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.

Sometimes,
  when I'm walking my dog,
    I pretend
      I'm flying
       an upside down
       kite.
The kite pulls me.
  The kite gets stuck in a tree.
    I pull the kite.
The kite gets tangled
  with another kite.
The kite stops;
  scared of shadows?
Eventually, I find an open space
  and I set the kite
                                     free.

Forgive me, but I don't
want to explore my feelings,
backpack through insecurity
or interrail across buried pain.
There is no pride to be found
in travelling to those places
or even in a triumphant return.
Instead, I'll make my feelings
comfortable by giving them
a seat inside a steady room,
beside a window with a view

Bach takes a theme.
And Bach takes another theme.
Below, the first theme Bach takes.
Above, together, the themes all make,
A joyous celebration of the theme.
And finally the many voices cadence.
But then. The theme, but in
Another key. Again, the theme
But awkwardly, diminished and
Augmented. The fugal dance,
Around it wraps, until,
A flourishing.
A cadence.
Because when Bach takes a theme.
Bach takes a theme.
And plays it.

As I lie in bed, I hear the street;
the cars that pass like waves,
the pavement tapped
by rhythmic feet.
And by my side, my love lies still.
Her gentle breath, as slow as breeze,
beneath the humming of an aeroplane.
Above us all, the arching skies
stretch further than our heavy limbs,
can ever dream of traveling.

eventually
all composition
becomes
decomposition

Just before a falling,
the tilted horizon decides
it must be right.
Perhaps it's pride?
The lilting ship is oblivious
to each stumbled embrace.
The breathless drunk, stands
leaning on a brick wall.
I recognise it in solitudes.
I heard it many times;
between a dozen tolls
of midnight's bells.

My future, sealed by a cross,
I must forever stumble.
I'm carried in a silent wave;
its dampened roar, quite lost
within a labyrinth of cul-de-sacs.
Further forward, over rocks, carved
smooth by endless years of swell.
I reach out just to try to touch,
but touching is beyond my reach.
Would you join me on this ride?
Together, when our bodies crash,
we'll know it took some other force,
to overpower the both of us.
I'd rather leave my tiller free;
let my rudder make no odds to me.

The rivers on
A corrugated roof,
Will meet the sea,
Eventually.

I am driving on the Marylebone Road.
Waiting to be carried on the crest
of the next green wave.

Here come the dead.
Close your eyes and listen
To their slowly beating drum.

Smell the air turn
Marble black as day tuns
Dark as night. Moonlight is their

Master now, they
Have no need for love or
Feelings that they care to share.

Don't be fooled by
Pity me or stories
Of their troubled days on earth.

The dead are dead
Forever more;
Nothing you can say or do

Will ever be
Enough.

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.

The dying tree
is no longer in
the living room.

my smile
stitched my face
like a crocodile
beaming
top deck
of the 63
as we ride
the dark
outside

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.

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

I'm in Italy once again, my love.
But why is there no architecture?
Endlessly winding, the streets narrow
until the cars can no longer turn.
Did we come here? I easily forget.
All my pasts return to haunt me;
shambling, drunk creature, I dared
to love. Now the heat makes the
veins swell beneath my upturned
hands. I wonder what became of you?
Timidity hid you, even then. Only now,
I truly appreciate your fading smile.

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

Let your thoughts move the air,
Turn despair into pitch, anger to a growl.
Imitate the sound of darkness,
Lying stagnant at the bottom of a well.
Let the mountains in your dreams,
Cause a ripple on still water.
Hum the note the earth first sung.
But never, ever, sing Wonderwall,
On the top deck of the 271.

Your dead maps
Cannot match the ways
The shifting earth
Will lie.

Lines that you once
Thought straight,
Will never now
Be true.

On each cracked page,
A fearless canyon.
Each fold can hide
A crooked spire.

My north is lost,
So lost beneath,
A careless dry
Pressed flower.

Here, beneath my ribs;
underneath the chewy strands,
my lanky ambitions, naked
without sense. As a finger
held to thumb, between
a petalled gift. Kiss each
inch of me. Make me sigh.
Roll me only when I'm dead.

In deep ground,
where other bones
lie very still. Or
under a twisted

soil wrapped root,
from a tree too tall
to fall, until the day
it does. Long

shadows are broken
sticks that snap;
over a floor, across
a crumbled wall.

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

I gave him money
He told me he would put it
Towards a hostel

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

Faceless morning winter moon
My walking makes you wander
Kiss the treetops as you pass
Bright disk above the branches

Twisted heart and sap unite
Throughout the veins of every tree
Damp leaves lay lifeless on the path
All but dust in this perpetual world

Perhaps a little part of me lies broken
In amongst the trees, behind the falling
Fading moon that promised everything
Too soon against the brightening sky

It's true, I may not be as fun as I was
Perhaps I am a little selfish too
But in the morning I will wake early
Slip out whilst you sleep and
Walk a little in the sunshine
Buy a coffee and drink it sitting
On a bench as the world rushes by
I am finding other ways
To treat myself

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.

By morning,
the bright red peonies
that brightened our evening
stood silent and bare,
their petals scattered
on the table
like a soft snow.

Involuntary and silent,
I mouthed a Bless You
To the breeze.

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

I am in an unfamiliar city,
Feeling lost inside a familiar hotel.
I am, plate in hand, skirting
Round the breakfast buffet.

Each dish is neatly labelled;
Scrambled eggs.
Breakfast sausage.
Local cheese (soft)!

Another man is standing
Motionless. Is he praying?
We shuffle around each other,
Replacing lids, laying spoons,

Filling our plates with all types of
Exotic treats. A whispered song to
Breaking bread. Just two strangers
Orbiting the food we eat.

What will we learn
from our reflected
selves? Movement,
  reversed. Light,
changed course.
The truths we hide,
but secretly know
(deep down inside).
Each little smear
distracts. Illusions
are a fragile gift
that's best
kept wrapped.

the rain falls against my window
the rain doesn't fall against my window
I am inside
I am outside
I am inside and the rain isn't falling against my window
I am outside and the rain isn't falling against my window
I am outside and the rain is falling on me
I am inside and the rain is falling on me
I am outside and I am wet
I am inside and I am dry
I am outside and I am dry
I am inside and I am wet
it isn't my window
the rain isn't falling
it isn't raining
the is no window
there is no rain
there is no falling
there is nothing

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.

Underneath the slanted parasol
Eyes half closed against the sky
All sound is mixed
With sun and spray
The mama
Her indignant child
A distant beat
Beyond the crowds
The lapsing rhythm
Every wave
Too soon I slip into the depths
The sweat and suncream
Milk upon my skin
Did Cleopatra swim?

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

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

I am not a robot
I am only
following
instructions

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.

I feel it in my crooked toes
and in my wonky two front teeth.
I see it where my clothes are worn
and in the gaps around my shoes.
I notice it in others too; in the little
signs of wear and tear,
in the slog of getting old.
Poor is all wrapped up cold,
inside a shabby winter coat.
You can try to hide it
while you're living
or **** it like a sugared treat.

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

I have always travelled headfirst.
As an aeroplane child, I lent forward
with my arms outstretched, humming.
Later, I perfected the same trick
without any hint of movement or sound.
I arrive awkwardly in conversations,
my head bursting through thin walls
unexpectedly like a jack-in-the-box.

Whilst queueing, I argue with the people
in front, indignant that they are only
ahead by some mishap of time or space.
I am a gargoyle, forever watching,
cursing all the decent people
as they file beneath me. I contort
in public for I am a private person.
Love has eluded me, until now.

When I'm asked, "Would you like a seat?",
I will reply, "Parallel lines never intersect."
To be aloof, takes practice and hard work.
"Pierrot, you must be exhausted!" is a
common refrain, but only from old people, young people seldom give
insights without provocation.

As a baby, I was doused in talcum powder.
My inner fire extinguished, I was deemed
ready for a neutered life. When it is dark,
I stand quite still, like a mannequin.
I live only for the attention of strangers.

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

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.

Lambeth Hospital closed down,
four years after I was born.
I refuse to believe that these
two minor events are unrelated.

My own trajectory was set long
before my birth. Necessity paved
the way to planning the new North
Wing of nearby St Thomas'.

Just as planetary alignment will
shape us, a city council understands
how their work changes destinies.
So what about free will, you ask?

We are free to believe in whatever
mysterious forces we choose; banal,
supernatural or otherwise. Damage
from wear and tear is not covered.

Somewhere in amongst the grass,
There lies a piece of meteorite.
A silver shard from outer space,
Resting in this blackest night.
An owl hoots. Branches sway.
Did they see the final flash
As cosmic dust laid down to rest?
Or did this piece of Icarus deserve
No fanfare from the rest of us?
For the fragment this is one brief stop,
Across the ever winding Universe.

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.

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

Bouquet is far too grand a word
For flowers lent against a tree.
Plastic wrapped and garage bought,
They'll never complement a vase
Or bask inside a living room
Amongst a noisy family.
Instead they'll wilt beneath achenes
From rows of careful London planes,
Their never tasted flower food
Held on with bright red sticky tape.
Stranger, brother, loving son,
Far too swiftly were you come
And gone.