PSSSST!
Yeah, man, I mean you!!
Are you looking to score some ... poetry?
I got some of the good **** here.
Uncut.
Just in.
Here, smell this ... what you think?
Lover's tears?
Wistful reminisces?
Distant zephyrs, tinged with cardamon?
Man, I told you this **** was good.
You sure?
Okay, but take it easy, start with a little.
I might be a dealer of poems,
but there are some things
I don't want on my conscience.
Smoke it, snort it.
Hell, some people even like to read it!
Yeah, it's been a pleasure.
You know where to find me next time.

YOU BOUGHT WHAT?
Did you even THINK about
HOW this stuff gets made?
Yes, tears are shed.
Yes, hearts are broken.
I think of it like this;
it's probably someone poor,
in some far off land,
scraping through any number of
Emotionally
Challenging
Real Life
Experiences.
Of course, that's how it works -
- the more raw the emotion
- the more raw the poem.
Well. You've got it now.
The damage has already been done.
So.
What does it say?

I saw the same sad magpie twice today.
Does that count as joy?
Solitary bird.
Sat beside the greenest grass.
Sat upon the safety of the fence.

That night he sees the moonlight in a pool;
"I'll keep this trinket in my nest".

My uncle Paul. Born when other people
wanted to forget the war,
twenty years before I arrived.
We drew grey tanks on scrolls of paper,
splattered soldiers with our red felt tips.

What do you do when the sirens start?
Turn off the gas. Seek shelter. Do not panic.

In my grandma's bathroom was a box,
made from a hollowed out tortoise.
Inside, snug and heavy, like the last
solid Russian doll, lay the grenade.
Safe. No charge. So my uncle Paul said.

The earth still smoldered when the tortoise
first walked. A survivor of the last Great Dying.

I've never seen a bomb explode.
I've not been deafened by a blast, nor
smelt sulphur tinged with rotten meat.
What is war without the dead?
An empty stage but for the props.

The heavy velvet curtains twitch,
as the stagehand checks the house is packed.

A single spotlight swoops then rests;
illuminates the uncaged beast. Scales, horns,
bristles, teeth; frame his clammy goat-like face.
Seven magpies peck the boards. A cacophony
of squawks drown out the murmured audience.

I am a dying memory.
I am lifeless as the hands that made me.

Underneath a trestle table, the sagging
boxes sit; their edges gently tearing
with the leaning piles of books.
And every book is bending.
And every page is worn.
And the words inside
are cluttered now
- like the mind
that stacked
them there.

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.

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

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

“Love is always shaded
In vanity”, you said,
“At least, all my lovers
Have been vain
Pleasing me
Pleasing me
But in the end
Unconcerned about
Really touching me
That’s not to say
I’m not flattered by
Empty Romantic gestures
I am
But I don’t want to be
Wooed by some
Accepted idea
I just want to know
If two people
Can
Really
Connect
Or if eternal
Loneliness
Is our lot”
And then you looked up
Inquiringly
Coquettishly
Your eyes sparkling
Across the table
Past the candles
Past the wine glasses
Past the single red red rose
Past my lies
Past my gaze
Towards the tumbling
Infinite darkness
Of the night

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.

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

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

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

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.

I'm unnerved by hearing flattery.
Did I invite it with my neediness
or coax it with a smile? Perhaps
the words that follow are less
appetising fare. Or is the flatterer
expecting reassurances in return?
Unless I'm sure it's quite sincere,
I'm left unsure what to say.
I add a simple "Thank you"
in the hope it goes away.

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

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

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

Where is equality in distance
between Time and Space?
Ten years to one mile
seems about right.

Thirty years ago we were in Kilburn,
three miles west of here,
acting out our early twenties
with hedonistic disdain.
Clubs and bars would *****
us out into the night air
and we would scamper off
like single ants, unsure where
we might refind the scent.
All those roads are still blurred.

Perhaps I will make
sliding box puzzles
from obsolete copies
of the London A to Z.

I read that the majority of car crashes
happen within three miles of
where the driver lives.
Isn't that self-evident?
Aren't most journeys
journeys to or from home?

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.

Half raw truths
Dressed up as familiar tragedy
And swallowed bile-like
Between a drizzle of words
Familiar words
Soaking me
Waking memories
Indistinct figures
Move behind a frosted
Glass panelled door
Prisming their edges
Into ever diminishing
Stranded light and dark
My hesitant thoughts
Punctuate the gaps
With questions
About you
Stranger
My stories
Join yours
Whirl circles together
A dizzy hand holding
Look-into-my-eyes
Wheel of forbidden romance
Until our arms tire
And we let go

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.

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

you can recognise
true kindness
because it comes
hesitantly
and humbly
it'll be embarrassed easily
so don't question it too deeply
but acknowledge it gracefully
and bask in the afterglow

The dying tree
is no longer in
the living room.

I wish your voice had sounded clearer, but you
were driving. Driving through some winding
country lane, I guess; trees bending over
the road, eavesdropping as we tried to speak.

I was in the kitchen, mobile wedged between
my ear and shoulder, peeling potatoes. Coils
of brown skin flopped into the colander. I told
you how my work was unbearable. Thankless

days. Endless asks. Joyless tasks. Finally,
I told you how I'd fallen. Your words were
clipped by empty spaces as the signal faded.
I scarred my forehead as I fell. Healing now.

Better than it was. I imagined the rhythmic
cat's eyes, punctuating the road like tiny
shooting stars as you drove homewards
into the night. Underneath the waning moon,

far from all the bright lights.

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.

The words trickled over your lips
A petrifying waterfall that sprayed
Phrase with icy shards
The words
I did not hear
Although
I know that malice this unkind
Springs from greater hidden pools
Out subterranean empty halls
That echo slightly with the drops

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

She loves me not
My future settled
Among the sprinkled
Roulette petals

Chance decides
The course I take
I’ll still my heart
Not for her sake

And when my own
Free will expires
I’ll germinate
More wildflowers

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

Young, bold, reckless love,
Breaking hearts and mending.
Spilling silky words in minds,
Regretted after sending.

Peer inside the blackened ***,
Where witches boil their potions.
Born from stirring body parts,
These spells for false devotions.

Give me love that's grown old,
Through wrinkled hands held fast.
Carried high on effervescing
Bubbles from the past.

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.

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

Before important business
can start, there's a general
sniffing of the night; a stale
nose of fireworks, perhaps
the evening star? The moon
adds a drop of essence,
beyond the too damp wet
piles of autumn leaves. We
walk, stopping frequently to
sample other joys; a scent
of fox, a whiff of squirrel.
Inside the wine shop I am
greeted by an offer of tasting.
Good boy. Sit. Strong tannins.
rich summer fruit lingers after.
Honey. Figs. Redcurrants.

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

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

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.

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

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.

Oi B! Don’t sink
To the bottom of the sea
Don’t drown, in your
Nights out on the town
Keep some air
In your lungs
Find some passion
Away from the crowd
Put the spring
Back in your step
Be the B
You always were to me
Regain some rhythm
Or don’t
But don’t
Be rolled over
Before
You have
Realised

Resting weary
Post
Posting Christmas cards
Done with
Donning smiles
Resting hesitantly
Not quite believing
There isn’t another pipeline
In the pipe
You
Aren’t
Here
Constant companion
My interface to the worldly
Wakeful wanderers
Nothing seems so easy or
So tragic without your humour
Your thoughts touch me
Because I know they’re travelling this way
Not because I am the TV detector man

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

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

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.

It's as if that everything
We ever made or did—
Paintings in a distant cave
Every minaret and spire,

Each telescope or microchip,
Washing flapping on the line
As No. 5 sits down as a family,
Silently, to eat their tea—

As if all those things
Were only ever real
In the moments when a dream
Is shook out by awakening.

A distant eye will never spy
Another fading star in the night sky.
And when all we have to say is said,
We'll notice that there's no one left.

Bequeath your final skin to dust.
Watch the ferrous atoms gather
as the rusted cosmos rots.
Feel the cogs still turning,
churning seasons to a pulp.
Hear the solemn promise
autumn whispers in the dusk;
I am just an echo of the darkest
night of all. Will our children's
children still believe our great
great selves? Will Old Mother
Hubbard leave her own bones
upon the shelves? Will Old Father
Time's paternity outlive all our
foolish fears? When the edge
of you is nowhere and the end
of you has come, then you'll
understand that living was
a fraction of the whole.

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?

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