He would like one answer to
one question [one unasked –

so far] – such luxury is left to
others – Disregard your past

& leave all lost time – Quick
advice clunks in his hurt gut

[all slap-weight – dough-ish]
is there when he wakes – Out

of air comes a forgotten hour
of discomforts – less answers

best left in silence – By time’s
advance all advisors are right

Laika burned alive [there
overhead] & Soviets lied –

Their apolitical stray was
handed a commission to

Sit – A politburo’s mission
to ire Yanks of no animals

were harmed – [as picture
houses rolled out titles &

in a script a hero killed an
army of Martians – & Elvis

Presley gyrated for Ed] &
Laika’s craft deteriorated

& Cold War men twitched
& an egotist on both sides

fixed a medal on a hero’s
suit [one was not pinned]

I struggle on skiddy mud –
my dog knows it – On our
path are imprints of boot
& hoof – a score of paws –

a pressed mash of others’
steps – slippery – viscous –
man-traps – just for me – I
gauge my centre – finding

my balance on each yard
on my cross-field trip – As
my tread loses grip I fall –
I throw my arms wide – a

high-wire act gone wrong
[above a scary clown] – In
a second I re-set – righted
& sure [momentarily] my

fleet dog twists to see me
succeed – a yap – as I step
without a slip – no errors –
enough to stay upright to

plod to my resting place –
A trembling circus turn’ll
not last a season [unless
I defy Sir Issac’s weights]

We’ll re-construct stories to
cope with awful stuff [ways
to adjust awful lives] – we’ll

shift our margins & indents
to reshape liner notes [as if

a magnet pivoted off north
& other fixed attractions – I
had a compass – implanted

in my heel – marketing had
a slice of her housekeeping

to pay for new shoes – True
north pulled me further on
in my youth] – That axis we

relied upon has inverted to
spill mercury as orbs on all

my notebooks – My lines of
verse are rolled over – I will
scatter my every-recording

‘cross ageing floorboards &
cast slippery traps – of balls

A theorem will spur doubts
as much as enquiry [send a
telescope up & circle truth]

& don’t foster assumptions
or fuck our moon landings
by over-slight adjustments

of vibrating joysticks – feel –
burners burst port side – As
we crash let them know we

saw a dark side this day – it
was worth it – I think – Blind
men walk in lines of three –

they see what truly matters
by never looking outwards –
just feeling with sticks – Slip

away from your ticker-tape
parades – cease waving – In
space there are blind loops

that bring us back to now &
there a theorem will bend &
open truths will end it all – I

will leap onto cold planets &
into burnt-out atmospheres
beyond all known randoms

to prove my point – Our first
steps in moon dust lie ready
to fool Crusoe’s moon walks

as he circles his dusty island
in space – Einstein knew it as
a truism – first he read Defoe

A horse of discarded shoes
rises from a mere of grass –
just past a riled half dozen

of deer – This our first time
by this muddy path across
pastures without intended

hooves at work – This light
will deteriorate where that
row of stripping oaks waits

for our trod presence – This
is a recent diversion [as we
cheat our daily tramp] as if

any distance will save us all
from falling apart – Sussex –
no longer raw countryside –

is peppered by dog walkers
& lost weekend locals – this
land’ll wear under our step

& by harvest’s labour – This
soil on my boots’ll wash off
[it will rinse away with use]

I am told forgiveness will
set me free from resent’s
weighty backpack – Offer
up a word to exonerate a
disagreeable other – Find
ferity’s boltholes & dig at
its word-pile – un-earth a
stinking tumour inside – I
would vomit – There is no
easy way – Find repose as
we learn from agony & so
avoid a same harm being
repeated – it will distil [in
your mind] – Conducting –
& other advice – Embrace
buried negatives as if you
sit immune to all distress
& disbenefit – it’ll flare on
your face – light your way
& free you – I dread recall
[& being dug-at by honed
tools] – I don’t want scars

Squalls play along Old Steine
compelling sky rats to adjust
stomach-led trajectories as a
yellow foam tube tumbles at
pavane rates of speed – avoid
over-night confetti of fries – a
slippery hazard [foul weather
is also forecast] – Brighton – a
day trip with gelid blood in its
drains – always wakes to a hit
of hangover or bare regrets – I
weave without up to North St
to find a bus stop with shelter

I find myself being an old man
when I turn down an offer of a
raffled hamper – I live alone – I
carry a small bag of shopping
because it is less imposing – in
my pocket I check my keys are
in place – no rattled change – a
family trait – jangling & ageing
[I am destined a great age] – In
a shop display a mannequin’s
hand reaches out [greeting] – I
occasionally cry before I sleep
because I can – My feet hurt – I
am looking forward to a night
of dreams to take me off – in a
life I have led I deny any regret
to temper my disappointment

Did they know of damage
done? A flash description
[now throwing it up] & in

a bathroom I recked [& so
fell apart] – perhaps speak
this aloud [layered on lies

long left with frail friends]
or not [& possibly enough
to unsettle that lot] – Who

was he? A good-enough to
fuck it all up [fuck-all love]
given up – An entreaty was

a failure & no explanations
as to why – Damage will ire
all – beyond a misdirection

eyed up [& badly spat out]
as I vomited – nothing out –
it doubled me up – Ugly as

a flaccid cock’s flesh – in a
past life I put up with lies –
No false walls to crumble

in my separate house on a
hill – above wet places – In
time I’ll re-patch my room

Surely stillness counters
physicists’ explanations
of time [surely escape’ll
come from immobility &
quiet] – a slab-sided ship

drifts imperceptibly on a
harboured tide – In dock-
land I laboured in sheds
swollen with grains – My
dusty paths [‘cross acres

of farmed interventions –
almost mountains] took
me from my thermostats
& a leaking roofline – We
dug at those hot globes –

harvests heated by leaks
& sweated under my trod
landscape ballooning as
bubbled inflammations –
no movement ’til we dug

We will choose whom we
marry – but not what they
become [my friend didn’t
respond to my lines] – Our

soured experiences melt –
we merge into one – equal
failings poke us rigid – In a
count of [nearly-matched]

decades we will be seeing
age-soured reflections as
lines – Differences rise up –
[unto liver spot-dot-to-dot-

constellations across skin]
& self-published maps will
fail to guide us – loneliness
again – no lines to our end

Some of us will no longer
heal [patches & parts will
never be fixed] – flaking &
itchy skin – Obvious sores

won’t cure – no regales to
youth – We will fall apart –
Terminal decline in areas
we have to surrender up –

a given [once passed fifty
years] – Why do women &
men fight decay’s wins by
solicitation of snake oils?

Doubling recorded scores
of [less-loved] birth dates
will be commemorated as
profitable by pharmacists

There are still photographs
of hips – spread-eagled – on
stairs – look for sex-working
games – Easy to believe she
is still playing her role [with
men & women paying] – Her
allures set untrue – airbrush

& re-lighting fools ‘em all – A
satisfaction [by cash desires
for every party] – Her cue – it
being given [& a narcissist’ll
feed off a narcissist – true] &
I will never tell [not yet] who
bends forward – to reveal all

Here our weight of things –
of lost words & phrases in
peat bogs & chalk-fat hills
around our quiet homes –
see me alive – again – after
it was never translated – a
basket case of verbs – of it
said aloud – desperate sex
is an ancient thing – you’ll
never heal down there – In
fossilisation we find them
cowered – bared – auld ills
will thrill those who open
up for frail hip advantages
& shallow profits – Park up
& engage your brake & say
aloud why [but could not]

We dour victims of her five-point-
palm-exploding-heart technique

roll-over – Beatrix Kiddo fooled us
all – How do I look? – Five steps to

death as it was stated – She was a
natural born killer – See Reverend

Harmony die [at his whitewashed
altar] – Hear sliced cicadas cry as I

drag my blade across each bulged
eye – Spot blood-lumps bloom – In

my gnarled fingers I guide a knife –
Revenge is my balance – a slit with

tremor’s reverie & a tidy outcome
without any soft hearts exploding

inside us – four fingers jabbed just
enough to punch at our last pump

Perhaps don’t examine
each other’s scars – not
too closely [in intimacy
we should moor – blind
from behind] – too near

is a problem for some &
kinks for others – I have
many distortions on me
& I bear curdled spots &
a tendency to itch risen

fixed places [auld welts
my flooded wells filling
from my soul – God tugs
on a golden rope] – Mr L
Cohen won Scar Fettler

ten years in a row [he is
no longer running] – We
will benefit from sun-lit
hills & olive leaves – odd
hours of shade & sips of

red wine – lips bloodied
& left to heal – Pull on a
weight from below it – I
am ruffled skin & bone –
Bucket Salesman of ‘21

[a runner up in ‘20] – We
will haul a near-fix scab
& find lazier blood – less
speed to bloom – close –
almost-healed flesh will

act as if done – Cracks in
coverings best set to dry
under an Israel sky – [my
nephews & nieces don’t
see cuts in Netzer Sereni

where they run between
heights & stripping back
places] – I do not know if
either side is right – [I am
a foreign body [in Israel]

For F

Rothko laid horizon-ish
loops of blue – sewing a
colour field across erect

acres of bared surfaces –
works across canvases –
masterly lateral-ness by

re-strokings – I will soon
attempt to match by my
lick of fakery – raw dabs

& mis-alignments too – I
fell for his dashing-ness
by hue-weighty sables –

saxe – alts of a cerulean –
& cobalt – As a king – not
knightly – I fell to itch on

thighs & sex – a view of a
landscape & you – If I was
able I’d stripe across you

& crawl – a line of Rothko
blues to instruct truth – A
stitch of lips to sew us up

She walks between pillars
of mild marble – pure veins
& upright [once a goddess

across my skin] – a temple
& a hall of blood’s vanities –
a fouling love-drudgery as

time ruled over experience
under her forking tongue –
shooting up has become a

thing beyond my knowing
of a sugar-sweet addiction
before bedtime for all men

taken in by quick chops of
nose powders – Frail drugs
pile her & men with thrusts

from underneath – pulping
of fiction’s first dance such
a cliché – her drug – her gig

to have me compete before
guests at Jack Rabbit Slim’s
Twist Contest – for thirteen+

years – You Never Can Tell – I
couldn’t twist through every
jive that followed – strangled

by self-centred stuff – From
that Tarantino-ness I recover
to state – I once overdosed –

but expect less [adrenaline &
a chest-jabbed-recovery – fix –
something she stuck in me] –

& handed down watches will
not clock all movement [now
I have passed it on – my son’s

inheritance of time code] – as
film is processed we will learn
too much about pulped plots

& Butch asks of us all to keep
underestimating you  – Sleep
will cure us by a gun’s butting

across one’s face – I am tied &
frightened in a basement [as I
recall] – Butch put me down in

a previous scene – splatted – a
gimp-suited execution was all
I could bear – leather wasn’t a

gig on my list of wishes – Uma
Thurman played her part [but
my knottiness was Travolta’s]

It was a dread of Turks [a thinly
disguised racist-rally call] – that
led us to cock-ups of shortages
[right-to-party] – divergences of
priorities set alight by politicos

aiming to inflame hate – greed &
corridor lust – PPE contracts – A
PM formed by Mummy’s loss [&
still he’ll bray & will never give a
toss for anyone below his class]

as oils lie on holiday snapshots –
as kids live off charity handouts
& have no hope of an Eton Mess
at Christmas [turkey off that list
& longed-for xmas pressies too]

as Cold War Steve cuts & pastes
& ‘papers fold to hide headlines
that’ll never unmask sticky MPs
[with a backhanded complaint]
& kiddies wait on Santa’s sleigh

to unload under cabotage rules
across [just] three rooftops & in
time there’ll be trucks of turkey
to share [Boris promises it all to
we Brits – mires – his Xmas gifts]

My dour couple return
home – she from work
& him from chauffeur-

ing them – my brace of
[soulless] obscenities –
re-engaging via Netflix

& full on TV dinners – a
pair of scale-tippers in
lust with ingestion of a

Prime-life [via Amazon
& pop-up ads] – He lost
his work – all dignities

rinsed in tidal pools – &
mum still comes round
each day to tidy – his or

hers – she cleans pizzas
away – crusts of nights –
& I ingest too much too

By inverted metanoia
he was transformed –
beyond indulgence of

self – Un-born [again]
as Metanoia [that old
goddess with sorrow]

walked with Kairos – a
double act of regret &
givers of slipped hope

by mythical acts – So I
read to him & he cried
aloud at her veil made

of grey flax – thin to let
light in – to see him – A
kiss off Metanoia’s lips

enough to greet death –
an act best avoided – I
told him – [Off stage] –

sound of hooves – In a
cage swung a monkey
[now dead] – it was all

bare bone – enough to
pass as a child to men
[with no knowledge of

how things are] – He is
an innocent abroad – a
lie off Metanoia’s cries

for revenge on all time
[she loved him at each
hour’s ring] – I am him

I have heard every lie
spoken about me – In
my mind I find my fix
by loosening – I leave
others to regurgitate –
It is by foul jab-quick
beaks my blood is let –
they will make it true
by issuing one-sided
disarraying of truths –
night’s dark re-works
of fact – See lies a fool
& broken wings – Pull
her tongue from others
to speak [& bolster] all
your insecurities – By
misdirections it shifts
to vague indulgences –
Dreams will spell out
validities – by a blithe
sleep I file each recall
under F for F*cked-up
& damaging – I’ll lie
alone & see my ways
to unlock a weight of
disinformation about
lives [my albatross – a
bed] – My burdens will
be lifted off – another’s
hand will set me loose

Without power I struggled
to function [discharging a
sudden thing] – only fools
pulls on their light cords &
summon more darkness –
Without that fat line [alive
yesterday with urge] each
minute is disconnected [&
I find it ideal] – No charges
to give me my wireless-ish
satisfactions in this house
cut off from live news & all
subsequent disruptions – I
would go offline [for ever]
& live in my immediacy as
a practitioner of true time
[if only it was a possibility]

Rise from a bed of screwed-
up limbs & kicked-at covers
& bare your exigent bruises
& sordid – brazen – candour

& gather stripped off layers
[& avoid making any noise –
notifications hover – muted
rings – doubt cuts-off] & let

every bedroom door swing –
go [scurry] – leave – rush – &
drive home to a regular life –
Return with foul-tasting lips

& raw niggles of banal texts –
[they do not assure those at
rest] – Give up your conceits
& tricks [return a fool’s vow]

as a thin remorse dries hard
between your legs – Steer &
slide into your home – push
dirty laundry [deeper now!]

& cache plastic connections
in a rummage of underwear
[first rules were fast broken –
as you addled usual orders]

A pebble-bespectacled trolley bloke
directs his shunted captives from all
corners of that rain-layered car park
on to a rattled corral of alignments –
readied for us bland aisle-swarmers
to tug & direct as we sweep through
those supermarket doors [with lists
of loo rolls & fillets] – A cart man will
serve you in all weathers – whatever
forecasters foretell – with a wry grin
through it all – nearly serene despite
conditions set by gods – his peace in
that confluence of foul manners is a
quiet miracle as he mollifies a brace
of trolleys left to drift – another brief
relationship – of shopper & shopping
[he has heard our excuses & denials]

Dēcidēre – then to resolve
& so say goodbye to other
choices & live with this as-
it-is – that blessed release

from eternal what-if-buts
can raise us to rapture – A
man walks among others
without caring about any

of this – he is disengaged
feeling this – Living every
moment is enough – It is
ideal to do less – I lie low –

I’m hidden – housebound
on my side of town [in my
settled place of dreams in
unfurled nights] – I do not

mind what matters [now] –
my concerns have shrunk
to this seen hinterland in
reach (an assured ending

is an only known) – Settle
to escape worrying about
any unwritten fate [& join
me in oblivious pleasure]

It felt like endless rounds of
Squid Game – time to play &
win [without knowing if you

can compete] – counting off
minutes between gun shots –
& forming frail relationships

& killing your friends to gain
advantages – that landscape
of primary colouring & a red

stain under still bodies – Let
numbered fools bow as fear
runs wild as we enumerate –

is how it felt – avoiding every
chance of death [en route] – I
swedged a squid to win it all

We are of time – no prefigure
in this – no awaiting hours to

gain & profit – it is erroneous –
as is each minuted mandate –

A life will never be future-met
& no endurance race can exist

beyond a second – our surety –
there is no upcoming to plan –

problems exist to be resolved –
Live the questions – Rilke told

young Kappus  – Live your way
into the answer  – His warning

is yours to embrace without a
circling around to stare ahead

or seek answers beyond your
reach – futures will evade you

For F

Annafrieda – a Saxon lady –
found her dead lover [it is
said] & her tumbling tears

miraculously turned into a
muddied rising of waters –
funnelled for takers’ sups

from a chalybeate spring
[anointed – St Ann’s Well]
We let our two dogs drag

us past Annafrieda’s tears
& our guts sloshed [some
bars do not open Monday

in Hove] – Our tree-dotted
rise took us by busy roads –
Victoriana as rows – & via

rising paths to Preston Pk
& your home – I will allow
St Anne to pour iron & salt

into my open resolve – I’ll
then sup on your springs –
embrace such drownings

as I circle yesterday’s scour
of ex-lovers’ stains [guilt &
remorse dried their stream]

 

I’ll sometimes trip
but I won’t give in
& stop walking – &
my hands smart &

I don’t see an end
to designing – me?
I’ll not concede – I
am trading finger-

efficiency for cash
[no state benefits –
none to be had] – I
pause [I wanted to

to give up living – a
direful melancholy
in history directed
by my illness] – So

I rest to stop ill-will
shading my sleep –
To tolerate disease
& pain I evade hate

& words [about all
those ugly & cruel
hearts – bleeding –
& much-maligned]

Do not give me a dirty look
until you know all our dirty
truth [love & hate are equal

in their weighting of it] – An
ultimatum was passed on –
of stopping it – that did it in

[along with not-desiring ties
after lies] – There is a stench
from that flooded reach of a

[useless] ditch – smell it now
as it rises up with heavy rain

[above banked constraints] –
a rat swims fast upstream to
less swollen parts – I see in a

turned head all that was said
by a slanted mouth – spittle’ll
drip on other lips – damp will

fester & you will smell of piss
[tug off a man’s tight pants –
until you admit knowing less

after examining dried facts –
after every flood is redacted]

I knew a family of arch
snobs & narcissists – of
each other they loved –
off-centre – Degrees of
introspection had cast
less balance until they
fell on their selves – In
truth there wasn’t love
left over [not enough] –
Rats’ll feed on a pup if
food is scarce – I saw it
happen in that family –
a doe’s way to manage
her children – to love &
control [narcissistic all
in their views] – She let
blood drip off her lips –
as if a sign to be shown
[as if a fairy story – told
& undoable] – Vermin’ll
settle in any dry space –
some families engorge
all their own to control

I still adopt my masks [for
busy areas] – a cheek-kiss
of ear-looping rulings as I
elect taking laved air – but

I’m stuck breathing fumes
of city drunkards as I sit &
wait on #29 [last of today]
to take me away – jittering

LEDs say DUE – & whiffs of
ires take me off [on a #28]
early from that piss stop –
that staggered Steine – an

evening of varied comedy
is left behind just beyond
Jubilee St – prior delights
until then met by Netflix –

less risk of infections – I’m
shuttled off from Brighton
by my alternative bus [no
more North St torments] –

I flee a suspiration of sighs
to a quiet time – bench-sat
in Lewes’s cold bus station
with this wilting phone – A

man-in-green stacks food
behind me in Waitrose – a
car full of coppers patrols
‘til their clocking-off time

& bus #29 pulls up – halted
bright – an over-lit waiting
room – empty apart from a
morose driver – unmasked

until Uckfield – but first via
unlit chassis-rattling rustic
routes [my sure way to flee
drunks & sour exhalations]

Multiple Bézier curves switch
underfoot – runnels – streams
of banked up fallen leaves – a
foul rain played overnight – a

storm – near-monsoon – was
labelled [by a meteorologist] –
Now wonted pummellings &
flash floods [no longer weird

events] – Rewrite of rulings of
all countryman acuity – cattle
& skies sow a faux reading – &
AI threats of rain will be reset

& new perils forecast – I cross
mown fields silvered by flood
levels – my annals of seasonal
knowing cannot be entrusted

to my children – we are willing
them weather-warnings in our
wake of blown purchases – I’ll
slowly wade in a risen freshet –

a brown eddy – mud & shit will
rise from below us as if a sign –
as Noah rises from his tomb to
eschew his covenant with God

 

I will not learn another
language – nor drive at
speeds to Nürburgring
in a Maserati – & I will

not make love to three
others at once [instead
escorted nearer a 60th
year by time’s whores]

& I’ll not be aligned to
right wing sympathies
[as is ageing’s want] – I
stand apart [from that

boorish fall] – Perhaps
baldness will not call –
My chances of being a
grandfather are less as

my kids’ futures crowd
with quiet fears – all we
had was Armageddon –
a quick death – not this

leaden slide into a dire
future of resentment &
constant adjustments –
Earth was home – I will

not know how it works
out – I will cast my vote
[with care] to fix what I
can see as a mendable

whilst my children say
it will not be repaired –
I’ll not know how it all
falls apart – far too old

to learn anything new
or useful as this world
endures every inanity
we imbibed [to profit]

For F

That wooden bench [positioned by
Comité des Parcs et Loisirs] offered

you temporary rest in Nice – there a
hundred-ish squawks of school kids

pulled at recalls – [language welded
by distances & innocence among all

those players of known games] – we
share unspoken rules in all tongues

until childhood naïveté is worn out –
See [from your bench] a hundred-ish

future committee members – they’ll
fix our f*ck-ups whilst we sit in parks

 

 

We must first agree to exile nothing –
I find myself all alone under ancient

remnants of scaling canopies [dumb
among oaks which enfold thickness –

a century in a grasp] – I’m not myself
as I travel among trapped shadows –

Underfoot that stick-snap will alarm
nature’s easily-frightened [I’m not of

that species – not any more] – A hum –
this woodland reverbs – timbres – as

I press upon pressure-put-on paths –
I’m alone & ready to be brutalised if

I meet my own face in these woods –
This time-slow-mass grinds under its

growth – I lay on mulch & crawl as if a
fungal proliferation – a damp skin – in

shade I bloom as a capped threat as I
burrow between established roots – a

shadow of myself by moon-dousings –
As my auld self rouses my corse – My

voice is lost as I dig deeper among it
all – giving up nothing to sow myself

wide below a wild festoon of buds &
beams [I’ll stay low in Lincoln green]

Fifteen minutes in all – until
resuscitation kicked in – flat
for a full quarter of an hour –
I had to ask – Did you spot a

sign for Heaven or Hell? He
did not say in to which side
he fell – Lain & not a breath
taken in as fists rattled him

[not quite enough to re-set
failings under flesh] – What
we become after this – Lust
isn’t on God’s list of givens-

in-afterlife – he slurred over
sips of his coarse shots – My
clock said a-quarter-to – See
this tremor – his words – it is

my riddle – [& mine reduced
by a reduction in drugs] – &
my ditty – He sung badly – his
song – his croons – flat-lining

as men & women in uniforms
broke two ribs – they pumped
his chest as he left that room –
he rose up for fifteen minutes

& stared – a mild fluster grew
in a filled recovery room – He
looked over his dead exterior
on a bed & thumped air sung

from his loose lungs – shoved
air forced that end-song from
his slack mouth – a dire tune –
We laughed at his last lullaby

Daisy Buchanan proffered a view –
the best thing a girl can be in this
world  – a beautiful little fool  – so
proved – I too have fooled – in five

star hotels [succoured  by serving
staff at breakfast – swum in a pool
so hot I was near-to-foetal – living
too fugly]  – I found a rare primacy

in rum mansions – laid on pillows –
taking me – a purchaser of wasted
imbalances – & my misalignments
in histories will be long-evident – I

do not speak for daughters [& I do
not speak for sons] – our comforts
will not stir for them – Under a low
sun they’re unsure of an outcome

as depletions & desires skew their
near-views – I had looked across a
menu – [wantonness set before us
as plenteous brim-filled dishes – a

litany of depletion] – I now scrape
at plates to lessen waste – guilt by
my excessiveness never undoable
[they won’t acquit wasteful simps

stood & shamed] – These twenties
will not roar – Glamour is souring –
Excess is ugly [Gatsby lied] – Espy
tears spilt under my eyes – Servile

hands clear opulent mansions as
blind walls are knocked through –
We stand by a slow-drained pool –
it’ll crack as our imbalances re-fill

that vacuum [for now all is ruined
unless disorder is refining beauty
as everything adjusts] – I will walk
to places [reducing any exigence]

Algerian heat is a drawn
out decline for any man
in a padded cell – Paris –

his 6th arrondissement
blocks of cold stone – &
fervent gossip burnt – &

Lourmarin could be less
consuming – Meursault –
so little said about it all –

& Camus too [L’Etranger
translated to whatever]
& simple words do little

to make it easy – modest
writing – four shots – sun
on bodies underlined by

four bullets as heat bled
from a dead Arab [death
with no shaded ending]

That second-hand wedding
dress [on a headless bride]
stands too upright –  a Whit
Sunday parody of fashion –

donated – such investment
in marriage short-lived – as
an echo of failure to restate
auld avowals & loud denial

of any betrayal – as if stood
in that charity shop – as if it
would appal & warn off any
other fool from tying knots –

don’t advance through any
portal – any-where – in such
a dress – don’t wear this – it
should be stated on a label

 

Camus considered plagues [he
wrote of random chances of an
elimination] – We scour a latest
history of Death’s huge queue –

Auld fat men – in ill-fitted suits –
speak down to us – our passing
isn’t possible – not an issue – [a
given solace for all blind routs]

Whilst Paneloux sermonised on
God’s ire Rieux was mute [more
in his view – nature’s plenty] We
wait on winter’s second coming

after a time of rest & deviations –
We will see recharged infections
& no sure gains made by priests
or politicians hiding from blank

ballots & prayer cards – I dipped
my fingers in a fast brook where
I had swum – not yet drowning –
but I now stand – in His queues –

with others – we numberings in
billions – Where will we go to? –
Camus wrote – it is a horrible &
dirty adventure – Something of

an option? – I am a patient fool –
Stuttering lights usher us on to
impure quests [I follow a bright
beacon – see Camus saw it too]

It is so – greatest forms
of hardships are in lies
we retell ourselves – all

family folk-lore is cruel
[stories in other allures
& histories] – we seek it

in laggy shadows – See
low river mist flee from
our loop of a [so-often]

flooded field at rush of
dusk – my dulling child
hour & tap-tap-tap-tap

of blackbirds’ chirrups
[& I chalked-up streets
& walls – arrows – trails

home – gone] – Traipse
past dust crosses on a
path – our lies recalled

are now birdsong – on
& on – retelling carries
our urges for knowing

which routes we mark
as true – every familiar
fable was once a truth

A balance will return – by an
equalling of time & daylight –

of night – of our sun’s place –
of middling & alignings – just

enough for our equanimity –
of give & takes [an autumnal

label applied at this point] –
we’ll rise & fall with lit rules

as a shadow mutes satellites
& space is [so briefly] darker

Tell me – how many bodies
in this town lie [undressed]
in airless hotel rooms & fail

to maintain a distance? Our
clocks offer them deadlines –
as a grip slips [as masks fall

to strip at certitude’s gripes
on us all] – We drink lattes &
bitch ‘bout others’ lateness

to attend to all obligations –
In hotel rooms all divests’ll
pile up – burden – In a town

of less than twenty thou’ I’ll
guess that a few dozen have
left their dull lived ways – I

teach my kids to be honest –
it’s my response to a decade
[& more] of a mis-direction –

[by word-of-mouth] – I sit in
a bar as that auld sweetness
in being me ferments [again]

A cobbling of time & inspired
egos – to build on Ethelstan’s
raised court above his Ouse –

& other histories laid out – As
ship timbers sag & high flints
fall – as time’ll remind us all –

nothing remains upright – all
wicker-work rotted – flood &
threatened plagues dragged

on Hamsey’s shores – We are
more visitors to Saint Peter’s
greeting of God – Cephas & a

rock entwined in name – See
where an auld railway line is
buried – another grave – with

a headstone of bricks – laid a
route long-dead from Lewes
& up to where I lie [in Sussex

& in bed] – We were dragged
[by art & dogs] to an island &
on – oiled wood took me off –

to time’s score – But now is a
fingering of flesh – horizontal
little death by sex – preludes

to that turned earth & stone –
before it is so we will scale to
other raised places – our way

For F

Feel her kiss – burgeoning
becomes allowed [seek it
so your skin is dressed by
unexpected things – warm
through] – beauty comes –

it meets you as you swivel
from one ugly salutation –
[by one best forgotten – by
a sourness – best ignored –
of your misrepresentation

in words] – Greet her now –
greet her kiss – follow her –
to her bed [there – where it
is said she will embrace all
of your faults & not query a

thing] – rarely stories begin
with such openings – follow
her to her bare sunned skin
undone on white cotton – A
night to be taken in with all

your errors written-off – So –
so it begins – understanding
her difference to you – not a
comparison to – Kissing will
beget – such a rare antidote

Song Number Four rung
round – streamed into a
day of dull designs [in a
minute it will fade & my

day will switch into still
air] – They whirl records
in our local nerd-pub [a
cute reversion to skip &

raw jitters of vinyl plays
for us connoisseurs of a
certain burden] – not off
to our revolution – Spin

of song Number Four –
curiousness lifted her [I
made a note in poetry] –
that smile’d skin a man

[alive] & he’d still ask for
more whilst stood bare –
We return to that record
we all knew well in 1980

because it made sense –
we knew less – never let
down by love’s too slow
puncture – Play number

four until there’s a blunt
diamond [worth less] &
we will drum along to it –
& that impossible lyrical

layer – anthems in youth
return in middle age – in
song Number Four there
is a foolishness we yearn

Close all fall-boards
[because Betty Blue
is now dead] & stew
in fumes of Gitanes –
[we are long gone &
beyond word-land’s
hold – once buried] –
no return had – sure
& correct – no tinkle
of keys to announce
our minimal talents –
no chanteuse’ll sing
to us – she lies alone
in a glossy coffin – in
a re-purposed piano
she will be laid low –
close that fall-board

Here were less so-small
defeats [but everything
had collapsed] – quiet in
moments without voice

or points [or excitement
it had been said] – bland
responses – also paid for
as squaring come-backs

& back-lit bitching [sure]
& turning-to hardenings
below – again [Not now!
was also said] – & idlings

& avows bleaching – in a
white hot sun [a shadow
slowly abounds – a reap
& shudder – such a quiet

fool] – His neighbour too
saw how it all went from
light to dark [brief – back
again] – Do not – don’t –

rotes of negatives flitted –
& now is an idle-time of
benefits – of less efforts –
[now an advantage too]

We must imagine
Sisyphus happy –

Camus says to us
boulder-pushers –

uphill rock rollers
[& ready to be run

over ones] – so we
will not feel crush

[or crack] of bone
by slow stone – we

are guided to ply –
hand-&-shoulder –

to heft at a weight
set by a rueful god

[listings of Camus
& his misguiding –

un-advice] – & I will
not know more – A

tumbled stone & a
hill are my enough

to do until I fall – In
my sleep I’ll shove

at that roughness –
& dust [I’m happy]

I trip on hid-trip-hazard
routes [as if] – instead I
lie low underground – six

feet deep in mulch – we
once dog-walked stony
paths of criss-crossings

[maps – all Strava’d-by-
Lycra’d] – by such ways
desires bled – picked at

& pickings – rules led us
out – wood-walkers – to
scratching-at-fruits – as

high blackberries fell &
until we fell – ripe-guts –
bare brambles – then a

bearing to a bedroom
[steps aware of falling
& we pulled until bare] –

my dog bawled as if it
had been left behind –
We rolled on pickings

& skin fingerings – slip
of limbs in rubbings &
grip – we held – stilled

Discretion was an unknown
way – indiscreet in a slinked
perusal of a certitude – by it

we fooled ourselves into it –
[she lay too often with fools
& took their tokens of love] –

A sour face returned to me –
one tipped up – as if spilt – a
scraped dish of remains – as

if quickly blade-skinned [by
such thin-lipped smirks – &
those brief sayings of grace] –

& now I will choose a guest –
for dinner & bed – with more
to give than acrid self-loving

put first [for homes where a
memory lingers] – we’ll both
dine well – a menu of dignity

served to only those sat at a
table laid for two – say it – by
prayers we now feed on love

How low do we drop our prices? How are wages &
a legit daily rate set [now we do not make?] – Here

we fail to craft enough to trade as a skilful country
[one proud of hard work & a blossoming creativity]

Can we repair – refurbish – or renew anything – now
our blunt tools rust? We yearn cheaper products &

a brief shelf life [nothing’ll sparkle or function for a
lifetime of use] – There are no industrial heartlands –

no tool-hung workshops or skill-ish technicians left –
Our kids’ll stack shelves & ask what their talent is –

& all blame is in our laps – a desire for cheapness –
here a dearth of truth makers – our land lies empty

Men removed their shirts
to reveal oiled skin – hair

over fatty layers – almost
ripe tits – my uncommon

view – raw at tables [with
re-filled glasses] – I didn’t

remove anything – not by
embarrassment’s rule – a

new propriety re-trained
me [Keep raiments on &

don’t follow herds – men
without shirts was one] –

soon our cantina was all
skin – a scene set by my

former lover – stripping –
men followed her – a cry

of misery lifted from me –
that’s how it ended – her

life – undressing for men
in pubs & bars for drinks

& her bared back dignity
[low to meet bar values]

Facebook is now a care home
for Aged Parents – where they
post gloats & leading queries

& Instagram proves to all they
do not have much to offer [no
chance of influencing anyone]

& they’ll tap & cast thin layers
of gnarly tweets seeking a Mr
@stephenfry RT – Lame days

shared out to an uninterested
next-generation who only see
those more visible online – As

mater & pater’s intrigues spill
on thoughtful posts [a thrill is
momentarily broadcast to all]

Wings set-to [wider than its
length] – that flit ghost dips
across my uneven path as I
trek westerly – my compass

set by familiarities in these
meadows – a silent rising of
a stirred hunter – its unlade
beak suggests a quick feed –

or a lost prey circumvented
by my constant clumsiness –
I upset any natural balance –
I am told – although not by a

silent barn owl – When I saw
it last I was not as ravenous
as I feel now [clipped as I am
as if a long-famished raptor]

Tarry for new opening hours
for men with rough hands [a
bulk discount for a fat one?] –

& once all sperm is shot they
are no more in love & lust is

as flaccid as a used condom –
& did she demand her rubber
barrier with everyone? As his

cock limps ‘gainst her looser
skin she recalls lost onces [&

‘pon-a-times] & dignity weeps
with each new cock’s eye – In
her head she’s so shy – & time

retires as soft memories fade
[cruelty is now her necessity]

& a neighbour whispers that a
princess has tipped her [fake]
tiara at too many non-princes

& her kingdom has come – We
will see one high & mighty fall

& other lines are added to her
gossipy biography [& still she
opens for fat men for favours]

To practice death is
to practice freedom –
Michel de Montaigne

---

I was in a pale civic room –
as women bent over their
ailing-&-aligned spouses

In fiction [reading others’
typed at lives] we get lost
& closer to a dreamt life –

found in films – or lit by a
streamed series – I’ll see a
better lived life than one I

had – all has shifted since –
no selfish tears at a coffee
morning for us diseased &

carers [no self-flagellation
to get it up] – Listen to that
silence – in my day I dream

[no sleep’s inconvenience]
& I’ll now live a better life &
deny all narcissists’ cries at

greedy upsets – this is mine
to own – to define – as time
lies I’ll employ my honesty

Quick Ragwort – yellow dabs –
lazy acrylic brush strokes – A
path of bent grass – trudgers

& runners have passed – Cow
pats [tar blotches & liquorice
heaps – a depending when] –
Underbelly of fern turning to

rot [low browning knots] – as
berries swing heavy – Scents
of wetness – a drained ditch –

Foot pains [a crippling] until
ease & rest on a fallen tree &
my being – in this present – is
fixed by loosened boot laces

Can we nip a strong drink
without falling over [after
sipping far too much?] – I
drank a sour mix in a cup

& poured out more – drink
up – chin up – tip it back &
think of stinking England!
There is a dark stain under

our boots – a putrid bruise
left by booze & auld spills
of other stuff – If spirits sit
humbly [in my gut] I sleep

well – I doze alone without
knowing how much I owe –
some endure a debt to her
[a continually re-filled kiss

as sweet & sickly as cherry
brandy] – this is where we’ll
fall on our face – pub land’s
last orders & a last disgrace

What you pay attention to will define – for you – what reality is
Oliver Burkeman

---

Where are our happy days
of other things – where do
alternatives rise from? An

ease – now – into ageing &
a riling disease – down – to
seaside retreats & starings

for a seventh wave – We’ll
be warmed by aulder time
lived for love – but would I

think that is enough as my
blanket rubs my ankles? A
yob throbs a car’s exhaust

[as it pops a stuttered f-fuck
at us all] – So – am I getting
on? Youth is a fast offence

for us men in our fifties – A
girl goes by – we don’t look
[‘cos now we know not to]

& our kids make us greater
than when we started at [&
that is how we will end up]

Plugging in another lump
of personal transport will
not save this planet – as if

getting a less-fuming car
[as if credible] as we feed
on an Amazonian orgy of

clicked needs – gratifying
in our wrapped desires of
tactile packaging [a mess

of plastics beneath] – it is
next day [Prime] delivery
for us fat leeches – Greed

will do us all – as weedled
needs tug us – Purchase!
We insatiate users of crap

[swallowing cast maggots]
& thrash until we are done
[by a baneful Credit Score

calculated by dividing our
time by Nature’s full fury] –
We’ll no more enjoy purity

We are content providers
& fools for giving all of it –
lines as well – pro bono in

our need to be agreeable
& agreed with – a likeable
savant posting his poems

of damn fine rhyme [also
doggerel] – We spin it out
as if it matters – We shout

& it bounces back – echos
of others’ aches return [&
by them algorithms learn

about our souls] – See our
bare arses [now parading
as a king in new clothing]

& all online nudity is grim
[best to bear disconnects
& not my butt-naked feed]

Brighton humped to sub bass
& aged party animals – greyer
men & dyed women wriggled
to a DJ used to young struts &

less replacement hips – Sweet
smells of sugar-rich treats & a
waft of booze & fatty burgers –

scented girls – a fish stall slap –
aftershave & stale sweat ooze
from auld pores [years before
lip-balm of salt was our given

over stinging vinegar – such a
scant seaside encounter is no
more plenty for a day-tripper]

They play – hooked in to
our world’s arrhythmias
& repeated patterns – As
my AI finds Costello’s 1st
album – as I tap badly – a
Guardian article asks of
us – Do we think enough
about drummers? As my
coffee cools into a stew –
as my dog slumps [as we
slacken] – Mickey Shine’s
rat-a-tats rivet Elvis in my
head – 1977 [one year on
from Punk’s first spit] – A
history isn’t repeated by
my youngest’s soft beat –
they don’t do tribal stuff –
they will not rebel – All of
my life is percussiveness
as our kids tap-tap-tap at
each so-tight iPhone skin
[we boomers miss beats]

We live with morose ghosts
between our birth & death –
shitty hauntings – a recall of

what-will-be slips – See our
lines of supernumeraries – I
slid [in my tuxedo] across a

stage & a princess danced &
my heart broke [not for her]
& then a death in Paris – I’m

not a royalist – nor a lover of
common ghosts [or blue-ish
blood] – A crowd threw their

finest funeral flowers across
a hearse [its wipers swept at
every dead five quid stem] –

We’ll see ghosts in our sleep
[we’ll dream of sinister lives
‘til we stop supping on love]

Possibly deny time’s crawl
& grab at senses – between
must-do-servitudes & each
dull chore – Attempt losing
clocks & watches – media’s
tugs – I shall settle into this
count of passing solitude &
let go of obligation to profit
& others’ riled deadlines – a
life without reminding to – I
shutdown powered devices
& greet unmoved silences –
in my room – let it go [now]

As I cross that frangible bridge
[first of two] – relief meets my
gut – I hear my body working

as I cross that second – a rusty
one resurfaced by trailed mud
& in need of paint – there is no

chance of coming face-to-face
with ugliness & hate – Across a
tributary I can escape chances

of seeing a [lie-laden] harpee –
no eye-to-eye – my elusion – to
hills – as I step from her valleys

& like Sisyphus push a boulder
ahead of me [that cruel weight
of recall & an ongoing distaste]

& all I can do is avoid having it
roll back on me – to take me to
those crossings [& that harpee

of local rumours] – to crush me
under heaven-set punishments
of climbing & pushing for truth

I came face-to-face with
a sad cow [in Uckfield] –
weighty & miserable – a

sourness of auld smells
& its stench put me into
Morocco – a ripped hide
among a hundred other

stripped creatures [that
I have handled] – & then
I was fucking in Israel as

scarce water sluiced my
layer of cow shed sweat
[a froth on a girlfriend’s
heavy breasts – that sex

was splendid – then] – in
a slow sweep it rejoined
other cattle – rattling off

over that low red bridge
where it’s dark herd was
stood – immobile [apart
from grinding dry grass]

Nothing vast enters the world of mortals
without a curse – wrote Sophocles – Feel

such infection spread as our attention is
extracted for profits by our need for hits

[all our higher purposes of love, worship,
great work & our begetting of beauty are

best served offline – away from counts &
algorithmic intrusions] – Steer your sight

up towards some kind of tactile God – in
your hands hold paper & a pen & write –

unplug – disconnect – do not click – resist
also becoming another imbecile product

of men with schemes in overseas silos – I
am equally a fool – We will still dream of

electric sheep & hold up a fake toad from
under dry desert loams – we are blighted

Tidy grass – trimmed for visitors – On a gull-shat-
lawn a drunk falls apart  & is fenced by shunting

traffic [stop-&-go] – it’s a seaside town’s summer-
of-fun under chalky hills & above a shingle heel I

drink coffee alongside it all – cool in August whilst
Europe burns – smell it – I seek boundless bliss in a

kiss me quick – not here – my dog mutters nothings
at my heel – we will sleep well tonight after a game

of football & beers – Such is my life – of premiership
distraction between days of invoicing endeavours –

as I plan my great escape from Sussex & each snide
remark [each whored day of it all will shift off-shore

until I’m withdrawn from hauls of disapproval] – As
murmurations spin above a rotten pier my eyes mist

over – not quite tears – as I rise & pull my dog away to
a walk [again] we end our sipped minutes & stroll on

On my circled routes in
this town of deniers [&
serial shaggers] I head
back on a tarmac path
[between quiet houses

via a cul-de-sac] – Here
I limp – mis-stepping as
my legs complain ’bout
such trips – my routine –
through that wallowing

estate & into an ancient
woodland fed by run-off
Sundays [of car-washing
& jet-pressured hoses] I
walk alone – with a dog –

& avoid others with sour
faces – they are too glum
for my liking – Divorcees
drag their dogs on leads
as if to an orgy – there a

story ‘bout randy men &
gullible so-vain women –
[transcribed on tongues
across froth on lattes – a
shot of rounding errors]

They left men feeling guilt –
but cruel traits eluded ‘em
as if sensible – then again –

piece work for kicks [& cash
feeding it] – & an insecurity
about a father & a mother –

& how will it come out? Will
our kids accept sour truths?
They have yet to say it now

[as it was] – as it still is – as it
devoured & fed a narcissist –
& fetishes – in an omphalos –

met through men – lubes are
a drug of choice – along with
lines of coke [aligned to this]

& such distractions will cloud
all memories of lust & loves –
they will lie – alone – for now –

or until it is made to thicken
into something un-loveable –
young men will come thickly

in auld thighs for matriarchal
kicks – Freud would not resist
his misalignments [he resists

such temptations – even after
death] – I will turn off that TV
& return to paperback fiction

Among moulting thistles &
below lengthening shades
formed by summer bloom
[auld urges commissioned

by time] – it’s here I shelter
from a deluge of showers –
that pissing-off overhead –
I could lie down [now] – go

native in this meadow – I’ll
have no company & still be
crowded out by memories
[Leave ’em be – Michael] – I

will sleep well tonight with
a dry stomach – count each
blessing out – I was regaled
with more horror stories – A

circular walk across land to
be built upon [brick work &
debts piled up] – This won’t
relieve those auld recalls of

flirted-at tradesmen bent to
hammering overhead – I will
move away before this field
is filled by tarmac – our new

ghost-estates – before I stay
mired in this inbred town in
need of distraction-fucks – I
see wives lie with open-legs

& husbands strapped down
by porn & alcohol – My walk
will lead me back to where I
left from & where I’ll depart

without reminders or reverb
of too-long wed – to depart
from grasses & ignorant ants
to find my settled single bed

There – that cool scent
of dusk’s breaths – her
command of my hours
as a child [back before
dark] – Among bracken

& slicing thorns lives a
recall of auld torments –
of a childhood under it
all – buried alive below
scrapes & thumps from

others – sharp tongues
cut skin – bruises strew
mud-dark shadows – In
afternoons boots were
filled up in treacherous

ditches – left to drip dry
before returning to that
tongue lashing at home
& stripped off on a step
‘cos you’re wet through

Our cab driver pontificated
on dark Sussex roads – this
was his low kingdom – thin
fares between villages [any

drunk phone calls his alone
to turn away] – lord of all – a
man who knew how to save
this world from migrants [&

flu – put on yer mask if your
sitting in front] – a pure cab
kept that way – slowing up –
deer cross here – then quick

to return to foreign-things –
that’s easily solved – his eye
on this narrow Sussex road –
I wouldn’t slow for an A-rab

I follow a frowning hen
in Waitrose – it clucks &
tuts – it claw-scratches –

it shits in places [eye up
its fat arse as it pecks at
shelves with its beak of

cartilage-nip] – rear end
big with ruffle of feather
layers – fox-luck-fuck for

dinner – such a revenant
until it agglutinates as a
melting – fuck off ghosts

of auld life – lose foxes &
chickens & find my sober
things [rise up – from my

dreamt wretched horrors
of auld callous fat birds] –
I need waking sensibility

For WM

There is a sudden urgency
among my things – my son
is here – my youngest – not
an ours – he brings his cold

& sniffles [tested okay] – to
sit with me [& his device is
flicked at – phone & game]
& my day is tacked toward

one of value – I interact – to
head into that thing I have
been good at – for some – a
career as a father – as other

parents bury themselves in
other parents & dismissing
fortuitousness to head into
that thing [of being fathers]

Refill with potable water!
I was instructed to – I was
lost in a grey past – was it
all double bluffs? – Rinse
cycle progresses! [next] &
my recall had been blown
a lost time ago by a mirror
in a sex-for-money-profile
& other tawdry remnants –

a need for admirers – That
next phase of cleaning out
is indicated – more water &
containers to be employed
as pipes & filters piss a litre
of fluids [I squirt now were
words on my return – a way
of failing to contain truth &
love] – Do not let it overfill!

It was flooded – a flood plain
in mid-August [deep enough
to cause disruption to men &

women in walking boots] – a
wide flattening of grasses by
tugging waters & heavy rain –

a slick wind-chipped lake of
run-offs – hill spilt flows – We
enter it [& I feel my boots fill

with hard-to-shift rainwater –
burning cold & toe-curling] –
my dog swims alongside me

as my thighs are chilled by a
slump-depth [by a sunk ditch
that I knew would pull on me

before I had set off to wade] –
before I felt its cool invasion
on my body – on a dog walk

I miss that cruelty – it is
a curse [it is fixed in my
blood] – bruised dignity
was my grisly swelling –

She told me things that
would make me sick – a
vomited response to all
her wins – Only from her

lips were cast such stuff
[of unbelievable songs]
& thrown up [again] as
olid slicks [they’ll crawl

across my bared skin] &
I am listening to crack &
snap of her whips – Hear
her now repeating it all?

Slung between two
posts in a slumped
hammock & bound
by thin blankets – it

is a morning repose
for me [my recovery
position after sleep
& torturing dreams]

whilst my dog curls
below without hints
of interest – nothing
will alter our respite

unless bladder-urge
& a need to stand is
thrown at us [such a
demand unwanted]

& I write & my coffee
cools in my mug – as
if time is suspended
between these posts

It shall return to me
without portent [no
clear signal] – I let a
contraction settle &
command all grips –

all workings will not
be set by my adjure –
It is time to roll into
a ball to deal with a
wash of discomfort –

Among my bones is
a constant ghost [&
soon I will become
my own spectre] – &
my day goes down –

led to a lower point
among drownings &
up to auld hangings
[a ripened carcass &
entertainment for a

baying crowd of ale-
sucking witches] – A
brief respite is a test
of my mettle – pause
of spasms & daggers

[but then back] – If a
marriage has a value
there is expectation –
it’ll thrive – but one
set by greed will fail –

& other learnings as
my body burns [with
its own insurrection
under my skin] – See
how disease patrols

our past & future – It
is not treatable – she
said it could be [as a
counting of cash set
souring tears to run]

& my body aches for
auld ways of sex – of
extremes allowed by
working fingers – see
me break apart – see

me fail & how failure
affects my senses – a
tightening of muscle
[not for show] – a pull
at my tightened soul

Fossilisation has taken
place – my hardenings –
surroundings are stuck
to skin – flesh is to dust
under me – cells fall off
& flake into stone & my
miry blood evaporates –
I will be forgotten [‘cept
by auld bone diggers] –
a rich vein – a fossil will
not crawl alone – In my
mind I am bone-cold – I
no longer sing – Here a
name is served for such
a find [latin-thick] – I’m
placed in a dry tray [sat
as this labelled remnant
of a fossilised man – I’m
living now a rigid stone]

I take no poison
[shown by leaps
& bounds across
sudden ditches]

& you’ll see me –
flung with limbs
slung wide [as if
nearly flying up]

but it is balance
I am after – Now
I take no poison
with my waking

since clearing a
loose cabinet of
dangerous stuff
[of poisonous &

suspect drugs] –
an addiction for
all to see at that
time [in my life]

with old shouts
set in wax in my
ears – but now I
hear no ferities

about each pill –
my prescription
reads Nil – I now
take no poisons

Those jewels are thin loops
tight on ageing digits – they
weigh & cling with a recall –
arthritic torments will soon

remove them all [a jeweller
to be employed to dig each –
to un-set bloodied stones in
turn – to remove auld gifts &

values in a tilt of finer tools]
as that time they were given
turns into rough cash values
& a temporary income – See

how her eyes narrow [as if a
diamond thief – as if valued]
& till receipts will prove it all
in near-perfect Giotto circles

Giotto’s perfect circle [a glib
answer to a Pope] – his fleet
pen is all it took – & that was
just enough – & lovers won’t
grasp an arc for long enough

to complete a round return –
not for long enough – I’ll roll
my wrist on each quarter – a
sleight my father gave me – I
draw my circles from inside –

I can see how lies are tacked
to form foul spheres [a staple
gun or similar spitting tool to
finish its turns] – there are so
many ways to cheat true arcs

[& Giotto’s namesake flew on
to Halley’s predictable path] –
There sit traces of God in our
imperfections – angels sing – I
shall draw my imperfect ring

Here is our awaited frailty
[signposted by viruses] – I
sleep alone – laid without
easy assurances about all
of this – my dreams rip up

every warranty – as if by a
magician’s bent-to blade –
[we read that we will only
know if to trust someone
by placing such in them] –

An alarm makes me wake
for a brief moment – hit it
& snooze is now my game
as I squander daylight & a
chance to rise untroubled

I offer no apologies for
such tawdry hobbies –
admitting less interest

[as sly-want digressed
into an unmade life of
missing loves] – Give it

up for Lent & others – A
series of un-speakables
were left unsaid by any

one of those relatives – I
watched a horror show
as snow fell to cover up

schoolgirl errors – there
were more [after snorts
of quick white powder] –

scurrilous [his fat credit
card] – laid payments of
debts [in any easy way] –

until all is gone – As if it
were melted snow – As I
stood to go I bore it – as

though there were auld
feelings to show – [slow
tears of tawdry sorrow]

& now I strive without a
stick – no aid to quicken
[truer love will cure me]

You are being dragged
by your miserable wife
on a dog walk – divorce
is assured – her glunch
at your words’ll furrow

any hope of lightness –
she ploughs a grimace
across your path [a trip
hazard birled by those
rolled eyes to Heaven] –

He sees her ire in every
quickening stride away
from him – wide cracks
in a dog-walked union –
a sad dragged marriage

Here St Margaret’s mower
drapes his jacket across a
pair of worn shoulders [as
his eyes find her cross – in
that ground are her bones
laid bare by years of work –
now no sweet scent – none

apart from cut grass & airy
wafts off his 2-stroke’s oily
flutter] – A mind’ll wander –
almost a meditation – says
Rev. A. Smith of this parish
of long-displaced – in a lost
time Buxted was shifted – a

quick toll competes with it
all [that history of upsets &
deaths] – Count them out &
greet one last faithful man –
His bin is full of cuttings – a
neatness below her cross –
He will sleep easier tonight

A neutralising discourse was
set by both sides – equal in a
way – how their pasts were –
those tipping imbalances of
mind – tripping of sex into a

partition for others – therapy
dragged back scabs & let his
blood bloom – it felt as if his
body could work – again – In
his mind he slipped away &

she found a happiness [a for
everness] – Do not look over
your shoulder to see clearly
what was there – regret slips
from rolling [untruthful] lips

on naked skin – men will win
& keep breaking frail things –
see where history has dug a
shallow scar – see it fade [as
time] – but not by your eyes

My youngest walks in circles – only
known to himself & analysts in San
Diego – a distribution – health stats
about oxygen levels – we compare
our endeavours in levels & medals
won – when I was my son’s age my
father was nurturing a cancer with
fags – My routes are huge loops – a
map is made every day – I worry – I
am a provender – a manager of an
illness – I know a few of my fates – I
sleep well – as recorded – between
re-fining moments – My counsel to
my children is not abstruse – not a
moral after my death about caring
for oneself [we’ll now walk circles]

It is that heat when your
mind drips with a sexual
keenness – or not – Don’t
seek lovers in heatwaves
[sex is to-boil thickened –

everyone is prematurely
impure] – Hang out with
bookish maidens & boys
in your local library – it is
certainly air-conditioned

& empty – Do not drink in
others [that sweat’ll stink
come morning] – wake in
your private perspiration
& shower alone – kiss me

I can trace this edge of distrust
a long way back – to a touch on
a beach – a kiss in a cab – sex in
a basement [without a barrier] –
destroying so many others – As
a fool I cleared my footpaths to
run parallel – only to diverge on
command [without a rise of my
complaint] – It’ll steer me away
each unmapped year as routes
are re-primed to collide – I walk
at other times of day [to elude]

I see an occasional ghost
on my walks [she’s alone
apart from her wraithlike
dog] – I notice her ageing

[ghosts fade] – Each time
she is more transpicuous
[as if light is eroding her]

Forlorn spectres suffer so
[in my experiences] – She
moves with that sadness

which will not vacate [I’ve
read of such things] & it’ll
pull at her insipid essence
[until she is not haunting]

My dog walk was book-ended
by two too-imperfect women –
new strangers – Their battles –

out-doing each other – were a
series of hugged conflicts in a
war of love [to have men bent

to favour] – Their soured lives
will never sweeten when love
is a unequal agreement – Live

without any minacious props
to hold you – [one who hasn’t
learned to stand when alone]

Transmissions by gripping
offered fingers is unlikely –
my communications were
withdrawn [my first act] – I
still do not embrace love’s
limb-strung castings – less
contact is scarring my skin
until I weep in despair – Of
course I could be cured by
intimacy – but paying for a
lover seems to be my auld
way – I bend fingers on one
hand – counting every time
my memory gripped offers
of a held hand – I will never
re-settle for fingerless love
[or any other compromise]

I will struggle to fall in love
again having been tongue-
lashed by mis-directions &
vanity’s grasps – I’ll gasp as

out-of-season feeds surge
with rainfall in July – there
will be floods downstream
& foolish lovers drowned –

[for believers of fate] – see
flit cocks [& sliced at drugs
as offerings] lined above a
marking of aulder torrents

from which wet rats teem –
[but pretty does scamper
to find fit bucks to do] – &
muddy rivers vie for them

with sludging-kisses – In a
day it will find auld levels –
that flood-drunkenness of
our River Uck will sober up

as much as I have about it –
love – Stuttered untruths’ll
dry up – we will return to a
drowning by pollen counts

We marauded Beeston Castle’s
heights – both quick to plunder
without any swords – By a well
we had anal sex [& you sucked
me off – wipes involved] – I dug
for long-buried treasures – In a
busted turret a flaccid condom
bore a dried trove – engravings
told of auld was here moments
[at least an hour’s labours] – &
foot-rubbed steps fell to a cell
where prisoners  once festered –
I was run dry – Las Vegas has a
lead – We left fallen ramparts &
retreated to beds & breakfasts

Let’s walk on from [Old] Bond St
in an arc around Green Park & to
Pall Mall’s red carpet – via sights –
watch fat birds & portly politicos
peck at crusts – We will steal side
glances to take account of every
movement in each other [first to
break rules & take a Chance – on
yet-turned cards] – one winner’s
possible – I will undress you in a
look – do not judge me too soon
[I have played my games alone –
too long] – we’ll find a side route
of de-cluttered paths [no tourist
trap] – there will be no normal to
return to – ‘though streets’ll turn
to gold [once more] – Let us Pass
Go & collect four hundred quid –
I seek a draw in our competition

I was briefly inveigled to share
all with that visually-impaired
jogger – my imperfections – all
his were UPPER-CASED across
his shirt – a self-ironed transfer
of words to warn of oncoming
lack of vision [but my ongoing
predicaments remained mum
to hide pain] – they will not bar
his way to 7.5k of pummelling
pavements – I will keep it close
to my own chest & not trip him

Pull up your mask – tight on
your face – hide your smile –

enfold your breath – you are
a decent person – keep it on

& wear your compassion for
a frightened other – align it

as it slips – then re-adjust it –
wear it to keep shielding all

those in your reach [a metre
is also an avowal of concern

shown to strangers] – We are
oafish conveyors of diseases

& I was f#cked – f#cked
#p by an other – & then
f#cked by a [f#ck] lover
& f#cking cocks [it ain’t
that good – as was said]
so many f#cker-#ppers
for far too f#cking long –
& no f#cking amo#nt of
devotion will surmo#nt
every f#cking demand –
expletives ain’t deleted

You will never elude that
discomfort of reality – By
your eyes you still desire
extravagances – succours
& brief dalliances – a man
with worn hands to tease
bared skin – a buried urge
upon your sensibilities as
you face him [& disgraces
spiral out – as fresh habits
are bred] – new errors will
be led [initiates of bearing
& how to feed every need]

Their politics are a mumbled
cocktail – malice & jealousies
& half-mentioned [half] facts
that bear no analysis – they’ll
not see beyond another pint –
just flights – fast cars & their
right-to-act under hard-won
freedom of pure Englanders
[though never fought a war] –
he’ll claim his prize [boozing
oils him] but his ill limbs will
tire – obesity & greed will kill
him off – pure English breed –
all sneering [barrel-ish] men

It’s almost blusher pink –
that colour of grass tips
at this time of year – my
dog leaps as she hunts –

here untouchable birds
rise from her – dusk will
mark losses of colours –
greens slump with dew

as air kisses dampen all
fervour – moths play out
confusing games [white
scatterings – bending &

testing routes] – We will
leave trails by my boots
through these pastures
[not meeting any other]

My perspective is warped
by this stiff insurrection –
how our futures will fall &
tomorrow’s news are all a

worthless speculation etc
[as I read yesterday’s lines
of re-written facts] – In all

moments hover – alone or
in love – either states – less
concerns about bookends
& props of past & future – I

am advised to see breaths
as they exist – hear this – A
thought is an insurgence –

it will create losing battles
behind my eyes – my body
is my sensor – but it is stiff
with disease & ached grief

that dig at my foundations
until bits of me fall & let in
thoughts – pain is a bugger

[less allayed] – I zipped her
disturbing letters & images
on my drives [into folders]
& history is re-compressed –

I suffocate her existence – It
is a gradual family death &
expected – by some – Listen

to all breathing – rises & falls
[as expansions are replaced
by contractions] – no rutted
transmission of usual forces –

So – am I curable? Dr Cohen
says No [not for now] – Mr B
there ain’t no cure [as such]

but we suggest that you fall
in love with someone good
& kind – avoid narcissists – I
suggest [again] exercises to

fix auld stiffness – Reap each
day – be amiable & forgive –
[I repeat it] – seek kindness!

This sphere is overfilling at
such a speed – repositions –
too long-forgotten rillets’ll
throb – pulsing – [Flooding
forecast on sodden land] &
rain’ll conjure up spews of
soupy surges [converges] –
Put a hand to sand bags &
slide designed defences in
to risky doorways – Watch –
assess – bloats & spillages –
await – unnerved by every
coiled rage – as rivers meet
backdated high point lines
[& force our re-assessment
of selfish ways & existence]

We are caught in a shower
but find fast shelter under
a vast elm tree – it’s one of
those fierce deluges – then
it resets to auld stock rods
[less hefty fall of rain] – We
suck up childhood scents –
a summer-heated sweat of
uncut grasses & dampness
below – Then it peters-out –
& halts [& just a redolence
remains among us to stain
noted memories] – We rise –
our eyes to massed clouds
& continue to vacant fields
bowed by those stair rods –
& boots [less waterproofed
by mean choices] absorb it
all – we walk on fallen rain

I hate it here – I am moribund
by mouthy men & squawking
wives & they all try to re-fuck
an ex-wife [let them squabble
& fight on her thighs – let ‘em
do whom ever they choose] –
let me slide from this place – a
distance will do – no meetings
that mean nothing to me – no
pubs of spilling arrogance – A
measured difference is a need
in me [counted out to counter
every word] – let me run away

As we love we’ll be tripped
by a loss of such – no more
absolute attentions from a
lover – just sour guarantees
of failure – I watched Smith
[& his spite-beaten spouse]
gathering foods in Waitrose
[he knows so much ‘bout it
all – she’s sent by his voice –
Not that one – he sped aisle
to aisle to plunder] – Does a
love survive a flung order? –
I fail to empathise with any
couple bound by demands
from one or another to find
sublimity in a supermarket

A bottle of red from our
petrol station – low ebb
if taken on – instead we
aim home [sober – lone
along puddled twittens
towards home] & back –
to be sat [& untouched –
as if it would ever now
happen] – tears’ll swell
easily in my eyes – here
is a guaranteed demise
in my semi-rural home –
silence’ll spiral ‘til a TV
channel is turned high –
this is not a worthwhile
life alone – greet me in a
hotel – meet me in a bar
of lights in Brighton – Is
it too much to pose to a
friend? But [none Left] I
ire at those local racists
[& all other equal voices
spat in a pub’s hubbub]

He knows this cutting
[light is at four knots] –

barges are slip-halted
by wet ropes to banks

An industry – his canal
work – stern-still – as a

tillerman – pivoting – a
steer – then heaving at

lock gates – at winding
of rattling paddles – at

tugs & hauls to unknot
twists of auld routings

to loosen & to head off
towards his unloading

Propped in a polished coffin
to offer views [my first dead-
facing-up-to] – my father – he
had met so many bodies – his
work led him to mortuaries –
to mortician humour – in his
made-up stiffness no hint of
movement [no rush of blood
to feel] – my last recall of him
was reinforced by that sight –
My father stands dead every
father’s day – there his place

Under St Margaret’s high eaves
rooks gather in lustrous cloaks
to confer – a parliament of auld
cronies consider their choices –
scent of roadkill strikes – Death
has scattered blood – olfactory
glands gather their dead – they
cry out – open up – caw-ripping
at sweet gusts – Christ nailed to
a cross – hung – slow-killing of a
man – they eye sculpted drips &
sip on cups of dripping mass – a
shadow of three dark denials in
formation as a trio of vile rooks
gather over a body upon a road
to dismantle car-struck entrails

I want somebody to flood
my mind – to form ox bow
lakes – to re-fill my hollow
with a wash of kindly love
[one without demands for
a cruel command] – I want
dignity even as I slump [in
exhaustion] – to live with a
sense of worth – without a
counting out of filthy cash
earned in darkness – just a
loving other – one who will
not disturb beds to kick up
lies – no laggy sullen rivers
of muddied flows – no – no

Down in the basement of
Brighton’s Komedia they
sank beer & wines whilst
supping on stage humour

[‘tween ripped-at bags of
crisps – side plates of thin
chips appeared] & then –
our compère threw vents

of disgrace – her polemic
spew of so-pained-by-life-
facts – a comic stood still
centre stage – mic-smiled

as practiced – one not to
go off-script [no ad-lib at
this stage of her career] –
The booze sat heavy – a

fourth pint that night – as
crafted jokes poured out –
as laughter grew in kind –
darker jokes eyed inside

about loves & leniency – a
kind of disturbing lust – it
would crack them up [my
two-hander – about it all]

but I’m best sat unspoken –
to run-through poor verse
in my head [two thousand
jokes? – too broken to say]

Lindisfarne loved its one God
of curses [with a golden lust]
as it inked a curled scripture –

We roamed under moonlight
across a sucking marshland –
dried salt cracked our lips – &

we busted their singing place
under a screamed fish prayer
of seagulls – a kissed crucifix –

a goblet – blind candlesticks –
gospels [written out by hand]
then torn from copied words

& piled with sliced bodies by a
man who knew only knots & a
sword’s ability – & we fed on it

to fill our taught guts – a crack
on a barrel to unleash ale – put
swelling bread inside to fatten

yourself after weeks without a
meal – see we were so hungry –
we never knew of miracle fish

Sussex men grunt profanities
aloud – pig-snorts – a guttural
of divulged doubt about how
much they have – how much –

how much they love that flag
atop their pole – how much a
pint costs – how fast they can
still go – how white their town

will remain – how foreigners’ll
return to foreign shores – hear
how they can f*ck any woman
they want – how cock-sure – in

pubs they’ll slip a racist point
of view – but not on Facebook
[‘cos it’ll cost me my job & all]
where they learn how to howl

without being shutdown – see
how they slump on their sofas
as footballers kneel & they say
how white lives matter – how?

For AA

Slide from your dulling
[daily] responsibility to
let aged men penetrate
you – For a while finger
another’s head [such a
small thrill before it all
curdles into guilt] – you
never could surrender
such trips abroad – In a
breath admit it all – but
without reason – Spout
your spitefulness [your
irked tongue tosses off
its mooring – to find so
many others] – Float in
to an old man’s mouth
[suck hard his olid lips
& visit a failed father’s]

Guarani dreams’ll talk [almost
gathered mist – as settled spits
of dew – sipping curling leaves
instead of scalding cups] & say
about a god & stars [now a far
planet has their name] – Tribal
lore’ll circle in looser thoughts –
we white-skinned idiots aren’t
gods – let kids play in star dust

To catch a bee take one
Bengal Spice Takeaway
menu & a tall Ikea glass
from where such sit [six

in all – five not touched]
& approach that vibrant
striped blob as it bumps
against a filthy pane – in

your mind picture it in a
field [no dirty trap] – it is
so worth exiguous effort
[never wonder if there is

any value in such an act]
& weigh it – a stoup – in a
sure hand – hold its base
& take aim – rim first over

that quick fervour [get to
see its volant intricacies –
believe in its importance
to us all – not just a bee] –

Place it around vibrancy
& slip that menu through
without catching it – trap
it now – lift it – quiverings

in that shift of air – it will
hum – a drum skin listing
food [& free delivery] – as
you tip it clear to outside

Liars do not resign anymore – or
admit to obvious incompetence
laid bare – we are wedded to too
many psychopaths – suited men
shuffle between interviews on a
Sunday morning – flag-shaggers
stare down laptop lenses with a
smirk – signalling crisp mis-truth
[he’s about to blurt one more] &
blatant lies untie – Infections will
alter how we are & how it now is
at every turn – deadpan men will
re-set our present to sneer again

She will rinse her bruises – not
easy to lift – those fingerprints
[hint of smudged blue] ‘neath –
& a fable of how-&-where they
were born – observations of all
such anomalies scoured every
ability to forgive [wishes never
be re-told] – none dare to look
at her ‘phone in over a year – a
fear of re-sucking of others by
those touches across a screen

l practice days – Monday –
Tuesday – arraignments –
regular beats & framings
by invisible book-ends &
sleep – Crying is easy as I
rise – & equal – ready – to
return any time [any day
of every week] – Here we
live in fixed-up places [a
place to die] – Here we’ll
swig glasses of red wine
& try to seduce our ugly
visitors – if drunk ‘nough
to assay – & some’ll fuck
just anyone on Mondays

I am offended by idling
cars beside McDonalds
& in driveways [rumble
of diesel – or petrol – as
floated fumes drift out
of exhaust pipes] – Ego
& arrogance command
our roads – give way to
those in killing devices
as they burn rubber – I
will let out a breath [of
relief] when they have
sped off tall cliff edges
& end up idled in tides

There – a loathly ghost over
Buxted’s grades – a horror –
foul wafts off an unwashed
[ill-scented by its psychotic
confusions] – Laggy uphill –
between shadowed fillings
[light restores it – eidolon] –
& a nausea’s bile rises [still
that effect] – cold cruelty is
left in its bent blades wake –
On a stone [in St Margaret’s
overgrown yard] it says of a
body – & she will sleep with
our Lord – but not yet – Wait
until her spirit has returned
& unrighteous men bedded
first – wait for her hauntings

We are in mass flight to
eighteenth century lust
for life [but w/wifi] – 1%
win – as first-borns grab
it all – nothing else’ll do

beyond an inheritance –
robbed cash runs down
to rich baby-makers – &
our labour is sold [unto
gambling tools] as fools

follow fools as we all do
our best to convince our
peers we are above such
stupidly [less out of date
stuff] – & then we suck in

nationalism’s wet stench
[scents of wage decline’ll
be sniffed at – bet shares
smell better to Gekkos] &
we are promised a bigger

slice of a smaller pie – We
see less now – our vote is
traded before we pass Go
& collect – perniciousness
is rife – better off’ll better

us in our heads but never
in wallets or time worked
per hour [& debt’s weight
squeezes time off us] – we
are all nearly down-&-out

Unbearable – another flick
about misfiring marriages
& shabby lust [where one
of them is desperate for a
fuck from an old lover – or
a new one – or one not yet
fucked] – & all those twists
of limbs – I’ll avoid each to
avoid waking up [again] &
long days – of this [again] –
as shacky scripts rip apart
before we ever see an end
[unless decommissioned]

We are those unsuccessful ones
who labour onwards to sunset’s
eye [we seek her blind or turned
away] – inglorious bastards seize
low money [as if it is hung candy
& suck off such opportunities] – I
watch auld men attempt to court
queen bees until death is met by
a crushed weight – dropped hard