Boxing Day

Sunlight is unexpected today
but welcome across the floor

it is heightened by blown clouds
and their linear crossing of the blaze

such quick shadows are soft removed

and before this all the branches dart
outside my front bay

those bared arteries conduct the skies.


And these awakenings roll
from stones into movement

of cruel stretches to unlock
my fixed hands from the straps
of an accelerated illness

as my skin crawls with insects
within the scratched at tingled layers

and no tablet on earth can fix
the inner unrubbed itch

no cream can offer emulsion
enough to bleach the nettle beaters

except for her mouth on mine
and a foreign breath to confuse

Brighton 1 – Watford 0

This concrete and steel
oozes last week’s freeze
where I sit with my pint
high in the East Stand
having travelled with my boys

but they are already perched
on the folding seats
as I wait for my beer to push
me there via the toilets

where scarfed men shuffle
and queue in silence for urinals

there they unwrap and rezip
after pissing a few quid
before the match
on to others’ left pubes

these gents hope beyond hope
for a home result
as they wash down those hairs

Fucking Christmas

These yearly demands unto revelry
with tipped back long stem glasses of Italian blood and French piss
are now taken in our blinded stride
through this season
which we should claim back from baby fucking Jesus
to now take the true Yuletide home into the debauchery we once had
good and bad
more traditional than trees and yo-fucking-ho
before Easter
the true solstice.


There is now a dragged difficulty
in being male

in being a man

with this presence

of being male

as fellow fools who surround us

with their cocks hung low

slap their flaccid tools
in the faces of women

as I bow and burn
after that quickened ignition
of inflammation

and now stand more alone.

God off-road

We three boys
would trawl boggy fields

well up to welly boot depths
and over

to heel and toe squelch home
from draining ditches
of dark unknowns

never measured before
by mankind

those unlit sinkholes
of fervent imaginations

each fed by slowed streams
of red Martian water

that oxide bleeding

so bloody it could be
the earth rusting inside

too much for life

and from that ditch
I lifted a fossil leaf

a tyre track of time
embedded into rock

as if left by God on a bike.

Sea bed

Deep anchored points
of my mishpocha
are now on charts

we will take a breath
and remain immobile
for a while

until the next wave of kids
decide to shift from us –

further from the quiet
anchorages –
this shelter

for them – then
to be returned from storms
and the low doldrums
of their travels

to become us –
equal and anchored



Shall we be honest with this matter
and talk like adults

but those antique sentiments

which we have stored up in the hope
of increased values

or something to hand down

our accruals

weighing on our lives

something for someone else to dust

Eye Wash

And here it crawls

almost through me

laying old lead pipes
to siphon and drain
and to slowly poison
my seed free mind

the routing of pleasure
away from my centre

to a floodwall

built high

to contain this dark wash
of rolled on tears

Rain on shed

With the hard rainfall
is a clatter

it is bubbled
across my flat
but tipped roof
on this
my right-angled shed

where work flows
but words fix
lines almost glued
caught like slo-mo drips
in a work of other’s art


There is the intensity of sadness
caught in his reddening eyes
after being caught out by innocence

and the cross-infection of malice

albeit the slimmest form of such

found out by his misdemeanour
and a rolled tear as evidence

Bed post

That under duvet crush which –
especially mid-morning – is a sin –
along with being stripped –
but lighted first by a kiss –
and she was then locked
to him by thigh and hip –
jointed to him – dovetailed –
her skin was still summered
even on that storm day
in an outwardly foul December



The Tree

I dropped the car’s roof
with a pull on the switch

to make a high space
for the felled decoration

and drove over six miles

to home with the tree

there propped in your space

and at sixty miles an hour
the top of that cut tree
sung every forest song
that she could recall
before her Xmas demise