The waiting.
Thats the worst.
Sitting around,
expecting a miracle.
Then nothing.
A hammer.
A nail.
A crumbling wall.
A door begging
to be opened.
The same four corners.
Her jackknife gaze.
A pause.
A cough.
A silence inhabiting
every particle of air.

The Reptile

Not empathetic.
Not honest.
Not brave.
Not remotely humane.
Nothing but an embarrassment.

Its Your Birthday

It’s your birthday.
A big one, difficult to ignore.
You’re standing in the alley of life,
with a twenty stone monster approaching.

Remember the line from Performance.
Remember the sample in E=mc2.
Step forward and accept the embrace;
then pass on through.

It’s your birthday :
shh, I won’t say how old.
But it’s tall and it’s wide
and it’s difficult to ignore.

In Hydra’s Teeth

The dead they haunt us.
On every street corner.
Groups gather and watch,
the same old situations.
No way of warning they
look on in horror as their
mistakes repeat ad nauseam

After Joy Division

From Broken Down House

Radio transmission
seeks out new listeners,
as night tightens its noose.

A sine wave.
A square wave.
A synaptic dance.

The radio plays
to the static man,
one of his old tunes.

His child wakes with a cry.
His wife waves for help.
His radio plays on and on.

The Incompetents

Wind blowing through the trees.
Why does Friday feel like
some other newly fashioned day.
Keep us all safe from the tribulations.
The horror, just a doorstep away.

With truth staring you in the face.
The illusion of control, crumbling.
We lurch from one fiasco to another.
Will their mouths ever form an apology.
For this extended dereliction of duty.

Cynical, with an eye on some stupid prize.
They resort to the age-old stratagem.
Wetting hands and singing happy birthday.
Will never wash away the peoples blood
from their cold clammy hands.


a love letter

How do you write a letter
to someone you don’t know.
Do you twist a flower
on the stem and present it –
Smelling fresh and lovely,
the way freedom does.
God bless you Marianne.
The night has become day.
Please accept this token
of my appreciation.
Sleep well and dream
only sweet scented dreams.

Just Yesterday

The sound of birdsong.
Butterflies in flight.
Sun casts a warm glow
on this deserted garden.
May the days begin to dream,
of yellow, green and white.
Extraneous noise of human activity.
Sweeping and seed bed digging.
If you could throw a switch,
and make everything all-right.
Take a journey to the street,
to a park, a shop, a public place.
And feel it less than hazardous.
The dreams of just yesterday.
Stay safe and this will pass.
Stick close to the land.
And appreciate all the living.


Paralysed like a deer.
Stunned into submission.
News reports rolling
in like thunder.
Drowning everything
with their ferocity.
Thats what its like,
as one day streams into another.
No routines.
No breaks.
No alternatives.
Just relentless numbers.


Welcome to the New World.
That strange and altered place.
Where history is written,
the way it deserves to be.
Not some satisfactory morsel.
Wolfed down all the way.
But a pointer to ragged recollections.
Played on a tenon saw.
Take heart, truth will be heard-out.
In some wilderness.
Where it spreads to the cities.
Then finally to the broken places.
Farms forgotten for so long.
And red skeletons of former industries.
Welcome to the New World.
Sailing away to some
long forgotten shore.
Waves lapping on a pebble beach.
Sunlight in your eyes.
Moonlight closing down.