Full moon wreathed in cloud

like black pepper smudged on white

ghostly negative.

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1981, the year a blue stencil,

verso, gloss off-white,

unstuck blu-tacked, loose framed,

sun-curled image

your grin and your cow-lick,

and causal wear,

your ghost in my machine.

A bawling, squall, curtains

of hail and rain hang outside,

ladder, paint, spots and tans

and frayed carpet,

the dark, shaggy corner swamp,

where I found you, sideways-stacked,

cracked...

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And now, for the human interest story,

a quarter past breeze and apple-size dust

of blossom, latticed fragments

tendrils, sheathed in birch sleeve

closed door economy,

my new bonfire of vanity,

a cement wall sloping cliff-face

and edge-hedge shed three-facing

attacking west-side with phlegm of

dragonfly and sword of spider

the mirror of an engine and a rotor

and a ...

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Upon being handed

the gun I

choose to recline on wet, springy turf

and then lay down on the

wrinkled blue tarpaulin,

to pepper the air,

Phasianus Colchicus

blurting out the why and the where

and clasping my sweat

at 26 metres.

The older corners are the best

the low-hanging branches,

the leafy hollows, amalgamated bark, bush

and clumps of stone,

discar...

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My grandmother sits on the back step

I beside, and

my dear friend up there, at table.

There are birds in the sky

and the potted plants are nursing stitches.

I think I heard a cat jump

slink, fall,

escaping this domain of rust,

and smoke...

and the steam and the fire,

the roast, the white cloth and red

full hearts, having drunk their fill;

these wanderers flood a...

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The clouds were so strange that day

spilt powder over duck-egg veneer

a clandestine pincer and loose, flaking bough.

the hour the clocks stopped,

and the sea, through fence and fig-grove

breathed one last heavy overture,

(and there was much waving, and there

was solemn prayer, and repeat)

the shadows moved as warning signs

over verdant emerald mesh.

There I looked in ...

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Print off this haiku

wrap it around a large brick

hurl through a window.

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A line of windows and walls

the icons of old endings

and new beginnings.

Scary art.

Fragments of the divine,

mosaic memories

basking in polyester

doused with sparkling water,

a new wives' tale,

in a city of some square million.

The dust caked on a door's head-pane,

there the ray hits

the nail, the set-jaw of the afternoon

as I buried that light in claret,

...

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Called you at midnight

you answered with no little reluctance

through the rusted ribcage of totalled phonebox,

saw the rusted renown of my smashed reason.

After one minute the receiver fades to fuzz,

my fists hammer walls that are not there,

I zip, buckle, put collar up, out

in space now walking and with each step,

the ground sinks a little further...

sinks a little...

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