Sunday, 27 July 2014


Lace lifts up at the window

so the swifts' skinny song
arrows above
blood crust colour brickwork

In the relaxation suite
repro galaxy circles
and the bubble tube turns red

Woman in death'shead shirt
will not turn around

as he drinks up
the remainders
from left cups

Chaotic singing throng;
arterial trench music

Turn the dark cloud inside out

Quake, all proper persons, quake!

A dripping radio says
only so much
in miserly rain where some lips
are rehearsing

my writen rowles
Of Morall counsels, I to bedlam give


  1. To maintain the will and courage to persevere with writing, when each honest word choice is inflected with mental pain, if not flecked with blood.

    The terrible feeling that of all we may have thought we knew or had or owned, none of it will ever be of use to anyone -- very strong, now.

    To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls,
    I give my physic books ; my written rolls
    Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give ;
    My brazen medals unto them which live
    In want of bread ; to them which pass among
    All foreigners, mine English tongue...

    Even the best speech to which we might be given to aspire, so much babble in the ears of a dispossessed child.

  2. I'm not sure about the courage but yes, it is hard. The work has to be haunted by those ghosts from 2000 miles away or it can't be written. It still feels like an indulgence: "none of it will ever be of use to anyone".

    The witness you're giving, Tom: that is of use.