Saturday, 26 May 2018

they’re abroad!

they’re abroad! 

the moon-cold boys, in their blue dusk flare,
  sledging wide-eyed around the brazier nights,
and wrapped in a primordial exhilaration share,
  the once and only, the might be mights.

and when the hearth home fades
  into the monochrome,
and when the gossamer threads
 stretch as thin as thin from home;
the boys unchained sledge down their nights,
  wild-minded under a zeitgeist moon;
and tobogganing down from their haughty heights, 
  they crash out, the great fun ended, be it all too soon.

Sunday, 20 May 2018

isn’t it

is just behind the ridge behind you
is just in front of the ridge in front of you
spin around
you’ll never catch sight of them
you know the past 
you guess the future 
but you’ll never see them
today is 
it just is
isn’t it

tell me tomorrow when today is past 

and if it did in gentle’s lightening hours

and if it did in gentle’s lightening hours,
  chance upon the dewed bird’s early worm,
and daisying with the dawn-eyed flowers,
  another summer’s day confirm.

and then they play the old songs, the summer list,
  from the days when we met our chance,
and my tears, thin as upon this morning mist,
  fall sweetly now upon your enquiring glance.

and all our knowing, twirls around that look,
  that held-breath upon the lake of time;
and love that started as a brook,
 now combines the tributaries of you are mine.

and in the darkling down slow hours
  that bat across the flitting moon,
and at these bookend days of ours,
  that came all but too soon,
we’ll fade together, day to night, 
  so hold my hand as i hold yours,
and we’ll kiss goodnight to night.

Saturday, 19 May 2018

on the edge of sleep

there’s a park
between sleep and hark
where the serpent guile 
is upon the surf of dreams 
and sometimes dark
and sometimes light
and sometimes day
and sometimes night 
roundabout the park
empty swings play
and demand we cling on tight
ere we dive in
and dream the while away 

sound the alarm

sound the alarm

the colour of sand
he wanted it the colour of sand
over and over
he said he wanted it the colour of sand
as he walked past with his dog
but you have to eat i said
i don’t know why i thought that 
but i kept on telling him
over and over
you have to eat
from 6 am until 7 am
or the colour will not be real
but he was not listening 
it was as if he wasn’t there

Friday, 18 May 2018


we crept into the graveyard 
through the twisted rusty fence 
through the rustling russet bushes
to see the blackbird on her nest
but she was dead 
dead and sitting there
dead upon her nest
turning the dread ran out with us
through the twisted rusty fence

god i hate everyone

god i hate everyone

the ones who drop litter,
leave it there, let’s drown in it,
  i say!
the ones who park on the pavement
in their hierarchical metal boxes,
coded, badged, and booted.
warrior, animal, and vegetable too.
the sod you generation,
the era of the sod you, sod you,
sod you;

the noisy ones, and the daft ones,
and the ones around the back;
in their nowheres, with
their barbecues, 
barbarising their mistakes.

the fag parents of the fag brains,
in their fag brain obese-mobiles.
  i sodding hate ‘em all.

the blue-rinsers oozing down the scent
of the perfumed hoi polloi, 
their powder layered thick as thieves
of time when time’s run out.

and the squeaky, speaky girls, with their
alabaster faces plastered brown;
oh do make up your bloody mind,
all i see are painted clowns;
but do you think
you looking good? or are
you good for looking at?
  oh for god’s sake!
all that’s fashion is out of fashion,
they are fashioned to be plebeians;
imbecile and infantile.

your mundane conversations, 
the same on tuesday, wednesday,
all week through;
not one fundamental question
follows your how do you do you do

the promenading doggy dumpers,
with their little bags of doggy poo,
nattering about their doggy dos,
and did they do, and do they do?
  ah sod you, sod you,
    sod you all.
       i hate you all.
every single one of you.