endless meetings
using screens
built with a disregard
for eye contact
increases my
sense of isolation

Shout it with a friendly bark
Or sing it in a football chant
I'll have no sorry frowns today
Oh, give me love that's simple

A variation in a minor key
Is nothing like the melody
If notes are always black or white
Then I'll have love that's simple

If sadness has your duvet pulled
Above your ears to muffle out
All sounds of dogs and crowds
You won't hear love that's simple

So ask me why it is that I
Would still believe a patent lie
I'll tell you when we win the league
Oh, give me love that's simple

Count the ways the world can end
Or wait until their numbers wane.
Everything that's ever done or said,
Outnumbered more than ten to one.

When it started with a word,
Did He foresee it all as now?
An instant of infinities,
The careful placement
Of each speck and star.
Or did He say, "My work is done,
For every one there is another"?

There's nothing I have ever dreamt,
That's turned out as I thought it would.
So now I'm coming round to think;
It's the counting that will keep us safe.

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

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

Here come the long dark nights.
Absent neighbours' outdoor motion
Sensor light illuminates the same
Wet washing on the sagging line.
Our dog stares up with haunted eyes,
He watches shadows hang beyond
Damp spider webs and chewed-up
Pegs, spat beneath the fallen leaves.
A goods train on the Goblin line,
Feint sparks, will-o'-the-wisp, from
White flashes on the heavy track.
Soon the days of Saints and Souls,
Will sweep the ghouls away again
To covens steeped in wickedness.

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.

Early morning
I stand barefoot
On watered grass
As the rising sun
Kisses leaves of olive trees
With beads of yellow light
I am earthed
My static buzzing
Dampening down
Like the drowsy bees
Hidden in the lavender

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

My sweetness
Thrupenny leisure
Gently worn down by fickle caresses
You come to me as my dream foretold
Awestruck fancy
Shamed by embarrassment
A lilting triplet conspires
Yet peeping out tentatively
Behind a woollen blanket of squares
You come to me for advice?
Don’t dream needless sterility
Vast architecture
Hemming the fabric of life
Unpicked and seldom preserved
Purely for the sake of beauty
Don’t **** on pleasure’s past opportunities
Awake but mystified by the simple
Humdrum that everything really does
Keep revolving around a single point

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.

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.

Here where the town has gone
The final kerbside flush
Against the straggled ends
Of summer weeds

Above the tarmacked hills
Cars fall and rise  
Ever casting pinpricked lights
They navigate the starless nights

Each time we stooped
Inside that parabolic arch
We left chalk marks
With our restless feet

Perhaps we sought
A turning point
A way to stifle down all thought
Of when our road might start

Curled around you
Wire around a gatepost
I squeeze slightly
And push a gentle note
From you lungs
Half sleeping hands
Twist knots from rippling fingers
In the night, from time,
Limbs once squashed, resurface
And buzz slightly
With the orange tranquillity
Of the lamppost outside your bedroom window
My dried kisses
The saliva of pavement slugs
Travelling across your shoulders
Your hair the brambles
That catch the side of my mouth
Sometimes needing a little puff to blow
To blow them on their way
I am with you listening to the darkness
Hills folded
An earwig bumbles wearily over your cheek
With such tiny, beautiful feet
Touching your every pore
The brow of your neck
Rests the dew
Beneath the tumbling dandelions
Tumbling seed
Breathe deeply
A sharp bracing
Toes that peep out
Under the bedclothes
With the yellow dawn

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

I have drifted slightly
from my steady orbit.
Just far enough to see
myself still living out
my usual life, whilst I
watch; a casual ghost.
I catch few words from
all my conversations.
None of the meaning.
Nodding. Without. Really
listening to the steady
falling of the universe.

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

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

I spurn your waken world
With waken hoops
And waken tops
And folk jig cut pegs
What shake and split
With every gust
Of waken stoff

I spit your waken ways
Caring sharing nasty glib
Like every scrub
Crack nub and ****
I will not be that thing
Not me, for any
Wanton spicy sniff

Aye aye lit the ways
Of pepes with straight put
Gnash and brittle thot
I fit not nor I want no mix
I rather hit a spon with slot
To sound a clanging
Bowl of frog

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

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.

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.

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.

he loaded all the cups
into the dishwasher
very neatly
the right way up
as I opened it
and saw them all filled
with tepid grey water
I knew it would be
difficult to tell him
why it was wrong
without it making him feel
squashed
I would
praise his initiative for wanting to do it and
praise the neatness with which he did it
but still I knew it would sound
chastising
and his desire to please
and be accepted in the world
would shrink a little afterwards
so I tipped the grey tepid water into the sink
and reloaded the dishwasher again
with the cups upside down
he could unload it later
sometimes it's better to think
you're going a little mad
if it means you get to keep
what's good inside
a little longer

tell me about love!
the contour of skin
shallow breaths
and midriff curves
rising, falling
pure caressing
backs of fingers
touching games
around the parts
that have no name
but tell me about love!
i wish i could, why
is it here? clasped
behind a naked thigh
a fragrant sweet
a slow unmasking
slightly clammy
hot beneath
the white seams of
a single sheet
but what of love?
we came without promises
connected without lies
held secrets in our arms
and lay there undisguised
there isn't shame
to love and leave
perhaps the rest
is make believe

eventually
all composition
becomes
decomposition

Poets are selfish *******.
They pretend they write for others
But the words are really theirs.
Shall I compare thee?
Try to stop me, more like,
As they go on with the rest.
Break their dreams
Or **** yourselves,
You're never free to choose.
For the selfish bunch of poets
We are nothing but their muse.

I'm meeting an
Old friend today.
Not someone
I know that well,
Just someone
I worked with once.
He's flying in from
Mainland Spain.
Not only to be with me,
He said he's meeting
Someone else.
After all, he's
Just someone
I worked with once.
He's asked to meet
On Brompton Road.
Not somewhere
I know that well.
It's all a little posh for me -
The sports cars and Versace bags,
Eyebrows tamed until they shine,
Cuffs with cufflinks,
Men of means.
Not things I need
(although I'm careful
not to judge).
Judging is an invitation
And I think that
I would rather stay,
As someone that
He worked with once.

If you keep spreading butter
On hot toast,
Then at some point,
You can see the butter.
And at some point later,
You can't see the toast.

I feel it turn persistent
your change of tone
like a chill in the air
I'd been trying to ignore
and then I realise you're far away
unreachable
you'll soon sound sad
Cinderella without your prince
somewhere reasoning cannot reach
leaning forlorn on a broomstick
I used to think it was selfishness
your depression
perhaps that gave a kind of comfort to you
because showing I accept it
would make you think I've I given up
and if I don't still try and reason
then am I unreasonable?
I know we'll both feel lonely
I know you know
I love you
I just want you back again

I plugged in the ****** router

Love is a parallel line
Startled by an unexpected kiss
Love is your reflection in reverse
What others see, but you have missed
Love is prejudice sliced and diced
And served up as a humble dish
Love is shyness defeated
Reluctantly tried
Eagerly repeated
Love is a broken pattern
Broken dishes, broken hearts
Love is a crow foot tear
A silence closed off to words
Love is yearning learning growing
Old together forever
Love is submerged
Sunken treasure
Love is the echo
Of emptiness
In us

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

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.

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

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.

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?

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?

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

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?

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.

I thought it was you,
but I wasn't certain.
One last glance back,
your sunbed definitely empty,
  towel crumpled / empty shell
I follow you out to sea.

Squinting; without glasses
I cannot tell if it's you.
Your head bobbing.

Alone.

The hazy afternoon sun
creates dancing ripples
of horizontal light.
As I swim nearer,
still uncertain,
I see you - but you as a boy.

Suddenly, I feel the same intense love
I felt when little you would stumble
back into my open arms
  laughing / crying / needing
needing me.

I reach you, but I see
the fine young man
you have become.

Floating together,
smiling at one another,
I am filled with a sad pride;
family holidays were always too short.

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.

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

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

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

A half inflated football
Thuds against pebbledash
Garage door thunderclap
Announces childhood
Attention spans
Across the cul-de-sacs
Estate to estate
Squeezed between the tip
Of the town planner's 2H pencil
And the flick of a syringe
Stupified by sunshine
Half baked by boredom
The grubby kids
With their snot soaked sleeves
Kicking out in the dusty leaves

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.

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

We meet up early from afar,
eager beavers that we all are.
Patted shoulders tell me how,
we're stouter than the boys we were.

Squashed together in our booth,
the food is just an incidental course.
It's wine is what we need to spill
the gibberish across our bowls.

And did you watch that film? The one
with whatshisname who's married to
the one from ... our phones can rescue
all the many names we can't recall.

All too soon we're done. The catching up
complete, we float back through the
empty streets. Our separate ways are lit,
by some small flame that we have shared.

At home you ask about their wives
and other things about their lives.
I don't have anything to share. To which
you rightly ask; were you really even there?