Sonnet 4


You never spend a pound when you can spend a penny,

how I once saw you, new beauty, lost now, is a legacy fading.

It’s because of all the jars of coins you gave me, I took, I was selfish

and anyway I used to think you were free, I mean never not free.

You can hold my arsecheek if I can hold your arsecheek,

That’s so romantic, that’s such a gift to give.

Usurper, that’s what I call you when you steal my kinks

and nothing costs as much as the errors I’ve marked us with.

It’ll be cold tomorrow, icy and uncertain and the cars will skid,

you’ll be alone but don’t be deceived, I’ll be here where we were..

It’s not a constant calling I’m talking about, it’s a distant whisper,

barely audible, you should do a stock take of my longing.

Every time I don’t touch you I’m buried deep, I’m dead.

Every time you turn away you’re my executor, you’re sleeping.


On a Facebook Argument

Aside from this

is the luxury of reading, of scanning lines.

If words cut men wouldn’t needs knives

but words don’t need forging,

don’t need to be dealt like a stroke of steel

just said

and said too easily, too often.

And life is not just about joy.

There are other things, the unwelcomed

and unwanted,

the absence of warmth.

And words are written, unsaid, read, taken to heart.

Something is missing.

I call it realisation

or contentment.

One of them wrote about absence,

those words held realisation

and offered contentment, the fleeting kind

of envied lines.

One of them wrote because he could

and somewhere, aside from all of this,

men like him are forging misery,

men like him are making a world full of absence,

the permanent kind

of what is left behind when life is taken,

when words are not enough.

Be my dance

Be my dance

Beneath my feet my dance

Beneath my feet my words are eating my dance

Beneath my feet something stirs and I stare and say words that are stray like the widows who are eating my dance

Beneath the ice there are beginnings that began and ended and began again and my feet are cold because of the ice or because something stirs me like you never stirred me and I stare at ice in the freezer and chip at it so we can have iced drinks and say words that are stray like the dog we never rescued from the churchyard like the widows who keep knocking at our door to sell us windows because everyone can see into our hearts and everyone tells us there are whispers who are eating the ease out of our dance or their dance or my dance and when I stop moving you say I’m becoming alone and almost a widow and mustn’t ever dance but mustn’t ever not move

Beneath stares words like windows dance

Be stale wince



Around the headland, off into the night,

are more of them,

the words we send out to be mangled and muffled,

sheltering from the sea’s urged-on breeze

in hollows cut into stone.


Strung lights dance along the pier

like we didn’t dance.

The limping woman dances to her taxi,

her husband whirls a crutch high,

they hobble home together.


And the clinking ice

mingles with harsh whisky,

drained down,

disappearing and disappearing.


That beast around the bay doesn’t know its name,

sleeps while the world tramples over it,

dances over it, mopes over it.

Sonnet 3


In water and near empty glasses I saw a face, a distorted I,

like how I’d pass one hand through another and call myself Jedi.

Once I poured myself fresh water and the face remained, bobbing there,

reflecting someone else, beguiling, a Christening pool, unmarred,

and when it was gone I wondered where it was, where it lived,

not just drained away, not just let go, not often hushed.

Or how I could levitate too and no one knew that skill,

but it’s all in the past now, it’s all uncared for and forgotten.

And I’ve lost my way and my mother won’t help me.

Last April I was worried about stalkers, about a confederate girl I knew once,

how a beard was watching her through windows, how a beard followed her.

A fold, a change, a shift, and when they shouted time I was a bell ringing.

But you’ll remember beyond my memory, and my memory is so frail,

but I will lack reflection and I will say things like thine and follow.

Now Laugh

Poetry = the unfettered encouragement of laughter-bursts and self-indulgent silence. The dismemberment of language. I mean the dismemberment of language to extend language not to bury it. Or that’s what I thought. Poetry = the ambivalence to identity. The disjointing of language. The stepping away from language in mock-ignorance. Such as ‘I never had enough education to form form. To know form.’ Poetry says ‘I am recognisably generational and have too much interest in technology, in sex, in the body, in self-reflection, in cut-at-sentences’. Poetry says ‘I am poetry, I am in a small room and more of  poetry keeps coming to join me’. Poetry = a space for an unobtainable otherness to get nurtured through feigned ‘we are of the same ilk, all of us but don’t mention class, I mean ilk, I mean ink is all there should be’. But we’re not of the same ilk. Poetry would like to be layered cake, a landscape of contrasts, when there’s only a flat plain. A plain flatness. There are none-voices, there are too many this-voice, a-voice, all-voice. There is unwritten poetry that’ll never get written. The never-voices. And it stands aside from all us. In truth it does. It says ‘Come inside the small room but don’t stay too long. I am poetry, this is my small room, this is ‘our’ small room. Let me listen to your voice. Ahem, it resonates, you can stay. Ahem, it’s too crowded in here, you should go.’ Poetry = the unfettered self-indulgence of language to form bursts of encouragement from a too silent audience. Now laugh.

Sonnet 2


I wish I had an anecdote about Blacklow Brow.

It entangles the tongue, there was never any beauty in that place,

just a road where all the livers of my youth got ruined

and climbing out of the underpass caught the whiff of weed

and nothing lies there that can be dug up, don’t ask.

I kissed a girl I never loved right there, a dog bark-sang to us

and I saw a shadow of disdain in his sunken eyes.

You can be false or just thrifty with the truth, like declaring love.

I’m tired of beauty already, it’s over-used.

I woke, with that girl to Sweet Child O’Mine, it sounds now archaic,

when you leave a bed so quickly you forget you ever slept there,

someone else succeeded me, someone stayed to listen.

At least I never let that night become an anecdote,

When I promised her Prague we had no blanket, we forgot the cold.

Sonnet 1


I said nothing ever increases if it stays the same.

Take the flower in the kitchen, it lacks light and fades.

I read the last word of your note as rope and got hung by it,

you said a rope is made of hair, never bear.

Now memory is what gets left behind, discarded,

so here alone the lights won’t come on, there’s no need,

and even when I eat I get this pang, this hollow,

but it’s sweet to know I’m becoming an anti-fool,

but it’s sweet to know I’m not as still as an ornament.

Listen, there’s a drunk singing, he sings your eyes home.

Sometimes I bury that, the memory of your eyes, they’re purple

and tender and often as grey as to forget, sometimes closed.

Or maybe I’ve just had my fill, you don’t know the dinners I’ve devoured,

you don’t know the world, how it sways, o we fall and cannot stand another day.