Tuesday

across a reddening ocean
of tangled cables, sinew,
or by a white bloody van upon
a bridge that does not reach,

one by every one the kids
get pulled like toyless crackers.
old moons, familiar soils. still,
the crones warn us in bullets

love is abstract, childish,
we suffer their unreal flag
in swathes of crime tape-
hyperbole, traditions of sickness,

a terrible romance, these apes.
Palm down, flat with the card underneath. He is buying a small
container of pasta, the pasta is not nutritious and barely satisfying.
Into the station, a clock and also wretches. Some are happy, click-
clacking around, lush. A fake smile catches the worm, she is so tired.
They are all tired but there is Floradix. There is coffee coming from all
the pores in every wall. From every epidermis there is coffee. And time,
all the time. Compared to these skyscrapers and the men who built them.

In the lounge, and hating the way it sounds. Sitting room, Mum would
have insisted. Tapping away, good luck. Stuckist in flannelette.
There are motivational quotes for this I bet, gone viral like a fascist.
There will be a programme for this, a way to re-enter the station.
There is a yoga pose called not depressed, it costs eighty quid at
least, have you tried it. Follow your bliss in an arts admin position, you’ll
be around people: not complex, and they can’t see your eyes.

Back on the walkway there are hundreds of unshackled minds. All with
purpose. A lady nearly knocks my flapjack off she is so full of it. Nips in.
Busy and alive, in her groove. Emotional freedom is an excuse, and it pays
really badly. Also, do you want to be remembered for being tired. She was
always tired! The pews erupt into laughter, they are fond of how tired I was
all the time. Always tired! Just the way she was, changing the world by
loving people. Writing some poems that a hamster made his bed in.

One day the crutches just stop working. It’s ok as we are not chimneys nor
romantic enough to be a drunk anymore. It has lost its mystery. One whole
packet of Nice biscuits is guilt. So now I hobble around on cocktail sticks
stopping only for a single robin. More truth in a single bird than anything I am
told by anyone, more sense. Or a dog’s eyes. I crouch and understand the
dog. His head is solid and my hand does not go through it. Or when a child
speaks to me I can make them laugh. When they like me without trying.

Or I could buy a Graze box and browse products in Boots, they used to hold
such promise. All the potions and stinks, now useless. I see the package
design in vector and people decide to have a different colour hair, how
are these decisions made. People represent themselves and I am lost, can
only see the way they move, with bravado or hesitance, a sudden faltering.
Trying to get past you, winding up to make speed, to their futures on time,
toward the olden days clock with no lovers.

Wednesday

Brace to expand the only magic space
left to us, a place of folk that exists beyond
money. I love money! If only
I had some, or the other thing they all
want, called exposure, or big ears.

Disruptive in itself, the voice amongst
ads, pride in my artform, graffiti all
over the banal- nice, I like it. But
also, why does that vast nation get to
finger our last starry trench with a yup,

filmed on metro sets of faux-reality?
Imagine yourself surrounded
by cameras, your words tripping out to
potential emptor, shoehorned hard in
to fit the brief. The future etc! Saving.

I would melt with the absurdity of it,
my self droning on about shares or family
when I have neither, not quite the way they
call it. Grubby poets with their terrible
clothes and outsider faces, spun

to gold in terse intermission. Lol
at the Night’s Watch, volunteering
to keep the tiny slice of light alive. We
never did it to make ends, but for love-
to transform right and organise.

For we exist elsewhere, always. We do,
time bends. I am useless in the mainstream.
Here are some words that fit ok. Spokey-
Dokeys on your wheel, for recall. Sorry
I cannot sell them. They are already yours.

Friday

There is a decent amount of stillness
in snow, and also in the yellow of
daffodils. It would be easy to say they remind
me of you, but they don’t. The crown of each
burns. All around, people

are effortlessly people. Some elsewhere.
Poets are ghosts. It is not especially
romantic. Stillness and the urge to participate,
hoping the snow sits. Casting out lines, always
wonky, the agony! Sounds good does it.

Yet in the centre, amber. Suspended,
knowing our faces are lunatic gaps in some
bottomless armour. So far into absurd that
money is unfathomable, hearts birthing
bright from our sleeves like hernia. Still,

the need to be a part of it, to have existed.
To never forget that we are slipping away
all miracle. Vivid and extra, skin and light,
experiments in weather. To touch, to write it
right. Staying open in the only way we

Saturday

Poem for Jo Cox

‘Young men and women [will] gather to revel with music created by White artists and composers, but never to undulate or jerk to negroid rhythms of any kind. It means pop music without rap overtones and art galleries without Jewish-inspired ugliness and sickness. It means films in which the appearance of any non-White face on the screen is a sure sign that what’s being shown is either archival newsreels, foreign news, or scientific footage – or an historical drama about the bad, old days’ - from the National Alliance website.

Jo in her red dress,
Jo by her barge,
a tug of war, two
children, without her.

In Birstall. Neo-death,
Jo on the floor, abstract.
Also not abstract:
A woman. For change,

for love, her red legacy.
Her woodland eyes,
the setting sun.
Parties, acronyms:

Violence. Jo in her
jacket with the white
tipping. Jo in Darfur,
working, open-wide.

A voice for the torn,
their eyes full of
brickdust. Hope,
the aching flame.

Rest well. Hurt by
stupidity, small-blinkered
alliance. Rejection of
beauty- dead lost

on the wrong side of peace.
Toilet queue poem

The pain of
Return.
Life skills.
A bar. The relentless
Showmanship
Songs. TRACKS
Upon your past,
Upon your armpits
Upon your life experience
And also dreams.
Oh leave it.
We can live without it.
Without walls,
A city wall.

Barriers. Also space.
Dream time. Aced it.
Speculation. Gratification.
Arse poems. Death divide.
Whatever. Well, here I am. A dance,r.
A pathetic space of excellence.
A spurious angel we call
Spastic. Energy. Selfish
Expression.
Shut your death.

Where is the new world you
Arranged? Where is the new night
Of great. Dead. It is death.

A shining age of Unknow. Here in the the crystal nightclub. Here in the dawn of cunt. A dilemma in green, in burnt ombre. We call it fun but not fun, a scourge. An embarrassing leap for connection.

Where can you go from here? In real time. In real response time. In real Madrid time, the stinking penalties, the glamour of failure.

Hi. Hi to you, the loser of the toilet queue. A quest. An internal space. A fight. Gratitude. Disease. Anal spite. Age. Extra strong. Fabergé. An emptiness called dread, called face. Oh face. Oh bream. Disaster. Fabulous grief. Darkness. Fantasy. Space and computers. Computational ace. Computational spend. Too much. Expensive poem. Six thousand pounds at least.

The Dreamover. Dream of dank spunk. 

Monday

magpie

one for joy 
two for joy 
three for joy
four for joy
five for joy 
six for joy
seven for joy
eight for joy
nine for joy
ten for joy 

Tuesday

Waking in September is
half great half death-
the sexy low sun that pierces
your eyes and the wailing

Of the washing machine. O
sadness, the softener is all
gone, the trees are killing
themselves all over the place-

You are wedged in your bed
like a loose tooth. The imminent
bare-sole pain of the coldy tiles-
the depression! Smudges on

The wall, your mouth, the alarm-
a bastard. White skies undress
in the tsk tsk of autumn rain,
and the summer cries evil! Dead.

Monday

New Year New You
A freefall into a cupboard full
Of metal coat hangers
As collarbones
As elbows bare as bones the
Spare branches of whitened


  • Birches
  • A burden
  • A foghorn
  • The untaken path
  • An unhappy wife
  • Open firs
  • Months as a moon
  • The awful bone bare days


  • White flags
  • New teeth
  • The new Terrible Terrible
  • The whitewashed burden
  • The last ever Mother
  • They are running out


  • On the earth
  • Into the sea
  • Ashes in flashes
  • Finger joints
  • An eyelash
  • One broken wheel
  • A space in your contacts


  • A never resolved space
  • A lack of love
  • Lack of input
  • Lack of action
  • A desire
  • The Never-achieved


  • Drumroll
  • Tin foil
  • A discarded status
  • Deletion
  • Backwards living
  • Granulation
  • Ghosting
  • See also: Flight