I have my inner tremor, my lower jaw mumbles, my right hand joins in, connectedness concurs ...
Weddings and funerals, in the rare trip-place, butted stone markers, dropped fags, and ill-grace: Here Lies.. (A.N.Other) her time out-of-date, alongside the latest, a brief recall in plate ..
This is my constant (since childhood): along a rough path of almost-identified bird song, high-scattered; but I am no longer drawn to the slip and suck of uneven grasses, to be welly-filled so my socks squelched: Not over the land topped by last year's stamped brambles: As ever the grey sky has dropped, she rests … Continue reading Continuation
A driven route without tarmac, re-laid by each warming tide through that visited stilt-city of floods marks and high arts, where a man can drown, whilst thrown racist weights and life aids: "He is stupid," as recorded. "He wants to die," they cried. Pateh Sabally, not a Venetian, was left to drown.
St Theresa sat on Trump's stiff knee, to him she was a limey Queen, but in her head she's Thatcher's clone: 'This dame's my idea of a woman I'd bone!' Perhaps the future's perfect couple, they both agree to cause less trouble. Hand-in-hand, off they go, but he'll dump her soon in Guantanamo.
I traced the lines of my family tree, my inherited myth of Bonny Prince bastards, but instead, I prove poor breeding: I dug up the broken, coal miners and others, I looked up tough people; over the border I counted the uneducated, the low-paid, the lodged, them, tight-packed, tired, those given no quarter: Always equal … Continue reading The Past
I am measuring my life in Caroline's greetings, the mortgage repayments, in slow sips of hot coffee, the stick-tapped steps, in unanswered emails, thrusts of my toothbrush, in the filing of VAT returns, the social media updates, in trips up the High Street, the 'phone battery warnings, in the hours of lost sleep, and the distances … Continue reading The Surveyor
There are no palpable ghosts in this slept Sussex town of three pubs, all dark, beyond those dead flags on the village green, odd tablecloths, emblems stiff under the freezing fog. Nor are there are any stars, just winks of burglar alarms. I walk the dog for pisses and sniffs, past the slept and snored, … Continue reading Newick Ghosts