Bugger all


I tell you what I’ve been reading lately

that fuckin Dylan Thomas

I fuckin love it

I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on

The poems, short stories

Under Milk Wood

Haven’t read the autobiography yet

Haven’t been able to find that yet

He’s excellent I tell you

Much easier than I thought he’d be

Still, I wouldn’t recommend him though

He’s not that sort of writer is he?

Dylan Thomas?

He’s sort of out there already

Everyone knows about him

They can read him if they want

You don’t go recommending him or anything

Do you?









the lift

With a slight jolt

rolling back was pressed tighter and thinner

forward into her spacious absence and the door began to wheeze

itself closed.  Her

The doors slid open and, breathing through her mouth, the lady

elbowed out.  I stepped



at the

stopped again

with a grinding sound and


The lift


that I couldn’t see and the doors slid shut leaving the two of

us and the smallest of

by half an inch and giving way I stepped back into the corner.

She pushed a button


The floor

The lift stopped at the third floor and an extremely large lady

squeezed in sideways




For Ever


That which was


is now not

That which was


is not now

but is forever


Never there again


Infinite absence


absent infinity

Here and

Not Here







Kitchen, pale dawn


A long breath


Unlit cigarette

A cup of hot coffee

Bitter and sweet

Steaming in the still

Chill morning air

A blue polka dot

Table cover, laminated

To wipe clean away

Careless drops or rings

From thoughtless mugs

The child was conceived

As the father thought

Of the girl on the corner

Poor little cow

Never had a chance

Upstairs soft snores

Resonate down






And I do not want her as she walks to the door


And I do not want her as she moves to the door, head bowed

Amber strands are tied back in velvet. Her neck is exposed and

There is a light tracing, brush strokes of blond

Her collar is bare, smooth; her throat as she turns, her jaw line

I do not want her, those light arms swinging, the tight narrowing

Of her waist and the smooth pendulum of her moving away

I do not want her; she is too much and nothing








I am not

here where you

are now I


far away

or nowhere

having no

choice having

no care I

voiceless I

careless I

was now I

am a was

I am not

here I am

words only

words only

I am I

nothing else

I am not.

I travel

in time to

you who is

my eyes are

two kisses




Trial by Fire


I remember it, the smell,

glace and fresh grass

It was raining and you wanted ice cream

Vanilla I seem to recall

You never were adventurous

But oh!

Ich mochte das innete deiner muschel lecken

Those were the days

Locked in our Citroen

The hiss of rain on windscreen

The hiss of tape, pregnant with tunes

And then the song began

Time was

No loss

Tamam shud

Or any last page

Of any book

For that matter

No regrets

As a dog returns to that which is foul

And gives no sustenance

An ileac passion seizes…

Something is produced

Better blow smoke where the sun doesn’t shine

Ho hum

No regrets

Those were the days

…weren’t they?

No matter

We constructed our luxuries, set fire to the river

Hey ho silver lining

Anywhere you go

But here I should end

Refer to ice cream

Frosted lips

Complete the circle, impose a structure

A pleasing symmetry

A cut rose lives

If only for a time

Gazing on its dying

Gazing on its death

Inhaling the scent

Time to end

Tamam shud

Meet me on Glenelg Beach in the winter

There and back again

I’ve removed all the labels

We’ll eat ice cream again

No names baby

No names





The charge is electric

as nerves send their message,

senseless and formless and

heart-primed with acid

The charge comes from nowhere

as boys dressed in scarlet

stare startled from cannons,

too late for the sword

The charge is the fingers

that rattle like maxims,

mowing down moments

to nail to the page





It has all been left behind

In this long white waiting room

Vigour, wife, life and friends

Children rarely call

And who can blame them

Laid out in lines, trapped

In pale rectangles of light, these

Young men have grown to nothing

But children; petulant and helpless.

There is a swift click of echoing heels

A starched white smile

And then, again, nothing



A clarification of ‘rooks’


A flock of fucking rooks flew over.  No

‘Parliament’ not ‘flock’

A building, clamour, storytelling

As in plover; a congregation of

And the ‘fucking rooks’ weren’t fornicating

Rooks fuck not whilst on the wing



Within without


There can be no love

Without end

For in death’s shadow

We value

That which one day

Will be snatched away

Only when it’s gone

Do we know

How much we love

And how poorly we

Expressed that love

Not finding time

Not finding reason

Not finding words

We must try to curb

Our regrets,

To give love

While we are able

In our greatest misery

Is our joy,

Behind the shadow

Lies the light




Grackles are birds.

Rooks or starlings I think

Targets for farmers

To blast from the sky


They should be something else


Ignorant strangers

A chill in the blood

Black crispy fish skin

The last days of love