make or break a heart
you ask me to stay
I leave

You were like a black & white movie
that I played over & over but backwards

I will not write any poetry tonight
somewhat colder is the night
the cedars sleep
the cat is right
to curl up in dreams
so I will not write any poetry tonight
besides, how many can you write
(unless I want this graphomania,
that some say is our life)
the cedars sleep
the cat is right -
I will not write any poetry tonight
but watch time creep
until the dawn

& yet I think of Angels
& of how your voice
with it's smog lilt
seemed to summon them
from the skies for me
I've tried
I cannot hate you
even though
if I could feel anything
I'd probably have a broken heart
You talk of a Polish cleaning lady
now, who stirs your soul
You say, you love her too much
so she's better off alone
To me, your heart's a lock
I love you too much
but are you better off without me
why do I doubt the honesty
of your rejection
had certain things not happened
could I have been the key
to unlock your mysterious heart
the days are growing shorter
the leaves will soon change color
but never can my heart
change from wanting you
no matter how you treated me
no matter I'm a fool
yes, I think of certain things,
revenge of some kind
I see things clearly now
but alas, the heart is blind
& I'm struggling to hold on
to the little pride
I still have left in me
& no, I cannot hate you
even if it would be wise to do.
You're the lock, I'm the wrong key
but I'll never stop dreaming of you

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

It is upon us, then, the mystery
of frankincense & myrrh

two planets merge
& we gather listlessly

to glimpse the sign
of him, our Lord

like long ago
the great star shines

albeit in summer heat
we gather close

& tell the tale
that makes the world complete

Better get ready to make a fool of myself again

She found herself in moments,
in the cracks between the pavement,

staring at her moonlit reflection,
twisting the time left to her to perfection,

aged thirty & counting
clouds passing above,

she kissed a couple of frogs
one of them, a Mr Prince Jnr

20 years older, who she hoped
would leave her a fortune

instead, he left her out on the street
smashed up, in the soup kitchen she moaned

about his new, younger lover
getting angrier with every hit

then aimed a shiny gun
at him to prove her point but missed

one day a preacher came along
that showed her the error of her ways

' Come to him, our Lord, child' he said
& she did. People heard her sing gospel out in the street.

It turned out she had quite a voice
& this sweet gift did not go unnoticed

now she's a rich singer of great repute
a happy end you can't refute

Afterall, we all think we are angels sometimes, don't you?

No tram
just bus & train
red dull of suburb
& covert roses
advertising nothing
nothing could absolve
this absence of thunder
nor burn the heartstrings
of a solitary clown
whose make-up running
down his face
would have him rush into the storm

Like a Japanese
lucky nodding cat
she has a round face
& a tortoiseshell pattern
on her back
she sleeps beside me
talks in queer chatter
as if to ask me
what's the matter
why aren't you
playing
feeding
petting
no room for writing
or forgetting
my small friend

It's time to stop living like this
don't you know

We are modern Origami sprawl
gritty boxes, evolving
on a blighted sea of sprinkled dusk.
Witching this Epoch hour
where will I find you
jeans throng a poison prescience giant
like a fill-in-the blank Bell
soon to be bird-like & quivering
a Clinging beyond ourselves
electronica loud-mouthed
beep beep
a motorcycle dazzle
some drop in the heat
oh Che Guevara
nothing's changed
nothing's real

You want to drag me to the Sea
I want to write poetry
'It's too late for such a trip today'
I say & sip my tea
You still want to drag me to the Sea

Birds sing in sunset
never measure it
a task unspoken

Dear poem,

When will you knock?
What color aura will you have?
Will you play an instrument?
What will your voice be like?
Will you like pink flamingos?
Will you be afraid of mice?
Will you be a Preacher?
Will you campaign for human rights?
Andy Warhol was a fake, you know
no artist should get others
to do the hard work for him
I don’t know your opinion on that
Will you play scrabble with me?
Will you be my love
or just abandon me
just as we’re getting started?
                                                    yours truly

The Roses know
the way the rain falls

the library is shut
today once more

such odd opening hours
& the flustered moms

have nowhere to go
with their flock of kids

& the park is empty
surrounded by red brick

houses as if ambushed
& all the cats are asleep

it's always this way
in the rain before the 6pm rush

straight from the sofa or work
to the Chinese takeaway

She hates odd numbers
finds herself in moments
in the cracks between
the pavement

she likes to go out
in her bath robe
& scare the kids
that come Trick or Treating

she likes the rain
& has just won at bingo
she's seventy-six
& she's still a beginner

I summon you Kerouac
from your travels
your sad sofa days
show me the way
to the stars

It is a time for all the signs
the Star of Bethlehem
the hailstones in summertime

I wish I read Tarot cards
or coffee dregs or tea leaves
you followed me on twitter

& then abandoned me
is your heart so hard
or are you simply

scared of something
we both can't change
well forget everything

this is a time for all the signs
if you can't bear the truth
lets just live with the lies

you can accept
e.g my 'mental health'
which you're convinced

is the problem
unable to look
past the end of your nose

but no matter how many roads
you travel you won't find
someone like me, another

more worthy of your love
& I say ' Love' not ' Pity'
for I believe in Hope


so lets get on with it
for something is happening
in this world

which could
bring us together
some magic

beyond ourselves
can't you feel it
the call of Him

the Card Dealer
the Great Believer
the King of Love

I challenge you, Gambler
I say it's real
& that it's meant for us

What is the point in ten word poems, tell me.

Tell me do did Dylan
ask same question
when he still lived :

Is it drink that is
driving me to poetry or
poetry to drink now

It's just the Moon
that isn't there that watches
us and grins on slowly

Cascading
light splits breath
splits the sound
of the echo of a leaf
falling to the ground
we walk away
from ourselves
like from lost lovers
re-reading old letters
saying goodbye
to our Souls
placing our bets
on a redeemer
ever dreaming false
hopes, believers
drinking whiskey & rye

Beware
this poem
is very long

I've never writ
a Haiku before
how about this

You write you're gonna look for a girlfriend
once you're done writing your poems
& I hear the garbage truck calling my name
asking to collect my heart & dreams

Empty rooms filled with ash
no windows left to smash

The exit is right behind you
but the key doesn't fit.