Tuesday 26 December 2017


Greed

Flocks of people?
Send them to the wretched realm of consumerism
Where they belong
The season belongs to me and the crow
He yammered on a damp, rotting, bench
Fuelled by a Sixer of white tiger
The heath was still in a pre-Christmas lull
And the frigid, frosted earth
Belonged to the stalking steps
Of red webbed feet and black talons
Christmas doesn’t belong to you
I whispered from my clear-cut path
To the caff
Only the slow rotting of organic matter
And the absence of memory
Happy Christmas to you, too,
He gave a husky salute
As if reading the words from my lips
Slipping for a moment from my well-defined ways
I made my way to him
Crunching over the iced spires of tufted grass
Guessing the build of his demise
It belongs to all here, I shouted
The robin, the goose, the water vole
Even the parrots, those late customers
From down south
They don’t belong here
He grumbled beneath a thicket of grey beard
But they are here
I laughed him up
But he sank down like a chilled worm
Into his piss stained tweed
GREED! He roared

Greed, I repeated softly

Saturday 16 December 2017


Waiting

I’m sat here waiting on leaves
The sky is coming
They never warned me
About that
The tarmac is always wet
Downside of the street
You and the images
The magus
The motion trumped 
By stillness
I’m now on the park bench
Tree-side of three corners
The crowd 
Drawing in, pulsing
Flashing in chrome

The headless languages
The August Fengler

‘I am the cage of freedom’
She spoke 
And nothing more
My cigarette ash 
Is falling upon my scarf
And she is crushing 
A lemon 
With a screwdriver
The people in that place
Were like creatures
From a vague and awful
Painting
The night outside was immense
Swallows cut the steel lights
To shreds
Candles burned my thoughts
To carbon shadows