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Somewhere, Approaching Forty.

It is somewhere approaching forty
That we realise we have a darkness
That will not go away.
Stuck to us, no amount of ritual will purge it:
All our crystals cast shadows,
And every silver lining has a cloud.

When our eyes are thus prised open,
There is a conversion,
And we kneel at the altars
Of resignation, cynicism, or tenderness….
Some days, all three together
Receive our souls.

If we are lucky,
Ideals and guilt, shame and fear
Begin leaving us,
To cling perhaps to younger ones
Replaced instead by the urge to cultivate
Sunflowers and friendships.

We are no longer the conductors
Of our children’s electricity,
And, unshocked, we ceramic Buddha’s
May finally afford them our kindness.
Fighting occurs less and less like a solution,
And peace seems more and more
Like not a bad idea.

Somewhere, approaching forty,
We realise there is no reason for virtue,
And we stoop to move the snail from the road,
Because we notice more often,
What has hands
And what does not.



Ghosts hide in the closet

Monsters hide under the bed

She is tormented

afraid to leave

the comfort of her head

She is safe there

No-one to invade her thoughts

No-one to strike her dead

She is free to wander

without invasion

Her spirit is floating

alongside her

guiding her

towards the shining light

Salvation exists within her

No more malice

No more spite

She is strong there

like a beautious

Goddess of the night


Will stay


but not fight


in the lewd sun.


Bring down infamous rain;

the fingernail and the boot.


I will sit here. Tender.


But a still-life is a dead thing.

I saw one sit and never breathe again.


I paint corpses,

apples and such,


and the red ones dance

like they were paid.


It’s all in the head.  They are dead.

And roll off the stage.


Feb 26


night walk

night walk

when this life
is to be taken
far from its
restless place
this body
should i be
granted a final
clear vision
let it be
this elm opening
out its high storm
of leaf against
the night
the seething of
its dark rigging
hoisted against
a capsized moon
as she
groans in the
gunwale taking
on* sky cloud and
faded star on
a westward
so shall we
sink together in
the heart
ripping like
a full sail

cockle bay
january 2015

*‘taking on’ as in ‘taking on water’ as a nautical term meaning mean that water is gathering in the hull of the vessel because of listing or leakage.


I sit; a nut,

turn in my shell,

eyes in backward.


Dig a wee self;

forage in the glen

of fine, crude cells.


I’m pressed.

Ears in the ocean


a mutinous song.


Feb 23 2017


You look like a Stiff,

high on stilts.

A prize cock.


I fixed upon the back of yr neck,

as you sat upright

at the dining table,

and thought:


Last night I brought you back

from the dead, you wanker.

I know,


I know: you’re wired

to think right

ahead, apply



to human situations.

Not quite Utilitarian:


learn 1st to figure

the Self 1 Unit

among many.


Oct 2016

The Money Man

They leaned in as the money man spoke:

You might be best, he said, to just put 500 out –

By which he meant, add three noughts.

I mean, do you really want that house?

They moved back from his veined red face.

No, they said. Thrice no.

We might be best, they chorused, to just put 500 out.

Just get the interest (well, such as it was).

They agreed on everything, even the small-town coffee;

Just the thing to whet the financial whistle.

Then they left, and the waitress’s face set tight

Grey Lynn Festival

i feel i never breathed before this day with you
began with wine, we danced
we held the value of our life
in one clumsy hand
entwined our fingers with the other.

the cork jumped high, we overflowed:
plastic cups were chalices
children were cupids
all eyes were wide
and the rain was not steady.

i will sit with you in the park
and strand by strand
comb every tangle from you;
will look at ducks and weeds and watercress
be amused by steady beauty
constant as this flame that has us burning.

cloistered somewhere dark and deep
carousels of angels laughing winking
every thought we speak is sweet.

some may say there’s something better;
many say there’s something worse;
but i will wrap you in my sweater
tuck you in warm fields of verse.

yes, you speak a foreign language;
many cases, too much wine,
so we share a friendly bottle
inside our ship on summer time.


A poem for my vagina

A poem for my vagina

Nothing could be finer

My cunt

My pussy

is sweet

Like a flowering orchid





and travelling

It’s one route

Don’t shoot me

down in flames

Don’t play

your stupid games

Where would you be

without me?

My strong bold cunt


your useless front

Try to fuck me up

Why don’t you?

Haha…see where it

takes you

With your timeless guiles

your pretend smiles

Point your cock

in my direction

Doesn’t even rate a mentiob

While I’m down

on my knees

Your cock

I’m trying to please

What about my pleasure?

That you take

at your leisure

What about my vagina?

Nothing could be finer

My cunt

My pussy

is sweet

So let us meet

in mutual rendevous

I’ll put on my red shoes

Dance for you

so divinely

so finely

So…do I prick your conscience?


time to time

While I’m being


Well…Fuck you..

Love By Drowning

I see your whirlpools, darling
I can see them now
the blue and green
and between those colours
I understand now, these currents
I can see your whirlpools, baby

I can see the deep ache, sweetheart
upon your weathered smile
the weight above your eyes
turmoil, like sunken treasure,
way down deep
that you have protected for awhile

I can see your whirlpools, darling
like a spinning water wheel
up one second then headlong down
you refuse to heal
a vow to never give up on us
wasn’t that the deal?

I can see your whirlpools darling
the water could wash us clean
but you wont come up for air
so I dive into your whirlpool baby
lets go down into your abyss
I will be your treasure there

Yes No