Thursday, 3 September 2020

A weather report

Wanting old naivetes till the ankle folds

                                          one foot sideways       

a given fuck    flat and quietish


Rotting fish gas would shimmer

                        over pavement heat


By the Coop

the skin on the back of his head

thumbprint peels as mine was

     an empty paper cup wetted by half-arsed rain


What glisters in eye’s milk but

                  splinters of non-


Today: temperate me.

Fingers equal digits.

Civil pile on of vertebrae

by crenelated church skirt

Sunday, 19 July 2020

Scenic Painting

Dour is Sun like mush
She leads she angles    city between beeches


defo brightness      blueness

A tongue floats and sleeps so

silver vocifer     stood out breath

Home again and          arc of sleep

Sunday, 28 June 2020


Glass with a fingerprint thickening
It’s bright outside but dark in here
He’s making coffee in a saucepan
Belches, “pardon” and dead machines
Are everywhere

Saturday, 20 June 2020

Anybody's Guess

Cycling the incline and round to the bridge
the girl looked back to town where blocks rise.
Old dog smiled wide pisshead gave joke cheers like friend.

Valerian red and memory red.

Hairs on his arm went up after
some way out.

Air gripped by Sun.
Black cast iron
upturned smile.

Organise unfixed fears.
Ignore boring ghosts.

The water showed but a not yet nothing stillness.

How do you
think it ends?

Monday, 27 April 2020


Rolfe Bridge forgetmenots small and some pink

Rain swallowed by the New Main Line

Angler cluster wires out

Heron with prophetic beard goes over

I missed Cemetery Road had to
circle back
past the church

And then the empty new houses and
empty new houses

The road’s elevation

Everything other than here

Saturday, 1 February 2020


On a barge in the dark the temporary vicar directs prayers

invented fervours

arch parole in egg light

THE SHIVERS says Jesus is giving the shakes

I don't feel a thing
but want to be in it

Outside the cold hasn't come so
the obscene green leaves creak

A broken panel above
the worn blue nylon
through to yellowed gloss

Saturday, 4 January 2020


Your limp
at angles

Pavement writ
with audio tape

He makes the crayons
move a certain way

There is no rain
but looks like rain

Her lips
a sugar crust

What would you say
if you said it?

The model shop contracts

The barber looks at his hands
and you look up
to eye the nothing much