Graffiti

the brooding

malcontent

with paper cut

heart

stares at a wall

of graffiti

and thinks

I could do that

so he picks up

a spray can

unleashes

his feelings

in dribbling

white letters

fifteen feet high

his blood

becomes molten

his rage is

a torrent

of years

without voice

a scream

to be heard

...

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stroke

no words

blood ricocheting

in all directions

going places

where blood should

smoothly flow

not rush headlong

apologies

made by sign

for dragging me

seventy miles

to see

your broken body

no words

thinking

is this it?

is this all there is?

will I live

the rest of my life

motherless?

no wor...

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Fake nostalgia spews out from your head

For a sepia England that was never there

Hatred junkie, you know

Where the blood river flows

Feel the bile at your knees

Marching bands drown out your higher brain

Blaring voices drive your soul insane

Hatred junkie, you feel

Like a cog on a wheel

Grinding so out of time – after time

God made you useless

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In Axilfah on Thundersday we heard a sonic boom.

The rain came down but words held sway within a tight packed room.

They came from Leeds and Lancashire, from Cleckheaton and Hudd.

They raised their arms and voices too and spoke of death and blood.

And local wordsmiths said their piece. What rants and hymns we heard

when Genevieve her coven called to utter Weird Words

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The Collector (Roget’s Soliloquy)

In my book……..

Words – so simple in their sound

they fall like snowflakes on a lake

and interlock their unique form

until the water gives way to their power,

becoming something bigger,

something cold and hard and beautiful.

Or a flame, just a spark at first

until the kindling catches and the embers

jump from t...

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