Home is so unmoved.  It stays as recalled
smelling of the comfort of the first and last
as if to harbour memories regardless
of age, refusing to release its hold,
it stands so full of heart, with echoes of dinner

with steam lifting from hefts of potatoes
and withered veg, an adamant replay
of checkered tablecloths and brown orange tableware,
long cracked and stacked. You see how it was
close your eyes and hear scrapes of plates,
the scream of the kettle.  
And that veined mug.

I hate knees
Knees hurt on the way down
the stairs to breakfast.
Knees hurt on impact
when I pray in earnest.
Knees transmit pain
signals to my brain relentless.
I hate knees.
Whether on necks
or where they belong,
on the ground.
I hate knees.

The blue lion applied reasonable force down on the black zebra's neck, his lazy authority reinforced with each passing minute.
And the world looked on.

The black zebra signaled his compliance with a little blood and by changing colour to a curious shade of purple.
And the world looked on.

His black herd cried, but kept their distance lest the blue pride took an unhealthy interest in them too.
And the world looked on.

The para lion checked for signs of death, unhurried under the just restraint of the blue law.
And the world looked on.

Eventually the carcass was rolled aside, deflated, unfortunately losing some of its colour.
And the world looked on.

Then later the black herd stampeded, making a wider spectrum of noise that couldn't be ignored.
And the world looked up, asking for the blue lions to do their job, and corrale the black zebras lest they frighten the white cubs.

And the world looked away.

Just cos you’re smarter don’t mean you’re better
Just cos you’re slimmer don’t mean you’re fitter
Just cos you’re taller don’t mean you’re stronger
And just cos you’re whiter don’t mean you’re right-er

God made us different to make a clear point
just take a look and a moment to think
It takes this diversity to reflect a great God
He glories in difference and angels applaud

when we reach across cracks made by our fear
when we stand against hatred and act when we hear
any suggestion of bias, a smidgen of bigotry
any ill-conceived comment that denies someone’s dignity

God made us each different, cos different ain’t boring
gender or pigment, brainy or brawny
God’s image is found in all colours and sizes
so please do your part to bridge what divides us

My last word must go to the average white male:
acknowledge the privilege our lives entail
no need to apologise, no need to feel shame
just walk with humility and please -
up your game

The mangy lab
and the golden retriever
sat waiting
as if asking – which would I choose?
Which was no choice at all.

Both belong to me
and both would follow me
at heel.
One to dog my steps
and one to push his head
under my empty hand
to let me know I have a friend.

Ignore the lyrics.

You can't pursue love. You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or to be had -
it's a doing word
that you just have to work at.

Love is a language expressed in deeds
and sometimes needs to get ****** to best succeed,
with a focus on what is needed whatever the cost
it’s a no-greater-love
that a friend gives on the way to the cross.

It’s a by-this-they-shall-know-you love
A lake-side more-than-these love
A one-another-as-I-have love.
A recognition of our debt of love,

So live relaying a reaffirming love,
Fulfill the greatest command of love,
Greet each other with a holy kiss of love
Build each other up with a that much stronger love.

Bear the heavy fruit of love
until it ripens into a truer love
that resembles in some small way
the seed that was that original
no-greater-love,

cos without love,
well, bruv
you and I,
no matter how loud we sing,
our branches are bear,

and we are nothing.

It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and
where the memories begin
but I know they both begin
to make sense after the first dozen times and
then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and
begin to bore me and
so I focus on waking up to both and
setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and
the puke has already dripped through the cracks left
by the dance leaving a dry yellow stain just so
I know for sure I'm home and
not still in the in-between domain. And
I try to recall the detail but fail again,
so I start a new story where I'm the hero and
not a victim this time and
where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in
a cooperative mood which makes me mad
- what's the point of a hero when
there's no heroism called for
- which makes me wonder who
called me here at this time of the night
when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and
are the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and
me of course, so what's
that make me? some cross between a black arts symbol and
a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and
anger I feel about the world

- blast and ******, I need a *** and
I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and
let nature do it's worse. The warmth soothes me at first, but
soon enough the chill takes hold and
I wonder when mum will come and
tell me it's time for school.

The answer is exactly 30 seconds later and
as usual she notices nothing,
so imagination it is then
- not such a blessing then,
despite what the teacher said.