A trawl of brawling sailors drown

            The captain’s thundercloud

A writer’s hat that lights

            Up in the dark

The flash of a photographer’s eyes

The eternal exhibition of white walls

Lines of lamplights on the edge of a field

            Stand vigil for sodden sheep

Seven seconds after hours

            Too many ghost faces

Prayers in eternity ...

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Change rooms, change behaviour, change times.
Change partners, change parents, change poetic style.

The diary under my bed reveals truth but I still ebb away before your eyes
From the shadows she whispered,
Power proliferates, changing buses, changing lives,
Running away from somebody else’s husband

Profiteroles? I love profiteroles said Chaucer but I can't spell it.

Asking myself wha...

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Dreading the task of a thousand spots
Lost worlds now more than just regrets or soiled paths not taken
Walking through life with coke, crack, and endless possibilities.

In the amber of panic a book of hauntology is born
The biggest April fools prank ever

Miniature portraits of a poetic diaspora under curfew still deliver haunting lines

Gaining a better view at the edge of the world
Ta...

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Righteous and correct, the clown wilts

Rumour has it I saw someone in costume

From a magazine advertising hard goods.

It’s left my heads in bolts and screwed up.

Unlock my imagination.

No you can’t have a pancake: it’s Saturday!

Run your fingers through the rubble

At the altar of vengeance

Rumour has it, God is forgotten and pancakes need Nutella.

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Silence, echoes, look at the colours

And Distant Distractions

Minks and stoles all of this reminds me of you

Silver hunter's knife

Overseer left mute

Soiled aliens desperate in Heaton Moor

Park stumble on a Mel

Brooks look-a-like

Inside the man bag, inside the wardrobe

Inside the mind, a voice, a naked voice

Lost in the wardrobe, he looked for 

Dead bodie...

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This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).

Winter Town

March winds stir listless eddies,

fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,

flare through fields of stubble

then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing

from the blowing day;

coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,

cold as a church bell sounds the hours.

Spring will be late this...

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Three two one and the bullets are all gone. 

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