people in kernels
and dark straits.
you, my sunlit

your world is not
important. light
makes you up
strange fish,

cramped up
oh god
like a headlit eye
come out to look

at your true beauty. i
am perplexed
into your

skin, a range
perhaps. it’s tiring

a blinding bullet of
blue lodges in my
reverse procedure.
i was a complex

child. how we like to
paint our miseries;
from that


mid-deck in the eye
of the storm

centre of the teacup
is where i’ll be 

ton 80

as the waves in my
lap speak of 

window cake
and the chipped 

your search ships
clank upon

anchors in cubes of
the view across the table leads not to the sea
as the multi-spiked flowers might suggest

but rather towards a piecemeal idea of future life
called ‘i have done it and have a dog called SNIP’.

he is a good dog but Boy does he blend
and run all over chasing a tale or 2
to tell at glitzy parties in his best ruffle.

well, i’m not sure i have time for that kind of thing,
i have other people’s art to look at and it
takes up a lot of time. i barely

do anything else and my fingers are worn to the
bone- i have blisters from gripping the days in a
semblance of doing- it’s exhausting son.

while all through this the drought makes mirages
in the shape of space, i shuffle towards them but
like an eyeless magpie miss the glint. oh my

it’s probably better to be enrolled, yet the grass
is dead. my therapist has broke her foot and i want
to put her in a litter. i will ask her if this is normal

with my common sense face, and she will say
‘but what happens when we reach the sea?’
in a voice of wonder, of dread.


the thin whistle
and pea soup
drilling like a huge wasp
over the children’s supernaturalness
and early hurt.

i dreamt you
were tiny on the arm
of a chair, hair
pumped out like smoke

and had a bearing, though
the sun soon burned you out, right
happily like an ant into null
through the glass.

the heaviness is always
illusory- i am nothing and
soon to pass,

the morning
blows back/forth on the line
and love is a black
late 14c., ethimolegia "facts of the origin and development of a word," 
from O.Fr. et(h)imologie (14c., Mod.Fr. étymologie), from L. etymologia
from Gk. etymologia, properly "study of the true sense (of a word)," 
from etymon "true sense" (neut. of etymos "true, real, actual," related to eteos "true") + -logia 

"study of, a speaking of" (see -logy). In classical times, of meanings; later, of histories. 
Latinized by Cicero as veriloquium
As a branch of linguistic science, from 1640s. 
Related: Etymological; etymologically.


poem found within the phrase ‘a hardcore group of anarchists’

Sarcophagus aircraft.

Carcass thoroughfare,


Archfiend orators,

Oceanographic radars,

Raincoat frauds.



arthroscopic charts.

Unafraid autographs-
nacreous actors

outraces, sharecrops-


Hardhat cornucopia

Fuchsia arthropods,
Rastafari arrogance.

Shrouding paranoiacs,
sarcastic pharaoh foregrounds-

roughshod rooftops
& saccharin

archaic updrafts.

Fanatic ardour,
cardiac aprons,


Prosaic agrarians...



through white-naked birch
the overhead wires carry voices and words
called yes and love and all that.
i have spoken them myself
and not known what they meant,
sent them along by satellite.

they have lost their purpose.
like bodiless shells once 

on a shining strip of guttered sand,
they dust up my pockets to nest
upon cold stiff fingers.

on a vivid yellow bin
i topple, sun on my face blasting into the
eyes you look through. i might even be this
GRIT, i think i am- neon and so on.
for this year and life.

soon i’ll be dead.
i cruise, behind the scenes
stealthy as a sniper.
you shift and roar as you sleep,
great as a crater
and blossoming whole as a storm.




clean me


also available in white  


i wish my wife was as dirty as this
to be against things

yet full of yes. your places,
my map of skin and gravel,
the tenacities you build.

i move between them,
upon navigable paths
of arms,

your flyover. always
journeying into you and away,

as a smiling tide.