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.

beyond the broken thistles
sits the screech of night
where I have stood
sipping slight lungfuls of pale air
among the booming half won sounds
my ebbing vapour drifting upwards
ever onwards towards the electric sky

a fleeting profile in a passing car
alters the flow
wipes away the high street
spills painted saffron walls
a tangle of warm hair
pressed into a pillow
as courting doves
edge sideways
along the terrace railing
high above the deep blue sea

brush strokes on my window
flecks of white against the grey
the drops of water dripping
from an ocean in the sky

a symphony of drips and plips
accompanies my sighs -
can all the water wash away
the troubles from outside?

drains will gargle up the dark
grey water from the streets
a potion mixed by grinding down
all those lives beneath our feet

the sodden cardboard houses
wrapping hair and flesh inside
soaked by what once gave us life
now made rotten 'til they die

and once the seas have given
up these souls into the skies
the rain will fall back down again
back down again with open eyes

there is no artist painting
crazy pictures on my walls
just a pricking of my conscience
where the gentle water falls

You can't say they're an imperfection,
unless you criticise the whole invention.

The park gates keep the tangled
strands of street and brick away
from nature's pristine, geometric ways.

Grandiose, perhaps, with all the stone
and ironwork - why do we need a clear
divide? Is it pride? Should we marvel

at how far we've come from our earliest moments in primordial ****? Or perhaps
beneath the steely geese, dark water hides

a deeper fear - the knowledge we can never
tame the beast inside that bares its teeth.
We'll never know; the park gates close.

My habits are recognisable in
  the other me
  younger me
  still toothy me.
But they're not yet habits, they're just
  experiences
  or experiments
  expectations, perhaps.
Slowly passing one round finger
through a candle's flame -
a flicker, but no real heat.
Suddenly it isn't
  a first chord
  first love
  or first drink;
all those vampires we once invited,
they don't forget which thresholds
they can and cannot cross -
now they come and go
as they please.
Can't we?

In the end, it took us almost thirty hours
to hitchhike from Utrecht. The raw night
air of Dresden hung inside us; smarting
where the autobahn had spat us out and
left us brooding under concrete skies.

We'd stood apart, this close to surrender,
when the silver cavalry arrived;

  Mein baby ist der schönste kinderen!
  Jawohl! Jawohl! Der schönste kinderen!

Jakob with his one cassette. Once proud
child begat another. On we raced. Gloria,
backseat hiking sister, now slept against
a pram.

The rolling streetlights crept up Jakob's
shades like rockets, lauched into the sky.

Du weißt? I did not. I held the tiny photo
of his child and watched the wild roadside.
I willed the darkness stay outside. ******
built the autobahn. Gut für Panzer. Du
weißt? We crossed into Poland, greeted
by the broken lines of garden gnomes;
tinker, tailor...

Stopping off for sausages - du magst? I did.
The dawn smelt red above the hills. I lay
my palms upon the dashboard, felt the
purring engine breathe. I smuggled angst
enough for all tomorrow's sorrows; I hid
it in the narrowest of breeze.

camaraderie - much too
grand a word, of course
for the heady unity we'd caught
against our parents
against our school
nonchalantly - against them all
raging round our haughty town
dressing up by dressing down
our Capulets and Montagues
were Trendies versus Casuals
but mostly we were tiny shells
trapped in our semirural hell
united we could stand it best
while hatching in an empty nest

do not whisper in the wind
as your voice will be forgotten

if you see others turn to stone
don't assume you'll share their fears

when you're first alone with love
choose the simplest words to tell them

and the sadness that you carry
shows you're living
shows you're breathing

the living room
the loving room
the shouting, crying, fighting room
the place we hear through the wall
the space we sink in when we fall
the comedy and tragedy
the squished up sofa family
the supine solo majesty
the all fours cursing lost remote
the idle channel flipping without hope
the picture hanging on the wall
the one we never really see at all
the bashful shuffle up before
the first kiss (first of many more)
the room that's mostly just for sitting
the room that's nothing without living

The painful truth is
  (undeniable / dawning)
that
  (most / many)
young people won't
  own their own house,
  have a stable job
  or raise a family.
They've been brought up
  (expecting / taught)
by generations that lived
lives that were
much more similar
to their own parents'.
The future, now
  (bleaker, / reality,)
looks like it can't keep
its promises.
What
  (anger / shame)
will fill the void?

where the sea and the land
touch each other
  gently with the sand
  rough with the spray
the gifts they give the other
secreted away
  mermaid's purses
  turtle's eggs
where the sea and the sky
touch each other
  pink with the sunset
  white with the moon
there is no trace
of their embrace
  promised treasures
  sunken tombs

how do we know when we're true?
if our heart charts a course
through a sea of taboo
or we feel our desires
swell up at the moment
they're not quite required

when an arrow is loosed from the bow
it will fly straight and true
as we very well know
but our insides aren't wood
so we can't feign surprise
and pretend that we should

all that nature produces is bent
and as we're her children
we should know how that's meant
maybe carry less weight
or take comfort just knowing;
true doesn't only mean straight

sat up high
away from the clatter of plates
and the brisk business of living
trying to perch
balancing between two moments
and sifting through memories
summoning them
through the little details
why are they always near the floor?
from the pauses, perhaps
where I've looked down
or childhood's elbows and knees
colouring in with arcs of the wrist
until the fragile paper bleeds

i grew up in a small town
i couldn't wait to leave
the world seemed
so much bigger
than the small part I could see

once i left, i stayed away
a selfish odyssey
the world grew
into a garden
and the fruit fell from the trees

for all my wide-eyed wonder
i realised what i missed
but the world had
saved for later
all the parts I once possessed

now my children are the future
and one day they will leave
because my world
is so much smaller now
they'll never be far from me

just at comfort's edge
where questions bite
beyond the flickering
wilderness of us all
you can sit and dangle
your legs, soak up
giddy pride and dare,
dare to answer
what we already know
inside, but cannot touch

you are the salt
dissolved
inside me
I can taste
you in my tears

you are the hollow
sound
of breathing
I can hear
you in my sighs

you are the vital
signs
I'm living
when I feel
you in my arms

let's waltz across the shadow of old age
peel off his wilted outline
capture it
like wildflowers
pressed into a page

let's tie our freshest blooms into a bunch
stand a vase inside our stooping house
tease the bees
outside the window
with their perfect lunch

let's masquerade as tragic lovers
with one last defiant dance
no one cares
if tears flow
with our faces covered

Thirteen doesn't have a door,
not a window, nor a floor,
but inside there's a family,
I hear them braying endlessly.

They snort beneath a broken clock,
it's face gives disapproving looks;
"Why are we so down on our luck.
  What sorcery has run amok?"

Umbrellas open in the hall,
hints about their careless fall.
Upturned horseshoes on the table,
should leave no doubts about this fable.

Overt belief in superstition,
is not a very modern position.
But it's cruel to think that others' ills,
are solely brought upon themselves.

When I'm little spoon,
I feel secure.
But please don't leave me
In the second drawer.

I plugged in the ****** router

are an unforgiving itch
they stir in stillness;
scratch the skin
unsettle what
I've settled in.
It's often when I'm vulnerable
that I explore
the fragments
that they lay
  before -
like evidence of my ill intents,
your honour, what I
  should've
   could've
    would've
meant, had I only done things different...
As I stagger through this baying crowd,
their voices swell fubarbaric loud,
until I reach the fire escape
and briefly pause -
why hesitate?
Outside,
the comfort of the night,
the solid floor,
the starry skies;
anonymity will protect
me from my own
(too human)
de-
fects.

we chose
  to orbit
the same sun
  spin through
the same unknowns
  rock up
at the same
impromptu kitchen discos
  fuse together
until the current melts us
  because together
we become
  better and better

when I was very young
I was always falling in love
   carelessly
  blowing
dandelions
not really knowing
the seeds could
settle and grow
(LATER)
autumn's fiery leaves
watched noble rot
kiss the sweetest wine
as careless fingers intertwined
(MEANWHILE)
a thick dust gathered
beneath my bed
caking boxes
of memories

ripples of self doubt
fan out across still waters
contentment is gone

the very sound, enough to gauge
beyond the words that spell the rage
softly passing like a stream
or spitting out great lumps of steam
the meaning sometimes lost on me
but not the rising power inside
released at last by ebbing tides

and in this great cacophony
I hear my own strive to be free
from all the ones that share the same
telling details that you might blame
so let us listen to each other
with open minds and gentle hearts
while chasing this elusive art

alone together
inside
side by horizontal side
  meanwhile
  two streets away
  a barking dog
  suddenly looks up
  towards the sky
the whole world
quietens
  around our intimacy

I never see the stars
  above the city lights
I never hear the planets' roar
  above the hum of engines
I hardly see the seasons change
  beneath the city's shameless grind
the money
  changing hands
the chattering
  passing lips
the crying
  newborn babies
the city's hearses
  silently
driving the old, the young, but the dead -
  to be burned and scattered
I live here with all this savage beauty
  trodden into the streets
  washed out by the rain

I don't actually shrug
at least I don't think I do
I just feel the shrug
my shoulders relax a little
as I bury my disappointment
and my expectations
are gradually eroded

as I cease to connect

after a while
this shrug
this metaphysical shrug
has become part of
my armour
my insulation
it's not really cynicism
because I'm not expecting it
but it's there when I need it
do you understand?
perhaps not
shrugs

just here beside the damp lakeside
where spiralled ferns do grow
I saw a string of bubbles rise
from deep beneath the dark below

perhaps the grand old pike did pass
across the grey lake bed
disturbing all the other fish
with his jagged teeth and mottled head

the surface ripples died away
returning to opaque
the silver sunlight of the day
that tarnishes as night awakes

the air hung heavy with delight
as gnats swirled round in plumes
an owl swooped overhead, his flight
announced the start of night time's bloom

Your sadness
has made you hesitant.
Unsure of the how
or the why.
And now you sit,
reminiscing on your dreams;
the should-have-dones
or could-have-beens.
A playful love, a silent kiss -
the ones that never came to be,
the ones that you only you can see.
When you've fallen from a world
that's built on lies (or so you're told)
and when the falling has no net,
no friends to rally round, or set
you straight upon the winding path,
how do
you find
your way?

soon after the dying Christmas tree
started scattering its needless
needles throughout
the house,
life
stopped -
the nagging dampness
of winter dewing the red bricks
until flakes of paint drifted onto the
floor like snow. Here, among the spider's
threads, where invisible worlds claw
at our heels, some newish sickness
was brewed into being. And we
didn't notice. Our muted
festivals weren't
enough to
mark
the subtle
changes of the
seasons outside, so
every day drifted into the
next one, like waves tumbling
onto distant sandy summer shores

spaghetti in the food bin
a love story for the worms

It is a fact
That as you get older
There are more certainties in your future
Than there were in your past

Aloneness in a fading crowd.
Waves of faces, none that see.
The blurring colours freely bleed;
A wave of choreography.

The fault line in our promises.
What once crackled, became a hum.
Entangled with angelic choirs;
The very tip of our new spectrum.

Always spinning, heading East.
Eternal coals and sourdoughs.
All that nature still abhors;
The vacuous caverns of the soul.

Ever dispersing from the tower.
Spreading further, incoherent.
On our way we greet The Beast;
A promise of eternal peace.

I can't tell these stories, any more.
Each time I tell, they spill a little,
Now all that's left seems slight
And brittle. And I can't tell these
Stories, any more. If you listen
When the rain falls on the path.
You may hear the sounds of sadness
Or of joy. That's because the raindrops,
Are the scattering of pearls, from an ocean
Far away - too far from land for seagulls
Or for me. Tell me why you want to hear
These stories once again? Do you think
That somehow, things will be the same?
With every word that's ever heard,
There's a wave of tiny atoms. And when
Those atoms shake your ear, they'll leave
You feeling lonely. And that's why I cannot
Tell these stories any more.

briskly shoved backwards
abrupt legs screeching
as they drag
across the concrete floor
away from the card table -
instinctively, the other players
pulling their hands
towards their chests
to shield the curious faces
of jacks, queens and kings
like infants in a papoose

confronted by an old friend
who turns up unannounced
you lay your life out piece by piece
they weigh it ounce by ounce

and when you find the sum of parts
is lesser than the whole
they'll ask you what went missing
from the bottom of your soul

nothing dried up by the sun
or left out in the rain
just a sense of emptiness
you couldn't call it pain

that's the hole your filling
with all your new false friends
the ones that drink your spirits
and leave you their dog ends

so come embrace your failings
don't hide them out of sight
without our incompleteness
we've no way to unite

on my wakeful mornings
before my sight has lost
its foggy nighttime hue
I'm balanced unsteadily
between speckled worlds
black spots poised
like tiny lizards
in neither of the realities
that silvering glass creates

When I travelled below,
With only my songs,
I felt no fear,
Because I had no responsibility.
Returning as the sole guide,
I stared at the path ahead.
Imagining each awful possibility,
That might await us - both -
If I failed.
My love twisted into fear.
What grew from an urge to protect,
Suffocated us.
As we drew closer to the light,
I realised we'd never feel safe.
We were compelled to look back,
At the horrors we scraped past.
Or let that festering within us,
Immobilise us completely.
My destiny, through myth,
Turned into anxiety in us all.

The stray dog watches me.
Tongue draped sideways.
Under the dancing shadows,
Cast by dusty olive trees.
The wind blows, across my
Lyre strings. Distant memories
stirring, but I cannot dwell.
Once, when I doubted, I looked
behind and deep regret has
plagued me since.
I am a shell.