Watch the weirdness of it
This wiry growth
from each leg and each pit.
An ancient ancestor
back for a visit.
The mammalian inside
wants to go wild.

Throw away the razor
the wax and the laser
Become a wild woman and
scare your next door neighbour.
You're growing your hair
and you don't care.

Be astounded by its pace
This evolutionary race
draping over the tops of socks
Sprouting from under pants.

Lifting arms might not be wise
Cause there's a hairy surprise
For those who oppose.

Maybe the Sasquatch is a wild woman
A hairy outsider driven out
by social disapproval
of her utter distain
for constant hair removal?

Although unless you're going to fully commit
there comes a stage you must admit
too much hair is hard to bear.

There's something to be said
when it's time to shed.
The suppression of the wild woman within
is worth the sensation of silky skin.
This notion I have entertained
And can say
primeval hair simply must be tamed.
The End

Living room constellations
rural town galaxies
Full beam vans and red-tailed cars
shooting stars and comets
hurtle by streaming
T.V. mast space stations
point into the void
DonnaSummer on the radio
Giorgio Moroder sets the pace
The Moon is by our side
Give up dodgy wifi
this bus ship is flying
through deepest darkest space

On the edge
of tectonic separation
there on the periphery
of these peninsula days
an island in the make
wish you were a cloud

Progress a terrestrial trajectory
for the weary wanderer  
not floating, not drifting
let’s fly
and when we’re back
we’ll kiss the ground

There’s a ship in the Swilly
against the wind
up the Lough
an idiom in slow motion.

There are Curlews on the pitch
sucking up worms
and Canada Geese bobbing
on the Swilly's frayed edges.

Foam from the churn dress the wind
and crows fling themselves
about in the invisible
surfing the waves above the sea.
 

Swaying trees reach for racing clouds
and the factory chimneys
the Keep and the Castle
have all seen days like these.

On the bridge
men loyal to their dogs
watch the river fight the tide.
Never seen rain like it.
Their phones confirm
a Dutch fishing vessel.

The only ship in the Swilly
turns to face Desmond
volley off Fahn hill
into the fjord, where some
sought refuge and others fled.

Practice man lives a lyric.
Chris Kristofferson
in a Norweigan town.
Driving for distraction
on memory's permafrost.

An old boy grabbing
for glory days
that slide away
like the memory of hair.
Edvard Munch Saturday.

He doesn't believe
in god or dancing
love has no rhythm.
There are lies under his lids.

Sweating it out
avoiding mirrors.
He doesn’t care for fashion
but has Chanel roll on.

Practice man fears
the beauty in Petra's tears
and takes a sip of beer.
Back on the sofa
too soon.

The handsome troll could see them

contradictions like meteors

crash into the black of the street

where he collected them

in the pockets of his denim jacket.

To be thrown later

into the fire

that cooked his truthful songs.

The bearess and the wind

his companions

on motorcycle rides

rode around the island to

awaken volcanoes and get a rise

from the elves.

They howled at the sun

and laughed in the face of

camera wielding walkers.

Shouting truth! truth! truth!

something they kept

in the bottom of an old cigarette pack.

The bearess growled words of woe

One eye blue the other white

lost to a brawl on a dark afternoon.

She collected air fresheners from

pub toilets and cursed her father's vanity.

But love lived on in her eye.

This love for a handsome troll

came in jittering waves of chemical magic.

She saw them in bed all winter

eating the corpses of badly behaved lovers.

But he preferred the wind,

to chase her about the island,

and watch her dance in the trees

and surf the crest of waves

and blow the maps out of tourists hands

and when she was happy whisper in his ear

and when she was mad,

pound his windows and curse his songs.

A Rachmaninoff whirl
the wind and the waves
and black puffins and a black bench
and nothing between us and the south pole
but this swirling soup.

Let’s stay here and live in a cave
and at night light a big fire
 and remind the rocks of
where they came from.

Let's fish with the birds
and roam with the horse
and sing to the sea
and wash in waterfalls.

Feel the warmth of Basalt
absorbing the sun
Listen for ancestors in the wind
keep on the right side of trolls
and never throw a stone.

The town clock moves its big hand
Awaiting the bus, it is noticed
Soon the toaster on wheels
will take us to the big smoke
There is a queue
with gaps between two or three gabbing
one leaning against the wall puffing,
two on the bench staring,
at cars going by.
She skips it, the nun
hovers on by, right to the edge
to the edge of the curb
where this bogus bus
will clutch and break.
The other side of the street,
grows its shadow, the sun is in the east
In the windscreen of a parked car
the lamp post is a crucifix
As far as she’s concerned
she’s getting on first.

Watch the weirdness of it

this wiry growth

from each leg and each pit.

An ancient ancestor

back for a visit.

The mammalian inside

wants to go wild.

Throw away the razor

the wax and the laser

become a wild woman

scare your next door neighbour.

You're growing your hair

and you don't care.

Be astonished by its pace

this evolutionary race

draping over the tops of socks

sprouting from under pants.

Lifting arms might not be wise

there's a hairy surprise

for those who oppose.

Maybe the Sasquatch is a wild woman.

A hairy outsider driven out

by social disapproval

of her utter disdain 

for constant hair removal?

Alas, there comes a time you must admit

unless you fully commit

too much hair is hard to bear.

The suppression of the wild woman within

is worth the sensation of silky skin.

This notion I have entertained

primeval hair simply must be tamed.

The End

Avocado ashtrays

certainly are novel

for the now non smoker

An ale in the fridge

is less inviting than a 

prune Activia

A wooly jumper

a hug

A pair of old sneakers

good friends

the future is just tomorrow

 the essential mascara

less so.

Dawn flyer lands
dream walker walks
in the warm greys
of a watery day
At the circumference
of a grand pond
ducks dodge
the dregs of confection
and speedy sparrows dart
about castrated Gods
and handless Lords
and noseless Queens
and the finest buttocks ever seen.
Golden Hieroglyphics
in the place of revolution
Ramesses the second reigns.
Under the glass pyramid
people snap
painted pictures and ancient artefacts.
Admiring great civilisations
ignoring how they're made.
Fountains in the rain are particularly beautiful. 

Winter's breath stinks of coal and car fumes
Heavy it rests on the roofs of houses.
Trees are blackend arteries.
In the greyscale smudged edges
A defiant contrast of pallet looks stupid.
Blending in will keep you warm.
Zip up that big black coat and walk.
Toy diggers left by children, wait on the kerb.
Puddles store the night,
damp moss and muck
colonise the footpath
and the road is riddled with holes. 
Cocky drivers steer with one finger
in, around and out of this small town.
Rushing to join the traffic jam
It's a supermarket boom these days, 
that’s where everybody is.
Only pubs and charity remain and the post office. 
The factories are still there,
although the work has long gone.
And still the fires burn.

I dance around the kitchen
and down the hall. 
Linoleum slides,
Balletic leaps
and jaunty shuffles
some body waves
a bit of hair shakin’
and hand clappin'
Nobody's watchin.

Just because I'm home
doesn't mean I'm not dancing
In the morning mostly
After silent sleeps and dreams of lovers
To T-Rex or the play list of a fancy store,
selling stuff I may never afford
but I'm not shopping, I'm dancing.

Smiling in the street
Seeking hills to free wheel down
Speed's a flitting pattern
Across grateful eyes.
Such friendly September sun
Bakes the bark of branches dry
That let go easy
toasted golden leaves
and spiky green grenades
dodgy at this pace.
And the river waltzes giddy
heading for the sea.

Sick of the living
I went looking for the dead.
Doesn’t everybody
end up in a graveyard
to get some peace?

I paid my grandparents a visit.
I looked at their grave
and watched a cabbage white dance
and the light catch on Quartz.

I imagined warm hugs
the smell of pipe and baked bread
I wondered what they’d say
what they'd make of all of this?

A few plots down
a big oul fella states
'Graveyards are lonely places'
Then through some chat
extracts my roots.

'You're the Shoemaker' he reveals
saying he was a friend of mine
Some connection down the line
Between my granny and his.

He was visiting his brother who
worked all over England and Wales
built motorways and canals
and said that Dublin was the roughest
place he was ever in.

Under Niagara
A cinematic cockroach
Walks up the wall
Early Twenty First Century
Tuesday night Jazz

Dirty feet, flip flop scales
Up and down
Subway steps
The romance of garbage
5am Avenue mornings
There is no rush
 

Out on a rock
Reflections withheld
By the chopping sea.
Time has ticked
Its last tock
The shore turns its back
There is nothing on the horizon.

Pity the Cyclops
he can't sleep
with one eye open.

And the magical unicorn
Being so majestic
makes it hard to horse around.

Alas the beautiful princess
whose intentions are cruel and vile.

And then there's the dragon
With his destructive breath
who only burns himself.

Staffie lipsticked terror
Owner beams as he squats
Cross the road quick. 
Cooking in the midday sun
On a red brick bed, a junkie sleeps.
A little boy demands simply
why, why, why, why?
Mammy has no answer
keeps her calm in the street.
Cat woman's Casablanca
now a boarded up hazard
a suspended memory
between life going on.
And the ice cream man's
throwing a wobbly
thinks he has right of way
lip reading obscenities
Mind That Child indeed.
And the sky is blue,
and the roses in Billy's garden
are big headed beauties
Wafting behind a protective fence
beside the bursting bin.

Siren gets your ear
from miles away
nothing to do with you
but you hear it anyway.
Must be some goss
with the gulls
they’ve been giving out.
Non stop
guttural Dinosaur rants.
It’s so desirable round here
even they're moving in.
Sacking the cliff side
for a chip bag paradise.
Their young will know chimney pots.
Next door's on the door banging again. 
Soon he'll be doing scales.
And the sky sounds closer
clouds buffer the noise
soundproofing the stratosphere.
Without the sun where's the heat? 

Need a coffee and a jacket after all.

The clouds carpet the sky
To protect our swollen heads
From floating into space.
Instead they softly bounce
Back down to Bubble Town.

There is nothing funny
about Funny Face
More a horror film
than a musical comedy
Fred Astaire was no catch
for a dancing bohemian
Or for the old lady
belching through out
who turned to me at the credits
and practically pleaded
through her tooth fairy looted mouth
‘Don’t get old, don't get old'
As if I had a choice

The End

As soon as the window is open 
A Blue bottle flies in
It sounds in a serious panic
Darting from room to room
Butting at speed into 
mirrors and windows
Its zig zag flight pattern manic
Then it disappears and goes quiet
On the curtain considering its position
it would seem its entry was not a decision
and proceeds to fly into the pane
again and again
Forgetting the window that's open.

A slow drag to the bottom
Wrapped safely in its tentacles
The lovers drowned but not dead
Could only see each other.
Two puppets for an Octopus
With four pairs of arms it played
A silly dance in the depths
Sometimes it gripped too tight.
Ejecting black ink as it flailed
The Octopus never let them go
Feeling it but not seeing it
the ocean was all around them.
Forgetting how to swim 
Though held they were floating
The lovers had long surrendered
The Octopus soon got bored.
With one last mighty squeeze
That turned the lovers blue
Released its grip and slowly swam away.

There’s 32 cent in your guitar case
You've been singing for 2 and a half hours
Your rendition of Billie jean
Sang in six different keys
Is better left alone.
Please stop, enough is enough.

As distressful a scene

as a beached whale on the strand.

A giant Beech tree lies horizontal.

Its roots displayed like exposed intestines

Branches like rigamortis hands clutching for life

A giant fell in the park, a home for a hundred crows

Fled into the night.

Did it come down in the wind? Did anybody hear it fall?

A great moaning creak and then a thud.

If we had all our senses, could we hear its fading breath?

The tape around it flaps in the wind like a murder scene

Did it fall after all? Or was it pushed?

This giant hazard to cyclists, walkers and joggers.

The bus pulls up
the queue gets on
except one.
Not going anywhere
he is the destination
superhighway veins.
Not a vertical sleep
the wall's his spine
closed eyes see.
Box fresh hightops
and a new tracksuit.
Ceremonial robes.
Today the rain kisses.
He’s made it this far
pitt stop shop
When he's back
he'll get himself a Yop
scran a smoke
and be on his way.

The sky spread out over the sand
Wet a mirror of mind
The sifting light exposing the lines
The sea filling them like tears
 
The gulls, the crows and the oyster catchers
Cry out into the waves of applause
Picking off the spewed up wreaks
of mangled starfish and razor shell
 
The rock pools are deep and silent
Boulders stand their ground
on the sand that shifts around them
Keeping their stories to themselves
 
I take a stone, a nice smooth white one
and walk back to the car
it’s time to hit the road again
away from this town side sea.

A double denim grand da
Blows the last blue
suckles of a cigarette butt
into the dank side of the street
sharp in the shadow of  white winter sun
Refreshed now after a fall of rain
 
Warm for November though but
not warm enough for his attire
The ground a slab
Under his swagger
 
He’s just out to get tobacco and bread
Sick of the beggars outside
The Centra make him feel
worse make him feel colder
 
He’s no change for them
He’s not sure they really want it
Looks like the bookies is getting
a face lift though
He crosses the road.

The bog man lays in his glass case
In a darkened room an eternal wake
They come to grimace at this mess
Of flaming locks and leathered skin
Ripped apart by a turf cutting machine.
Disemboweled by a bronze age blade
A buried secret for two thousands years
Condemned to a violent return to the surface
for school children and tourists
to come face to face with death.

Among the landscaped gentle interplay
Of historical tourist trappings
and gentrified splendor
People are taking photos of
geraniums and flying buttresses
While the Tesla boys are chancing their arm
 
In the fountain the two of them
Pocketing wishes, the loose change
flings of passers by
Magnified coins submerged under the
fabled rinses of junkie needles
irresistible to the Magpied eyes of these two
 
Three foot lightning bolts, these little storms
Thunder  through the park
Swift would be pleased
In their back garden, two new millennia boys
So Joycean, one wielding a majorette baton the
Other wearing a flat cap
Both swiped, one from a sister
the other a great great grandfather.

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I have never seen Swan Lake
But I have seen swans in a pond
in Phoenix Park
A pair, pure royalty amongst the fowl
They’ll not rush for bread crumbs
 
Don’t be conned by pure white plumage
This burglar masked hissing hierarchy
can break bones with their beak
Under that graceful posture
Two giant black webbed feet
steer this powerful ship
 
Towards us with the majesty of torpedos
Silently communicating with each other
At the ponds edge we watch, nervously.

The cat has turned
her back
on the tidings
of Magpies
high up on the roof.
She has concerned herself
with paw licking and
catching the last
rays of summer
It’s all about
Wood Pigeons
these days
anyway.

In the future
There will be no minds to read
In the future language be
Reduced to five universal symbols
 
In the future there will be burger museums
and galleries of photoshopped selfies
In the future we will still be alive
And remember ourselves condescendingly
 
In the future no one will talk
It will be silent
In the future everyone is sane
In the future we are driving ourselves mad
 
In the future there will be no music
No birds, no opera, no rock n roll
In the future there will be no laughter,
just sarcasm and emotiocons
 
In the future we live in the sky
our feet will never touch the ground
In the future peace will be bought over the counter
In the future they will say they have it better
 
In the future fashion will rule
In the future you better look good
In the future none of this will matter
In the future we should be better
In the future we will talk about the future.

Some things are hard to do
Try eating a banana
in a quiet room
A big mushy mouthful
Try not disturb the industrious
screen starers
with the oral contortions
coming from you
 
Some things are hard to do
Try finding a decent apartment in Dublin
with decent furniture, central heating and light
or try  sleeping soundly in the screeching night
Ear plugged in bed, submerged under sheets
Wondering if it’s STDed zombies on the streets
 
Some things are hard to do
Try ignoring grunting egomaniacs
those slobbering sacks of  greed
who you’d rather punch in the face
and into it declare death to the rat race
or  try getting that excuse for pop
out of your head
that was playing in the shop
when buying a scratch card and wholemeal bread
 
Some things are even harder to do
Try winning the lotto
now that seems to be the
hardest thing to do.
A true impossibility
it would seem
a lucky draw to live the dream.

The suitcase peers from
Under the sofa
Watching, ready to go
 
The painting of flowers
Unfinished
Droops
 
The unmade bed
Looks tired
 
The plant tropical
is ill and unruly
 
The carpet is coated
in stray hairs and crumbs
 
Coats flung over chairs
Hang on
 
Shoes left where they were removed
Wait for feet
 
Must be time to go again

Swimming upstream
Against the lunch crowd
coming down
Two mangy otters
high on river junk
have opportunity
in their eyes
 
Strike, a quick swoop
a long skinny arm
goes for the lucky dip
and pulls out a fancy phone
 
Everybody swims on
over the man on the ground
holding on, red faced, full of instinct
But too weak against the strength
of a junky on a mission
 
The glee in his eyes
The smile on his face
The speed in his
body as he gets away.
 
Away off up the road
to god knows where
Dissolving into Camden street
with the Galaxy in his hand.

The troops follow the digital thud
To enter the throbbing box
Thirsty boys and squaking girls
All teeth and tallons
Sway on stiletto scaffolding
Defying the cold in t-shirts hands in pockets
Youth has no concern for the weather

Streaming into a pulsing dark
Neon lazers cut asymmetrically illuminating
Gyrating, sweating dance floor faces,
Running mascara and drooling euphoric youngsters
Are having the time of their life
 
Ejected later in a spitball, a spewing, pissing mass
On the streets unsatisfied charged atoms collide
American tourists, Hens and suburban dwellers
Chanting anthems, grunting and getting
fingered against cold winter walls
the liquid is quick
 
Bloodshot glances caught in the wrong eyes
Will guarantee a street brawl
What the fuck are you looking at?
The menace of a taxi queue
 
Until it subsides and disbands
Only the street cleaner remains
Collecting their excretions, artifacts of this tribe
Empty cigarette packets, nagins, puke
Chip bags and yellow polystyrene burger boxes.

Wading through the
sludge of bad news
Whinging whirls on the wind
Chit chatting entilement
feeds the status quo a
swirling mass of gloomy gloop
Tornado town sucks up all the air
 
Blissful ignorance smiles down
But the soul always knows
A con job by the honey tones
of a desperado sales man
No more newspapers, tv panel discussion
or online updates
The radio can go to hell too.

Lizards scurry
from store to store
tongues lashing
and detecting
tails hiding
under khaki pants
and short skirts.
 
Old lizards with young wives
babies squawk and scream
pacified by ice cream
There’s a tangible stress
that’s comes from needing
the right dress,
or shoes or phone .
 
It’s the hunter it’s the chase
It’s the gatherer it’s the find
It’s the dream in our mind
made up in some office.

The Last Resort
It is warm
The bleached blue haze
Low in the sky
Confirms it
 
The breeze comforting
company
The keys on the keyboard
Hot to the touch
 
For five minutes
I could convince myself
I am elsewhere
 
Instead I am surrounded
by tree covered hills
perfectly hilly in shape
and size
 
No sounds apart from the
Distant rumble of a
Plane on its way
And golf carts carting
Industrialist weekend golfers
And healthy looking
Hong Kongers to
the driving range
 
Vodka calls me
In a tall glass with
Ice would be nice
I could pretend to be
A writer on the orient.
I haven’t craved a fag in months
til now
 
Under regimented palm trees
the most elegant I have seen
unruly today are dancing
By a lake
and me on my veranda feet up
 
Truth be told I’d
Rather take a
Golf cart with my vodkas
And shout and disrupt
This bourgeois retreat
And tell them this sucks
And that their massive fee
Could feed a family of fifty three.
 
However I’m seduced for now
I have worked for 4 weeks straight
To be warm in February
is a  rarity, it is nice.

The decisions you make
are your own
Ripping through lives
like an awaking fault line
A downpour over blissed out bathers
A vicious fling of salt on a slug
 
The decisions you make
are your own
to cause a mere ripple
a nose to turn upwards
a fading echo in the
traffic of the day
 
The decisions you make
are your own
Becoming ghosts
that taunt from reflections
Or found in secret smiles
confirming that you did the right thing.
Some too complicated
to feel.
 
The decisions
you make are your own.

A Banana
sandwich
and
a cup of
tea.

To soar above it all
Looking down
to breath it in
And spit it out.
 
The world down there
Playing out in the rhythm
of routine
It’s beautiful
 
The workings of a machine
well oiled well organised
It looks so small
Not bad at all.
 
Soaring and seeing it all
Through clouds and over grids
at earthscapes
Eventually this too will
get boring
 
Stopping and falling back in
without a splash
To become small again
Back on my machine.
 
Forgetting what i saw
Absorbed into its veins
Somehow a part of it again.

The surface is not superfluous
the emperor has new clothes
they are studded and leathered
and nicely weathered.
 
In smoking areas they congregate
in rain, sun, frost and snow
and reference somebody else’s thoughts
and will not confess it so.
 
For it is them we should congratulate
And hold in high esteem
for it is them who dress the windows
the illusion is the dream.
 
The surface is superfluous
the uniform is just that
borrowed from the adventurous
who dwelled in decades past.
 
until it’s sold in Primark
which really won’t be long
they’ll consider themselves
outsiders because of what they’ve worn.

Sir Patrick Moore’s doppelganger
lives somewhere in and around
52nd and 9th
 
Extremely large for a pensioner
this geriatric Frankenstein, Newton
awakened for weekend brunch
 
At 12 noon on the dot, give or take
with a lumber shuffle to a table
he'd read the set menu
but always order
Eggs Benedict and Orange juice
and always leave a measly copper tinged tip

It was revealed over time
on quieter brunches when we could converse
that he was a wizard or so it seemed
divulging the wonders of Sage and lucid dreams
 
His favourite movie was The Blue Angel
He told me about Carlos Castaneda
Because I told him I was half Fairy
He gave me a book by A.E
 
I saw him once on the street
and was astounded by his scale and pace
an old wizard out there in the mist of
a roaring rat race.

Bill flat cap wearing
sports jacket and slacks
twinkling eyes caring
magnified by big specs
slow shufffling entrances
 
From the neighbourhood
he savoured his daily Bud
At the end of the bar he stood
never sat and always read
The New York Post
 
A native new yorker
his voice followed his finger
as he read everyone’s horoscope
He called people Doll Face
and knew I was a Scorpio.

Dixon was a good tipper
with a gin and tonic
she’d wash down her dinner
Well turned out
You could tell she was a looker
back in the day.
 
Her black turtle neck contrasted
her white hair and white skin
her pale blue eyes and red lipstick
Her figure  on the right side of thin
 
Looking up from her sea bass
while poking the mash
She told me she’d just come from mass
her friend had died, he was 85
 
She said that’s what happens to us all
In her southern drawl
I am the last to linger on
So my dear you must have a ball
Before you know it your only
confidant is a waitress whose name
you can never recall
What is your name again?

Run away Moon
Dizzy spinning disco ball
Jump out of the sky
and ride the solar winds
to the corners of the universe
Take the night with you
and the tides too
Take the howling wolves
and menstrual flows
Run away Moon
Go

They, the flies
that fly in the window
and congregate in an
ariel orgy in the very center
of the living room have no dignity
Her, the human
fermenting on the sofa, watching them
admiring her own aroma has no dignity.

Within the density of cosmic clouds
Birth and death scream together
At the mercy of their devastating energy
Luminous nuclear lanterns burn in the void

Celestial clusters fit for galactic postcards
Stellarscapes stationary from the ground
From Draper’s lens to Hubble’s ever gaze
The ginormous look molecular
An ultra violet light show spectacular

The picturesque deceiving without the sound
In this glittering cauldron stirs chaos
Booming and blasting and cracking and spitting
Collapsing energy falls roaring invisible avalanches
Into a whirling womb of elemental raving                                          

Immanent Supernova explosions will eject heavy metal
For planetary formation on stellar winds through space and time
Collecting and colliding random concoctions deciding
The DNA of future planets made of stars.

Evolution will mean
that our pupils
will turn square
to accommodate the screen.

I want to smoke
A fag
Into my lungs
A drag
Of 20th century
Badass penitentiary
Or Noir Seductress
Evil Baroness
The outsider Accessory
 
I can’t smoke
A fag
Into my lungs
A drag
Of 21st Century
Guilt laden austerity
Demystified ploys
Designed to enslave
Little girls and little boys

On a wet May night a dim lamp lights
a room that is small
just some clothes some books and some shoes
a lamp, a chair, some dust and  hair
 
On a wet May night a dim lamp lights
the faces of drunken lovers
in TV rooms where they dance
casting brutal shadows on a twisted  romance
 
On a wet May night a dim lamp lights
the hands of an old lady
who is staring at the wall
at happy looking people she can barley recall
 
On a wet May night a dim lamp lights
the feet of a drunken man
where a faithful dog lays
happy he’s back after 3 solid days
 
On a wet May night a dim lamp lights
the pavement lacquered with rain
a beacon to a weary boy alone
takes his time on his way home
On a wet May night

Who can you blame for the weather
it who can beat you in the street
turning your own umbrella against you
streets strewn with the mangled wrecks of others,
Medusa heads and big red faces amuse
the smugness of commuters inside their sheltered machines
Pity you, so brave against it
 
Who can you blame for the weather
it who taunts you from your window tapping at it
like a human to a gibbon at the  zoo
A prison warden  gone mad,  disregards the rules
Spring is Winter and Autumn Summer
You’ve no chance you’ll never change it.

Solar Flare
Super magnetic field
disruption
Venus and Jupiter
visible from the street
at the traffic lights
nobody cares
Mini riot in town
Cops are heavy handed
with the angry scruffy ones
On the bus
nobody stares
The swift slashing of signatures
sign off a plan
for a future without you
People on the pavement
walk alone.
Sure what can they do?

Just fizzy water
and half a loaf
of brown bread
Is that
criminal enough
contagious enough
to warrant
the wearing
of plastic blue
gloves
on the hands
of the
frightened
guy at the till?
Has convenience
become
that scary?
Is my politeness 
me or him?
Is my awareness
fear or brash?
Is my accent giving me
away?
Do I give two fucks?
Did the security man see
that woman rob
a Flora?
I didn’t ask for a
bag I
don’t want
to pay for it.
I want them to see
that I’m out
for a reason
I’m on my way home.
Only about 200 steps
away up the rabbit hole
past Sorrento
and a man
on his own
walking and singing
to himself
and the moon
and sharp
shadows stark
on sparkly tarmac.
and my breath
through
my scarf.
It’s past the witching
hour
the guards have gone
to bed
and it’s too cold
for prossies and lurkers.

The bluebells turn bluer
Holding in their laughs
At these two
 
Too old to be doin’
Holding and touching
Under gossipy trees
 
His mustache white and yellow
Against her mouth wrinkled
From smoking
 
Her hair short and burgundy
Him older than grandfathers
And her not far behind
 
Out there in nature
An unnatural sight
A sneaky snog
On a summer night

Poet the word
is nought but
a daisy sticking
out
of a
turd.

Hey I heard
a rumble
deep down
beyond
the throat
and the heart
a resistance
beyond
the rationale
and the art
of pretentding
and disguising
and everyday living
And taxi calling
from the pool
and justifying
modern slavery
by
making bucks
and the repetition
of history
cause it’s their
turn
Through
history
we’d learn
that a skeletal man
lifting a brick
enforces a plan
of the whit
of a child
with the pocket money
of people in fairy tales
to build repetition
I am sad
and you?

Sandwiched between two walls
there’s not much room
at the bottom of a crack.
Just enough to stretch the legs
and to get some light on scaly skin.
Crumbs crash in like meteors
Food at regular intervals.
Lucky to be trapped in a crack
in a kitchen floor under the
chopping board.

From blunt corner
to corners torn off.
There’s a route
through the treeless
wood.
Invisible in an irregular grid
Pac Man begins
another day.
 
A Ping pong ball
between bats
the force is economic
Pac Man wonders willfully
Anticipating his next move.
 
Skillfully
avoiding monsters
and big dogs heads
the soundtrack snaps
Pac Man gets scared
Frantic and instinctive.
 
Round here
Babes are wise
old people lethal
pack heated looks.
 
Mums drag woes to the post office
and men pack the bookies
Pac Man waits
to take his turn.
 
The smell from the butchers
Irritates the parrot next door
Out there on main street.
Nearly there
Pac Man runs
for a power pill.
 
From here to there
and twirling around
and back again.
To God knows where,
with a score like that
can Pac Man ever win.

An exhausted bike
Ambles up the street
Its tires hissing breathlessly
through the rain
The heated words
of a man on the phone
are close enough to touch
The slamming of doors
trigger hasty steps
on the wet cold of the street
Cool air parades in and out of the room
Touching curtains and my face
The clip-ity clop of a woman trots by
or is it a man with coconuts
hollowed out?
The mechanical sound of the drip
from the drains falling on the roof
like a great old clock
Awakens the ghosts for afternoon tea
Children ask questions out there
and seagulls scream in from the rough
to rest on roofs and gorge on fancy sandwiches and meat
Your presence makes it warm I can feel you in the house
You’re going to get our lunch
There are no horses out today
Cars drive about in distant traffic out there
And a siren’s wails reminds that
peace is momentary.

Crude and nasty
busted old machines
on rusting heaps lay
crap fated to toil in the trash
squirming and mixing
Junk sounds like shite
like a nasty itchy rash
or the stuff that is
injected into clotted veins
Junk invisible juice
that stains
Junk not a country not a place
Feel that earthquake
beneath your feet
from bodies turning
in the ground
protesting from their
restless graves
Junk
sounds like a conspiracy
from smoking areas
Junk sounds like slander
Sounds like we’re finished
sounds like fear.
Junk a modern word
that has yet to be defined
Every ruler has her slaves
Put in their place with vicious words
like Junk.

Your delight
at fabric
Is enough to constitute
earthly insecurities
Your chest swells
at the pride
of censorship
Wow your handbag
your property
Swag

Across town children
play
in jaded streets
in city traffic
and drunkards
and mothers as ferocious
as tigers
Roar them home

It’s an inherent
destination
You’re chance is
a queue
I watched you
“We are animals”
Your announcement
reiterates
what we already know
You are born
and where you live
is where you learn

Humanity
is for the those
who are
patronizing and gazing
downwards
or blindly ignoring the
rest of the story

Those who’d rather
not have it all
Those who
are liberated having
voyaged outside
their parameters

Those who’d rather
talk to you
through a screen
Cause they know
that from separation
comes power

Break out
Get away
Kick their heads in

Let’s run away
to streets of green
Let’s bust down the wall
And leave ‘em to it

A fox in a field
in the daytime
in June
as seen from a bus
exciting

A crow pecking crumbs
from a pavement
in a car park
entertaining

Wild roses growing
on the banks
of a motor way
inspiring

Starlings dancing
in unison against the blue
then landing on telephone wire
together
amusing

Three black bulls
dozing on wind tossed
green grass
distracting

Bad overtaking
by urgent drivers on
winding country roads
annoying

The eating of crisps
the sound and the smell
unnerving

Falling down old country houses
colonized now by industrious weeds
humbling

Giant monstrosities
trophy homes
uniform, neat and mortgaged
freaky

The constant rotation
of the latest hits
invading

A gent of a Pheasant
panicking in the realization
that he’s too close to
the road
alarming

The thought of seeing you
arousing

The pull of the stop
stepping onto solid ground
and walking home
relieving

Beware of feline flattery
when threat induces theft.
Because they just copy you
until there’s nothing left.

The guilt of waking late the anxiety of morning thoughts of filling a day with your own decisions
The guilt of the queue the long and winding queue hiding behind sunglasses won’t shield you
The guilt of being capable on a sun splitting day permanent vacation in a park with a book on the street just walking around
Knuckles scraped and gaping from wrapping on doors not listening Smile becomes a maniacle clown Questions loaded guns and everything sounds like a put down

We could see your ass your actual ass
Solid and purple, cold and lumpy
shuffle by bare legged ending in
flat wool lined boots, dirty
with the right sole worn down
Pretty woman you are not
Night walker turned 3pm stalker
desperate flesh seeks desperate flesh

Into the organic grocery store you go alien
Our eyes stretch and gasp and giggle
into hot chocolates on a Saturday afternoon
You fuck your tea onto the path
Pregnant ladies, yoga mats and middle class chats
Don’t even see you

Where to look as you light your fag with a sulphur match
You’re wrecked, hardened saddened unrecognisable
And we take a snap to send to our mates
The horror, the farce oh the juxtaposition
Then you notice your riding skirt’s riding you

You pull it down as you cross the road
dragging yourself to your spot in
Domestic inner city sub urban in the gray of May
Your skirt shouts from the pavement
He pulls over, old and ugly in a shit old van
The deal is made, is it silent, do you comment on the weather,
his wife, do you say thanks?

Is it cold or casual, in a field or car park
is an addiction a job?
We witness, dismiss and are left with thought
wondering what it is you must think.
Then we look at each
other the judge and the juror
and slug on our drinks as you disappear.

You want peace
Turn it up
loud
You want to get away
Run fast
anywhere
You’re bored
Tell someone to go
fuck themselves

You say it like a sentence
while paper planes glide
unregulated up
in deep indigo
above the chicken wire
Down
here we shiver, swag and drag smoke
Away from songs
and the silly dances
of fat assed neglect
women lure boys
On
the first of May
Are you home for a while?
are you the saviour and defier
are you the reminder
Of
Deep dark slumber stench
And frozen will
Where pajamas mold on sofas soggy
Awakened now stretching
Naked, shaken, vein blue
Tired and sad for you.

Can you talk shite
and work through the night
and convince with words
that mean
nothing
Can you reply quickly
reference nicely
so they know that you know what
they mean
Can you laugh in tune
do you have a silver spoon
wedged in your C.V.
did you go to my school?
Can you judge someone
on their merit
and not what they inherit
Can you fill that chip

something to keep you sane
to get you through the day
to pass the time
something to distract the mind
from wondering down spirally roads
with road signs for bullshit and boredom
something to appreciate
to remind and comfort
the security of right now
something to enjoy
to dip in and out of
something to do

Eyes reflex to the sound of a horse’s protests from over the wall
all the boys at the garage remark
and take another drag and the sun’s been shining all day
Mornings mist lifted like a magic man’s cloak slow and smoky
to reveal that day time disco ball
Even birds smile on days like this,
child parents look happy today pushing bundles of joy on their way
The hit parade mega mix bellows from car windows wound down
The urge to be outside the desire to sit on grass on a level beside the flowers
Looking for a spot seduced by warmth best shades worn peacocking around town
The sudden thirst only quenchable by golden nectar we’ll be celebrating for hours
into the warmth of a summer’s night.

Pen to paper the ink is permanent
the stain unremovable
by advanced cleaning systems;
this page will never be the same again.
The line is inconsistent
it’s thicker in parts where the hand leans heavier
it’s definitely not geometric it even wiggles in bits
It doesn’t look like anything, it doesn’t make sense
It’s silly and indulgent, It’s just a bloody mess.
It’s freehand, it’s free and drawn by hand
By human fancy from a besotted eye
through the mind into the veins and bones and tendons
into the hand, down the pen and onto the page
Now disrupted by noisy mess of line and rhyme
that perfect page quiet and calm
Now a vessel, a material transported, exploited, exported
Perfection exists, it was there.