I will endeavour to write poems free from arcane references to impotent religious figures or dead poets.

There will be no Latin quotes in italics. I want you to read my poetry aloud, not one handed, eyes on a dictionary, scratching your head.

I will not use words such as nape when referring to a neck. Or describe skin as soft, delicate, porcelain.

I will avoid romance and love (lost, unrequited or otherwise) and abstain from pretty descriptions of landscapes, trees and flowers gracefully bending in the breeze.

Where possible I will avoid cliche.

I will write about estates, cracked pavements Presidential assignations, machines, clowns in places they shouldn't be.

Flawed people,
shopping trolleys.

she used her date of birth as grid references – found that place on a map
circled it like with black marker pen
circling ***** *******
inky areola
- days spent staring at black rings

go for the atlas they yelled like an audience on a gameshow - explore the cities that are lost under the staples -
explore the curves of geography - dip your toes in the water - bathing sharks show teeth sharp -

and when she got home the librarian removed the snippets of conversation from her waistband -

she laid them end to end to construct her resignation letter

She faked her own death
and is believed to be buried
beneath the fourth runway
by the new apartments
fire engine red doors
over there:
the sunset is dripping
on to chewing gum pavements

in the window
a silhouette of her ******* prove
that she's alive, amongst silly revolutionaries,
aviators
avatars
and questionable friendships.

Scandinavian diets are seen by the satellites.

I dream of rigged lacrosse matches
won in 4th quarter
overtime

of chess games won with en passant
(what exactly is that?)
of horses falling at the first hurdle.

I dream of Martian landscapes
through sand-dunes of heartache
because as a child, at McDonalds
I was never allowed a milk shake,

while in my waking hours I have
absolved a multitude of sins for
lapsed nuns, ringmasters and troubadours.

I have filmed riots,
marathons and abortions.

I have seen things
pickled in jars
holding open heavy doors.

I have tried,
like an idiot
to commit all this to
memory.

The snipers rifle hung from the parapet
still warm, cordite drifted from
the business end.

It resembled a cigarette,
dangling in the groove of an
ashtray which was given to you
as a souvenir from a place
you had no desire to go.

And you had no desire to go there
as you had read stories of donkey
cruelty and the militias’ refusal to
accept Greenwich as the
centre of time.

Their struggle against the meridian
has been well documented in film and
prose.

Stories and rumours filtered in
from the hinterland, carried home in
economy flights from different time zones
arriving at the terminal, milling around the
carousel.

****** victim 4 lay in a forensic
scene, white tapped surrounded by
duty free bags, and the secret dossiers
exposing the militias plans drifted, blood
stained in the breeze.

Wild caribou roam the plains

of the smooth golf greens.

A pest to all those who don the plus fours.

Emerging from the rough they charge

at will, impacting with the power of a comet.

They must be killed on sight.

An 8 iron behind the head usually does the trick,

and 19th hole is adorned with the coat stand silhouettes

of dispatched caribou heads.

When Seth asks me a question,
I just make up the answer or
check Wiki for the facts.

But he’s not sticking around,
for an answer or
a misguided guess

He’s in the garden,
selecting stones
to keep as pets