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


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
Life skills.
A bar. The relentless
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
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. 



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 


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.


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

wonder of the copt
and tiniest
marsh sprite
bright eyed
super girl
in bluebells
& sea-lavender-
pink as a
an essex sky


untangling myself from the sheets and rolling
round i see your smile and it is vast as a
smile, your spider hand comes down onto my
face which is a face lined with worry and black
marks round the eyes and crust

hello you say. hello to you, waking up and
considering tea and all the things, like cash
flow and how to change the world by inventing
a robot super race that is not human in the
best ways. hello softness. your mouth is the

exact warmth of spring, but also wet and dark
like soil. your eyes are mostly full of laughing and
i am pretty sure it is at me. i think this is absolutely
right and my crow’s feet crinkle up into a million
different roads to take and this is also very good

i expect we will be king and queen


Période, and the tower out the
Window. It was transported over ze
Sea! Well that's one way, isn't-it-not.
Romance is a dead horse- Nietzsche
Knew about that. Gendarmes
Guard the girders and Hitler
Only had one boule- he held the
Key in his grubbed up mitt- a Man.

We traverse the Tuileries and look at yon
Kittiwake. He hisses and drives back the
Dross. Get out, he squawks and pierces the
Enemy. The golden ball that rests on the
Water is just for show- this will end
Badly. Faces in a cafe and old skins lying
Around like off a snake. Casual tears and
A church with crosses made from driftwood

Or birch. I am jealous of the peace. There
Is no peace. I think the idea brings me
Peace. Paris. And what
Are you? A beautiful pile of rubble.
The river is high with rain. Padlocks flap
In the thin wind. People try and hang onto things.
In danger of exploding- our bags are full of

Weapons. We are terrorists and terrify
Ourselves. But what about we say. What 
About? And all these bones. What about these
Six million sets of ivories! You kiss me hard
In the bedroom and we wonder about the
Girl in the wallpaper, the rakish Gent-bird,
Hurt by exactitude-
Ossifying in the dark like a self.