#somerset
.
returning to my childhood home in thought
returning to mallard quacks tolling
and the hour toiled
by ever thirsty church bells
cold damp rock house with ammonites
and belemnites coiling in the walls
and a cooling ichthyosaur
futilely trying to swim in the silty soil
struggling to catch prey
beneath the foundation
its darkness is rummage
.
a flush lawn planted nilly and obscene
monkshood mint cotton grass and ling
warm mentions an evening fire
and the family room
i'm mooding through the memory
and it grooms apart organic
birthing not river not smoke
rat sized earwigs take to the air heat
over the boiling tar garage roof
and i return home back through time
child swinging on thick vines suspended
by the yew over the stream
the willows dapple and paddle
the fir trees return
fierce sproutings of involving shade
ridding the house
of the intruder new extension
riding time back
and the caravan my parents
would later park on concrete
is swallowed
the storms of a bad year return the old wall
at the property edge
and the cottage reforms an ancient pace
with its surroundings
.
it's no longer my families claimed place
re-seemed with ghoulish history
the workhouse returns
and files with hard poverty
the wall punches through
in what will be the kitchen
and the cottage runs through long
with the neighbours space
dormitory takes the whole upstairs length
and the legend of the garment thief
drops ghost and rumour to live again
and then all this too flees out of history
.
rushing back through time
and this all sinks into the levels
swamp life takes over
and the ammonites
moisten with anticipation
prehistory is sprout to begin
.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC
There’s an Escape Lane on Porlock Hill
For those cars that are rusting, creaking and leaking
For those drivers whose brakes have failed to arrest them
It forces them uphill ‘til they judder and stop.
There’s an Escape Lane on Porlock Hill
It’s not for the likes of me, my driving restrained, my vehicle maintained
Appropriately serviced with logbook stamps-in-a-row
It’s for someone else entirely; quite other than me.
There’s an Escape Lane on Porlock Hill
For someone who speeds and needs to be forced to a stop
Leaving them battered and bruised – and feeling quite foolish
It’s not for me: I don’t need it. I can stop by myself.
Truly, I can stop.
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 4:38 AM UTC
I take Rowan to pick blackberries.
I knew where they’d be
Up through the allotments beyond the windmill,
brambles hanging heavy in the sunshine
We each carry
what we could find in the kitchen:
me a jug, he a plastic box. He clutches
it to his chest with both hands,
stepping carefully over cracks in the pavement.
Here then,
The clutches of fruit perch
like children sitting on a gate.
Rosehips and sloes peep yet
through the leaves, biding their time.
I say,
look at the colours.
Green then red and then
finally
shiny, glowing,
deepest purple.
And oh how the fattest fall just so
into your hand,
as if they have been waiting
Soft bubbles bursting with juice
Our fingers and chins
turn pink
I give him the biggest and sweetest.
I like the **** ones, sharp as a high summer sky.
The evening sun sends our shadows on and on
As I stop to watch him he grows,
transforming
right in front of me, long fingers and a wide wide grin, daisy faced, I must tilt
My head to meet his eye.
Now his hands find
the furthest blackberries
just
beyond
my reach.
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 12:23 PM UTC
friday morning,
we wake up hungover
from last night's binge drinking,
because even though we love our jobs,
no one really wants to work for their entire lives,
when so many things are unanswered,
perverted, and misconstrued.
hashtag all of those millennial catchphrases,
to garner hearts from your friends
who you haven't seen in years,
friends who work in San Fran,
Chicago, Greenwich Village.
crank up your laptop speakers,
as Neon Indian's Polish Girl
plays that **** synth,
and take a drag from a P-Funk,
before your Grandma hits your
shoulder with the newspaper daily—
right after she speaks in Vietnamese,
asking you what is your name,
because she has Alzheimer’s.
but in these social media days,
isn't everything that is worth mentioning to your sister,
everything that is worth fighting for,
everything that is ****** in this world,
on the internet (maybe, just Twitter tbh).
screenshot the cat meme you like,
save it,
share it,
move on.
if only she wasn't allergic to cats,
maybe it could have worked out.
that was 7 years ago.
*** ova it. Then, mix your red bull with your coffee,
because the next 10 hours of your life,
will be revolving around caring about people
other than your ungrateful and ingratiating ***
don't cry,
when I say good-bye.
stay for a while, under the shade of the rooftop
where the deejay spins Frank Ocean
and Frank Sinatra records,
as everyone is drinking scotch, or Yuengling,
and ashing over the veranda bansister,
; the bad boys try to open their souls
to the good girls. and the bad girls,
reveal too much to the good boys.
we devoured those drugs, as though
they were jelly beans from a convenience store,
and then we broke into the store
and ate some more.
break the coals on top of the hookah,
puff, puff, pass—
inhale, exhale,
fit the deformed piece
back into the Dinosaur puzzle,
and crawl back into bed,
pull the covers over
your trembling body,
shut your eyes,
and reflect,
for the day is heavy with regret
and unsaid things.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC