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.

Sifting our old photos
has left me feeling
uneasy - robbed,
perhaps.
Why are these fragile
moments scattered so
carelessly across our
lives? Like a necklace
whose thread has snapped.
Beads rolling,
some slow,
some fast,
until eventually -
all the beads stop.
And in that breathless
pause,
left stood,
******* helplessly,
the neck left bare.

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

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?

Let's take a bus!
Visiting universities with my son
Remembering / trying to forget
Listening to paper-thin academics
Peter Pan never-grow-old boys
Who outstayed big school
Not like all work no play dad
He's back where he once
Puked-up on the steps of libraries
He lived with hardback books
Cramped in, just one gas ring
Not now, all digital innit, mister
My old lecturers must be very old
Spewing memoirs or just dead
We go to the City Art Gallery
To find out where life pauses
And rest awhile together

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?

follow me, do not fear
please believe me and stay near

walk behind, all the way
I'm alive, so cannot stay

I will sing, once outside
you'll be with me, at my side

make a sound - are you there?
for a moment, I dispaired

when you left, my world died
thinking of you, trapped inside

almost there now, can you see?
I can't believe, you'll soon be free

I can't hear - are you there?
just a shadow, fleeting where

the dark and groaning dead
treading silent without end

yes - it's me, don't be afraid
let me guide you
towards the light

you'll feel yourself again
once we're oustside
under the sky

I so want to touch
you but i can't
promises, I

watch, there's a gap here
stay close
won't

I tried to look but
shouldn't, I knew
but I couldn't

love led blind, through barren paths
ever stepping back towards
a singularity of fear
to question makes
it disappear
can someone believe
without questions
without answers
that's not what lovers
in hungered trances
can pretend - it's not enough
even Gods aren't made
of stuff that tough

Don't get me wrong,
I am glad he came back,
I just didn't expect it, that's
all, what with me being
dead and that. I've not had
many other boyfriends. I think
you might be right. He always seemed
more keen on his singing than hanging
out with me. It was always "here's another
song I've written". Of course it was flattering,
at first, when he wrote songs for me.
But now it's like he doesn't even want
to know me. He won't even look round, he just marches off in front all the time...

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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 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.

If I left a few minutes earlier
I would have made that tube
Perhaps if I hadn't taken so long
To brush my teeth
Or find my wallet
Or kiss my children goodbye
I might have walked up
Through the empty streets
With the golden glowing dawn
Caressing building tops
And weary bus stop
A little earlier
But then
If I had
I might not have written this either

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.

After all the spin is done
And news is fully crumpled
A simmering will linger on
On lonely stoves
Where kinship brews
In kitchens often humble

Those who engineered our fate
Half blind to all but power
A swelling symphony of hate
What deafness fears
The masses hear
Once sweet now sounding sour

And in their places standing
Stones or setting suns, old Gods
Not silent to those listening
When shadows long
Our rights, their wrongs
Should never be at odds

Empty flowerpots, their soil crusted
Insides clue us to once precious
Clasped bouquets. Will they hold
And love again some tender stem?
Discarded with the half-bricks,
Where the millipede roams, his
Thousand miniscule feet implore,
Beating the whispered rhythms of night.
By degrees, with each passing season,
The gathered moss gently mutes,
A glorious world of commerce,
Erupting between the little things.
Imperceptibly, away from brash
Petalled beauty they find
Steady destiny. Outside
Expectations and away
From where we see.

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.

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

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

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).

spaghetti in the food bin
a love story for the worms

my dog barks
when things are hard
he snarls when he's afraid
and when he finds it
all to much
he skulks back in his cage
my dog is just like other dogs
his heart is there to see
I'm not sure if
he's learnt these things
from watching
other dogs
like me

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.

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

It used to be quite unusual
to leave pound coins
in the money jar
and ever see them again.
Apparently, in my son's eyes,
each one could be
a Greggs sausage roll token,
to treasure after school.
I couldn't tell you when
I first knew about these silent
transformations happening.
In the beginning,
as now, the pound coins
just lay; untouched.
That's why, whenever
I see them lying there still,
I feel a little pang of sadness
at his budding independence
being robbed.

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.

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

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

We walk the narrow
Night-time streets
Alone together
Our low whispers
Not loud enough
To wake crumpled beds
We're in a labyrinth you said
Drifting without a breeze
You tell me how
You came to be
And I sip upon
Your words
Like wine

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

"On this site!" -
didn't you know?
Nothing to see here now.
The dust of past civilisations
blows along the pavement
crowd surfing
empty crisp packets.
Should we marvel at how
latitude and longitude
can briefly connect us?
Or are we being dared to peer
deeper, beneath
those ancient feet?
Hobnailed soles.
Decorative embroidery.
Fashionable, in their day.
The rhythms of routine,
echoes around us with
each unsteady step.
Is it history or the sign writers
that makes us feel so futile?

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 waking, sleeping journey,
turns thoughts onto their side.
The falling words of consciousness,
untangling like lies.
I feel a rising otherness.
Misting up;
rolling patterns,
haphazard phases.
Observe too keenly
and they fade.
Watch sideways
and they grow,
into a twisted cadence
of heavy silence.
Ticking over,
before the drive into dreams.

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.

all sounds are muted
as the muzzled wave
shakes the street-stood
to their rubbled graves

an act as black
as snow is white
paints a greyness
in its blinding light

every single
pane of glass
once drum taut now
scattered by the blast

and on it rips
sad dandelion
blow the hours
from the rising sun

I know this fear
I've swallowed threads
I'm nothing if not
shaken by the dead

harlequin green
halfway to yellow
you'll be my queen
on a seat made for one

winterbourne water
flows freely in springtime
when all of my colours
fix fast to the page

dancing at dawn
rolling in wonder
the sweetness of dew
still kissing the ground

starlight's a perfume
soaked in a handkerchief
snapdragons roar
when the wind's in their cheeks

ribbons a-flutter
stand up the maypole
pigtails and dresses
the tune is a round

spun from a world away
land in the distance
once a day yesterday
viewed from the mast

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?

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.

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

My teenage kids have never been
inside their grandma's house.
I've told them tales of footholds
in-between tall piles of stuff.
What stuff, they ask?
Magazines and books,
bags of shoes,
boxes filled with cutlery,
a printing press,
tea chests emptied of their tea and
filled with things she doesn't need.
Stuff that's kept in case.
Stuff that's kept because
some secret now insists she must.
Does she have a bed, they ask?
Furniture once designed to guide
her eating, sitting, sleeping life,
now lies buried
deep inside her hive.
Is it like the Pharaoh's Tomb?
Perhaps.
I hadn't thought of it like that.
I prefer to think of it
as honeycomb.

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.

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.

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

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.