Friday, 17 September 2021

Life in 280 Characters Including the Title.


Life in 280 Characters Including the Title.



poetry read

on here

could be


as hopeful

at best


Some indulge

and pile up

simple plucked

simple words

that relieve

sad pain

of quivering chests


Playing at


all random

blocks until


deep sorrows

tumble to rust



Angel Rising 7: Beast Nourisher

Saturday, 11 September 2021

Stolen Moments


Stolen Moments


It squats like a bank vault.

White sandstone and concrete, with eyes to see,

framed with pepper-pot crotchety brows,

whose tellers chant long tales of vows,

slender beacon fingers thieves who steal,

calls faithful husbands within to kneel.


An argument boiled the night before.

Incarcerated: a five or six stretch but here’s a turnkey.

By text, how else? Some gorgon knot,

a huge dispute over not a lot,

all deceiving feelings, twosome reelings,

slashing veins by way of healing.


Gifts hot smuggled under her dress,

under her breath, well hid where he could see, fake ID,

on parking lot and up her sleeve:

pink satin sheets, for sure, almost fresh,

soaked in wet woman’s scented press,

jeans for him, so very tight, stiff crotched,

silk shirts, dressed with her heart’s lock,

newly uncorked, her perfumes run wild to soothe his

nightly rhythms of stroked scent wristed sin.


Unrumbled plans, tumbled half phrases,

daring heists, from under his nose, escaping scot free;

they hold their future in unheld hands,

his heart beats gold, hers all diamonds

and rubicons, they soak his mind,

to slip the dogs and cross the line.


Of course, there was a line.

Tantalise in teasing looks and she’s most likely to flee,

border crossed lips press cheeks most chaste,

handcuffing both, just the merest taste,

she slips off shades like hands from glove

her naked eyes moan trembled love.


Words were passed between the two

like parcels, or adamantine pearls hardening by degrees,

treasures form over callus and wound,

his lyrics to quite make her swoon,

fainting soul is locked within her breasts,

both swell imprisoned beneath her dress.


These moments are stolen, she says.

He understands, grips hand, because passion or destiny,

speaks loud; beats in better times than these,

where touch will wander where it please

in hot sweet torture, the will enfolds her,

he rests her head upon his shoulder.

Never spilling secrets, their lips find peace,

desires hot drench deserts of the East:

where it watches squat, the husbands kneeling,

her swollen belly spread with stealing.

Saturday, 28 August 2021

Such is the Fate of Angels Born


Such is the Fate of Angels Born



In Plymouth we began to draw, before our time

together, crystal stars above started to align,

scoring diamond arcs into cut-glass expanse.


Writing testament before we had learned to sign,

bright in brash symbols, curved parabola dishes,

all slowly grinding gimballed turrets, pegged cogs,

pointing needled fingers at thundercast heavens,

where galaxies swirl outwards from the centre,

never meeting except by intervention or design,

two vivid coalescing roaming masses briefly find

shared space; a decade or two of pooled rhyme.


Finds me a traveller puked up, cast out, hauled

from station floored concrete mossy platforms;

heavy sea tore vulpine teeth into sandstone cliffs,

iron tracks bent apart from sleepers forming rifts

unsealing, one lost squall tossed January mauled.


Small, it is true, in time I became smaller still,

more than mindful of vultures gyring above,

tailored alone, until you finally find such clothes

suit well, fit the body snugly, separateness grows.


Tolerant of voices that speak in long gone tongues

wrapped within memory, while flesh withers slow,

but man-trapped feelings hard times have sealed

within eyes as streaked as yours today, my love.


The train pulls in, sixty years steam to a halt,

thinking back, lock those lost voices in vaults,

I had ridden storm blown scorn, knitted brow,

flung the painter, raised anchor, took the prow.


You’re taller now, quite reaching up to my chin,

mind strong, despite limpet hug and weak grin,

and your tousled head, soap scented, leans in,

notes my crumpled black mask in love slipping

from my nose. Those are boy’s tears, I suppose,

for a year is a long time in virus, build sorrows

in protein spikes, gouging hearts out of spite.


I can see in your look you think it isn’t right,

but I had eyes to see with once, just as bright,

before this dark suit of much beaten thin skin.


Threw kitbag on my shoulder, left to let it begin

that journey, spiralling out in arcs to meet you,

away, away, from harbours grim our boat flew,

so steady as she goes, bite your wobbling lip,

hard starboard on, noble boy, bring us midships

to set my course by your brave constant star,

til one bright future look back in healed scars.


For when, of fierce cold October frost, still lost,

I was passed lit cigarette and guardedly told

that soon I would have another heart to hold,

well, it never ends, stealing you with my arms

when first we met, your look a soul becalmed.


Cast off your grief, we should not be forlorn,

it is smiles, not tears, that should be worn,

look back from your futures, a day will dawn,

when having lost, I gladly pass this baton on.

Take it well, for such is the fate of Angels born.

Thursday, 19 August 2021

Day After Day


Day After Day



Did any radicals even seize control?

Potting a pink Friday morning hole

instead, we seen it mostly all before:

trucks dumping journalists on floors

of similar looking different places,

shoving windsock cameras in faces,

begging them to cry rainbows on cue,

bleating hyperbole to adoring crew

like anchors, then it’s back to studio,

as empty words spill into sky of blue,

pale the moon pulls oceans to and fro;

and without love, whatever will we do?



Did any rivers even flood the plains?

Glance up from some tropical clime,

and we might miss love’s island kiss,

her jerked off face contorted in bliss,

all voyeur’s welcome in tissue paradise,

while the banks bust for half the price

and little change in the current climate.

He’s waving his banana like a primate,

she beats his bare bottom with a shoe,

my empty words spill into sky of blue,

pale the moon pulls oceans to and fro;

and without love, whatever will we do?



Did any virus even decimate the land?

Heave burnt eyes from phone in hand,

sufficient candy has now been crushed

to feed our dying darlings. Sit hushed

all masked conspirators, fiddle thumbs,

ignore those conspirators looking glum,

snap your scanty pictures of nude bush

burning, airbrushing your spotty thrush

for money, fame leaves us looking blue,

empty skies drop words of nothing new,

pale the moon pulls oceans to and fro;

and without love, whatever will we do?




And did we ever fall in love so badly?

Pushing eternal memories away sadly,

pain plagues our every dour taken step,

worse while we’re not old enough yet

to shrug, shake it off and simply forget,

while our world in death throes sweats.

And even as you slip on a wedding ring

falling forward, you must model a grin

while thinking mostly of me, it’s true,

as empty words spill from sky of blue,

pale the moon pulls oceans to and fro;

and without love, whatever will we do?

Tuesday, 17 August 2021

When Words Collide


When Words Collide



Our writers dream of universal feeling,

conjure similes, where this is like that,

gaze out through eyes looking inwards

on picket fenced mind. Can't even see,

each deliberate treacle stroke of key,

pushes further off, past bulrush, past lily,

stream away downriver and out to sea.



Our readers live tuned out unaffected,

bid diversity, where this is not like that,

acquire inward eyes looking outwards

upon disfigured speech. Gaining sense,

spot the power and value of the fence,

knowing importance of prosaic defence,

may gather ye rosebuds to pay the rent.



There is as much in right as being wrong,

hymns crooned from distinct song sheets,

as when worlds collide in sundry orbits,

the house always wins. Hushed groans,

thunders time’s machine, eternal roams

all tides in, tides out, draw jointly alone,

heed ticking clock by grey mossy stone.

Saturday, 14 August 2021

Pussycat’s Fugue


Pussycat’s Fugue




his pussycat stuck up farthest tree

is really only waiting to see

well quite possibly

it’s a monkey puzzle


that’s me putty another record

watching it spin

lost melody make me sin


his lover sent pictures she’s bare

her digital is stuck in there

look back didn’t care

ace in her hole


watch me slide another one out

fingering felty slip mat

banged up inside cool for cats


his pussycat’s fur prick up missy me

gravy brown smiling to tease

brushing quite sinfully

lacks no affection


here’s my groove needle skip

didn’t miss messy beat

tonight we staying home to eat


his girl did shower flyaway hair

soaping drip came down there

romance didn’t dare

to lose oneself


there my spindle turns table

fumble hole fit good

impale stiff pummel pink wood


his pussycat whiskers drip dreamy

sipping seedy licky creamy

lapping it all greedy

rise to the top


my damp wet wipe pull up open

polishing vinyls clean

rubber back and forth and gleam


his nestling weak did lover’s leap

a clutch of memories cheap

touch sometime peep

in black and white


look here my back cataloguing

sift sands think bands

want to holding pussycat’s hand


his pussycat down from farthest tree

is really only strolling to see

if moving nearer to me

is sultry curiosity