Wednesday, 14 October 2015



So the father and baby room
wax face boy-man
danaiad typanum skin
shoots up and exits with his fat friend
down to Queen's Market where
the air rifles are all sat up nice
and what a smashed nox glass smile


The sea wall is the wall

Lupine gull whiteeyes up
my cheap cheese sarnie

Brassneck calls above
lift dry heraldic breast

Fine cream throat is tense
till the salted us tongue chant

they're letting the slow breeze lift them
then turning
to puncture
and through
in illegal sodality


He walks past with smudge moustaches
his Sindhi cap
with silver stitches

What is this place here

ident tremors

prior tender embroidery

Everybody's got a few paper cuts it shows


The radio tower is made up of squares
the edges of which are oxidised

joke flowers

Think of the sea
being empty of expectations: a picture
or not

Boy turns his wind-up gun and fires

Mum calls him a little cunt and drags
her menthol till it's at the tip


  1. Mum puts one in mind of the sea wall, curiously.

    The radio tower is made up of squares
    the edges of which are oxidised

    This ugly toxic world in which we try to live.

    Strangely made happy by the refusal to try to pretend to be happy about it, my kind of poem!

  2. Mum was stony faced alright.

    Nobody's any right to talk of beauty or happiness without being straight about the poison. And for all the ugliness that Rhyl offers up there are smiles to be had.

    Always a pleasure to hear from you, Tom.

  3. In all the years I never did quite get to go to Rhyl. Now, having read this, I'm not sure whether I'm glad or sorry. But it touched m - an effective piece.

    1. I meant 'In all the years I lived in the UK...'

  4. Thanks, Nick.

    It's worth a visit but I wouldn't be booking a B and B any time soon. My Dad's from a little further west along the coast.