my old dog feet
won't
carry bones
padding over floors
tiny paws and tiny toes

in a street of lights
new smells
hollowed out
do you see reflections
of the wonders outside?

downstairs stop!
am I
lead right?
as plain as pain
my heart is a bleed

bathe me again
buckets
soapy warm
may well never
fill me to the brim

My city is awash with dreams,
some are painted on the walls;
they're lurid like a migraine,
lucid as a hummingbird.

My lover is a dreamer too,
she speaks a partial truth;
her words are like a fragment
of my city's only street.

She told me how she's searching
for the palaces of glass,
but every pocket map she's had
is a labyrinth of folds.

When all the squares were folded tight
and pressed upon themselves,
she walked along the creases
and fell into my world.

Beneath the neon blindness
of a piercing blue night,
we fused into a lump of clay
and lay down on the earth.

My city is a towered forest,
tearing pockets from the skies.
Crowds in heaven peer below them;
a precarious insight.

little man, big man
funny Mr Punch
tangled up his string
turned into a glove
was a man above
now a man below
swinging at the missus
in his very own show

bad man, devil man
anger in his bones
fighting the police
with a ******* rod
has he a conscience?
has he any pride?
what about the real man
who is hidden inside?

I don't know how long.
Before I understood it had changed?
An hour? A day?
The señora appeared on her balcony;
gathered washing,
glanced up,
closed the door behind her.
I blankly searched the empty sky.
A seagull swooped.
Gradually, boats in the harbour turned,
now facing the other way.
Suddenly, a new wind blew;
hot, breathless gasps of air.
No cicadas.
Silence.
A few raindrops fell like birdshit,
splatting on the stone steps.
I'm sure all these things have names,
if you were local,
you would know them all.
I have no other words.

We'll live
We'll live with it
We'll learn to live with it
We'll need to learn to live with it
We'll learn to need it
We'll need it
We'll live

His allotment is just far enough away
from trouble. Habit, more than desire,

seeds the ragged weeks. Early risers
together, he cannot stifle a routine.

Her Marked Clinical Decline isn't yet
their epicenter. Fearlessly emptying

Stella cans, through the euphoric
atmosphere to the Low Earth Orbit

of utter despair. Eccentricity doesn't
favour equilibrium. Growing may heal.

it must have landed with a thud
but no-one could have heard
it lay there then
below the grass
beneath the leafy oaks
butterflies, flit white like flies
across the fearless summer sky

the rock lay still
like every other rock
when held against the earth

once silver trail
so short delight
slit silent dust
across the infinite black night

here i am
under all my bright house lights
still hanging out
with the good dreamers

I'm standing still
balancing on one leg
watching the horizon
making tiny movements
corrections, perhaps
against the rushing
stream of gravity
that pulls me down
towards the ocean
where the rocks
clamour with blue sky
spraying salty kisses
as I fall into oblivion

Is it safe
To turn on the light?
Hesitantly,
We nod.
The first light we try
Seems very dim.
We try another.
Suddenly,
Our blinking faces
Are lit up;
We see each other
Smiling
And the darkness
Has gone.
We've reconnected (with each other).

wide awake and gently haunted
lying piecemeal on a bed
sifting through a time the spirits
said all I ever wanted said

tiptoe in the starlit darkness
scattered petals, dying leaves
drifting through the deadest dreams
in the precious company of thieves

spores that settle on my lashes
seeds that turn my pupils black
second sight is stolen knowledge
all that's gave is given back

You once said all you
Ever wanted was
An island and a dog.
Just like
Robinson Crusoe,
I quipped.
Now we have
A new kitchen,
New cupboards,
Some new furniture
And a kitchen island.
It glistens in the sunlight.
Soon we'll find a dog.
But we both know that
Loneliness
Doesn't care.
It'll still be watching,
With two sad puppy eyes.

When darkness settles in my room
And shadows twist beneath the black,
That's when I know my succubus
Will soon be perched upon my lap.

Her fingertips are cold like death,
Her scaly arms are knotted wreaths.
She taps impatiently upon my chest,
My heart pumps faster just beneath.

She entices and repulses,
As I'm frozen in brief joy;
And only when I'm fully spent,
She turns to look me in the eye.

Her empty stare, two icy caves;
A distant pain I cannot fathom.
I want to hold her in my arms -
For is she nothing but a phantom?

Perhaps she's just a metaphor,
Of secret wicked lust?
All creatures of repressed desire,
Find a darkness they can trust.

There it groans again,
The voice:
A tone steeped in gravel.
It speaks from below
And chimes above,
Through a solemn
Here I am.
Awkward in my body.
Steering the poetry
As it appears:
Always too controlled.
I'm stood waiting,
The boy in the Thai restaurant
At the dark end of my street
Shunts
Toy trains along the table,
Surrounded by big
White buckets
Of prawn crackers:
Sagging in their cellophane bags.
Heading
Towards
Collapse:
Like a star pointing inwards.

eventually
all composition
becomes
decomposition

slowly
a huge tentacle
appears from beneath
the waves
Ringo Starr
sits
terrified
as the octopus
reaches for his neck

Dry January finished
With a
Splash.
A blissful darkness
Beneath the waves:
Thousands of
Miniscule bubbles
Bursting in my ears
As I
Tumble.
Then,
Head back above
The water.
I'm poisoned now?
Grey-green flesh inside,
But sleeping like
The newly dead.

I don't recognise any
Of the things
You sing:
Whispered tunes,
Broken lyrics.
Behind you,
I stand:
Amongst the ruins.
But when you're
Wearing headphones
And I catch your eye,
I'm transported
Into song.

lying on my back
naked
like a sundial
waiting for the sun
to step out
from behind a cloud

Snow arrived,
quite suddenly.
The city fell
to silence:
softness flurried,
whiteness spread.
Our footsteps
punched a rhythm:
crisp heel, crisp toe.
Steaming cars slid past
in slush, peeling back
the long black road.
The trees drooped:
tears splattered on
the streets, but
still my heart
lay cold.

I meet you,
but I'm embarrassed
because I've been melting
and now I'm standing
in the middle
of a small puddle.
You're pristine,
crisp corners,
shining like a diamond,
but I know we're all
doomed to melt.

My golden girl, you fill my world
with scraps of paper on the floor.
Each small offcut leads me closer
to the masterwork you truly are.

I recognise my little foibles and I also
see my pain. My love, I dearly wish
that all you find in life is good and
free from blame. When you swing

your curls my love unfurls - briefly,
just before it's swept away. Many,
many bits of paper; only some of them
are kept. All the rest, hope for the best.

At 8pm, he emails and says he misses her.
I know he's drunk.
I wait until the following morning to call him.
He's still drunk.
He talks about Preston Sturges.
There's a turbulence, underneath, he says.
Sometimes, a little bit comes to the surface; enough to try and guess at what's going on.
Not with Dickens, he says.
With Dickens, everything is behaviour.
I'm regretting calling.
He talks about taking responsibility and how some survivors came out of Auschwitz stronger and some blamed it forever.
I lay the phone on my lap and look out the window.
There's a white mist in the distance, covering the city.
Only the tops of the tallest buildings are visible.
But I can still see the skyline.

It looks like I'm marooned here.

I've checked the fuel; it's not good.

There's simply not enough for the journey home.

Not enough inspiration, nor enthusiasm.

Sensuality night work, but there's little to be found.

If the landscape wasn't so bleak and inhospitable, I might be able to mix some kind of cocktail. A Martini. Or a Margarita, perhaps.

Wearily, I open the door to the engine room. A familiar white light shines over the chilled glass shelves. I tell myself it's going to be okay.

Take me to a place both green and blue,
close to where the milling tourists stay.
I want to curse the kissed white marks,
of sea salt on my cheap brown shoes.

I long to wither underneath the warmth,
as scented gardens chirrup along.
The dusty dogs will keep their idle guard,
on winding roads through olive groves.

Feed me plaited bread that's baked
by hands grown wrinkled from the sun.
Buy tomatoes, aubergine and thyme,
from the market's wooden trestle tables.

Smash a wave upon the jagged rocks,
hear the crackle as the wave recedes.
Annouce the glowing summer's carnival;
a paean sung for all the working bees.

As the days of holidays
flicker with the day and night,
I see the signs of innocence,
returning slowly to my dreams.

Slights or disappointments
from sunlit days of youth,
raw as when the blade first bit;
initials carved into the bark.

If scars are just an open wound
held together with a will,
then self doubt is a scurvy
that can split them up anew.

For a moment,
I fully expected
to see God's face
staring back at me
in the onion I had sliced.
But I didn't.
Soon after,
the onion sizzled.

Twice, recently, I've seen my daughter's stuffed toy Moomin
lying on his own in the hall and it's filled me
with an intense sadness.
Today, she'll be back to pick him up - her constant childhood companion - she'll squeeze him tight, love him, kiss him and
send his once white fur ever more grey.
But tomorrow? Or the next day?

Solitude is a dull parade -
The things unsaid,
Or said too much,
But never really shared.

The promises and fragrant lies;
How sweet they smell,
I forget how,
I never knew they’d sour.

But for careful untold truths
That wrap us up
In careless knots,
Simplicity itself

We’d live; beyond the tangled lines
Of lives. The dull
Parade, would fade,
And fade away to grey.

as the shortest day peeps out
from underneath the winter's grasp
the steady robin sits aflame
a flickered dance upon the fence

his eye an ever sideways trance
a grace note tucked within a song
for every hop, a little bow
the worldly nod to his know-how

I wish I had just some small part
of the patience he exudes
returning every darkened day
to flaunt the patterns of his art

I am not a robot
I am only
following
instructions

it's familiar trickery
in a master's hands -
the ever falling melody
occasionally lifted
just enough
to let the sunlight
shine through

How many moons did I really miss?
The big, the bright, the bold, the blue -
the daytime crescent
or a midnight swan?
Did I count them all
on my two hands?
Or was the same moon sat there
all along? Enticing and bewitching those
that dared to take the time away
from all the mundane earthly stuff;
the daily bluff, the soulless bleed.
What if every single moon was new?
And those that basked beneath
the moonshine never light
knew how it's luminosity,
shaped the eye.
If I chased it round the earth
would I see it slowly turn?
Or would I turn myself
to lunacy?

The sensation of a memory,
awoken in the mouth:
a sweetness on the tip
or sourness in a bite.
As we chew a picture forms,
the shifting sunlight drifts
across a single pane of glass -
the taste of time transfixed.

They've always been there; the perverts,
the pederasts, the paedophiles. When we

were young, our mothers knew. "Not a nice
man" or "The bad Mr ..." so and so. But they

didn't tell us, didn't warn us - they just herded
us with coded subtleties, like sheep into a pen.

We learned through whispers, slanders, filthy
rhymes and songs. But some didn't. Was it

shame which kept us ignorant? Shame that
in the grown-up world there are broken people?

We would have understood. We'd seen bullies,
heard foul deeds, sensed danger dressed up

as kindness. Yet here we are; older and wiser
but still incapable of protecting all our children.

Hung low in the sky at night,
brighter than a brief reflection;
the comet flies.

Small crowds of pointed fingers,
perpendicular to the comet's cares,
trace the growing sense of awe
that builds on every shore.

Is it further than the sea? What lies
beneath the beast? Will its whiteness
end the world or will the world survive?

Children ape; arms pinned straight,
shoulders hunched, racing round in circles.
The comet is a silver lure, its significance forgot.

Rattling the tombs of Kings,
from ages past,
from pasts,
passed.

you won't have felt the butterflies inside
by hearing someone
say they do too,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have stayed in bed all night and day
and ordered pizzas
in the afternoon,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have sifted through a smelly bin
to find a thing
that wasn't yours,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have travelled in an ambulance
whilst clinging on
a nervous hand,
unless you've loved somebody

you won't have shed many real tears
the kind that roll
into both ears,
unless you've loved somebody

good morning
silence
oh no
here it is again
slowly, the billowing sheet
floating down onto the bed
the careful tucking corners
and turning back       the top
while it just coils there
      in the middle
like a dead cat

The flicker of a whispered ghost
On baubled beads of glass,
Flees a world daubed dismal brown,
With mud trod over grass.

A dampness hugs the sagging sleeves
Of shoppers' weary arms:
Their stooping arch more drawn to earth
With every charmless charm.

Is inside where the magic's coiled?
Inside every ***** kitchen.
Endless chinking glasses raised with
Chunks of ice cubes glinting.

And through it all I stand and grin:
Half braced in case I fall.
I'll never last til Armageddon -
I've already hit the wall.

words passed softly in the night
imagined or divine
like falling petals from a flower
each landing on the floor

a simple mattress with a sleeping boy
woken by the sound
unsteadily he walks next door
to find out why he's called

at first he's told he must have dreamt
the muffled baritone
he falls back in a tangled dream
uncertain when there's more

once again he's told he's wrong
before he's told he's right
the voice he heard belongs to God
be ready when he speaks

the boy lies fearful and frightful tense
alone in solemn dark
waiting for the voice of God
to spark light inside his heart

deep inside an empty well
dark green with speckled silver moss
mute stone
soprano drips
my wet hands lifting up above my head
grasping rope which winches
  slowly
    upwards me
      up onto my toes
        then grinding past the hewn walls
          towards a glowing disk of night
            a starlit darkness
              high above
and then
  out into the full cold air
    above the stubbled fields of mud
  higher than the trees below
    which rustle so
  lifted by a whispered wind
    unmask the gentle curving earth
  drifting back
to black

underneath Kentish Town
the fine Fleet flows down
sneaking out dammed ponds
slidden across the thistled Heath
the source that took relief
hidden, next to Anglers Lane
a vanishing of oyster shells
flicked by idle ghosts of fishermen
who spit a murmured gargle
deep below in sewage world
a water's roar
silenced to hush
by the concrete poured
over centuries of bricks

From my first howl,
To the here and the now.

Is it always true the second half
Seems to go much quicker than the first?

I know I'm more than half way through
(unless I live past ninety-six).

So will it finish in a flash? Or will it
Slip into reverse? Will the things I said

I would never do, become the things that
come to pass? Or will I stay the same young boy

Who picked the quinces from the quince tree,
Who ate mulberries in the summer,
Who had a box of metal trains.
Who was that boy, I wonder?

From the here and the now,
To my last howl.

when all our words have withered
and our lips are cracked like wetted sand
  standing still
    still like the wind
  holding hands
    hands together
just three squeezes of our fingers
  as we turn to face the west
where the sunset spills great orange thrills
  across a cutout paper sky

in the gravel by the A road
where the tarmac fades away
there’s a bloom of wild flowers
with a dusty grey bouquet

and with every passing tyre
there’s a gentle nod of heads
as the flowers close their eyes
and whisper prayers for the dead

for the highway is a promise
of the better days to come
but it’s filled with weary pilgrims
whose own better days have gone

because every travelling stranger
has a tale to make you bleed
but the heart that goes on beating
knows the place where all roads lead

so you better keep on rolling
if you want to reach your goal
but be sure to look inside yourself
as the highway takes its toll

here it comes again
the swoosh
of love arriving
leaning on a café doorway
apologetically waving
aeroplane tickets
for azure places
setting toes curling
braced
for the fall
of falling
both hands holding
with faces facing

Did life come here on some cosmic speck?
A single cell inside a shooting star;
I wonder if we travelled far,
before we slid into the bubbling sprawl?
A place hospitable enough
for the stuff from which we're made
to grow and split and split and grow
before - ergo a beak, a stalk, a wink, a squawk,
a carnival of creeping creatures,
each one with its own distinctive features!
So when we pause to comtemplate,
the night sky's pinpricked winking lights,
is the flame that stirs inside
a homesickness for where we came?

true sadness is an echo of the dead
the torso arching shoulders stooped
a premonition of demise

but lie and hold with legs entwined
a cradled head reveals a nape
affection may revive

bodies are a cipher only other bodies read
canvassed touch unlocks a warmth
our spirits need to breathe

I'm sitting on a riverbank
holding the fishing rod
its line resting limply
on the rippled water
no hook, no bait
no float, no weight
I can have no expectations
living beneath a vivid blue sky
boats passing with a glazed stare
the knotty clouds are curious here
circles dance among the reeds
some swirl together all as one
I can have no expectations
when I haven't begun
when I am no one

At night, in the rain,
the wooden wardrobes
crack tight with brittle sounds;
twisting their sympathy,
with the fallen forests. A crowd
of silhouettes waver, as the blind
sharp ****** against the window.
Inching sideways, along the walls,
black shapes, ever watching.
Fear, stretches out,
a downturned hand.