Friday, 3 December 2021

The Years that Divide us Must be Undone


The Years that Divide us Must be Undone



Our season is on us, and welcome she comes,

the years that divide us must be undone,

for we do not prosper, in half light live.

So unbreak my staff, my books to me give,

from wreck lying fast-shackled below salt brine,

salt lids slow crack open to protest crimes

never yours, nor mine, broke yet unbroken,

wet lips mutter truths that cannot be spoken.

While full fathom five, our love fast does lie,

slumbers years down here, it beats still alive,

bathes in our memories, seeking to thrive,

in yearning looks up towards far blue skies,

probe cloudy fingers through grey opaque waters,

combs fate’s fallen son and plunged daughter.

Within thickened weed, time’s predators lurk,

corral orbed shoals, who turn wheels of murk,

spin tales of betrayal, doctor yarns of deceit,

skinder prattle of hurt; headlines our defeat.

This season becomes us, awake love, awake,

stretch far your mind’s touch, my open hand take,

bestir us, bestir, from long untouched depths,

we’ll rise up from entangling seabeds yet,

Prospero’s Tempest blows hard passions strong,

and those years that divide us will be undone.

Friday, 26 November 2021

Angel Rising 9

Block Me, Block Yer Blues


Block Me, Block Yer Blues


You block me and I’ll block you,

a just and proper thing to do,

the way our lives have got to be,

is I’ll block you and you block me.


All platforms end with lovers dead,

foul open legs, like turkeys spread,

you’ll gobble up my words of dread,

and stuff them up your handbag.


Once open screen spit bilious spleen,

no more on chat rooms to convene,

binned trashcans built of broken dreams,

make silk thoughts into dishrags.


Photos snapped in goodness sent,

scratch with nails and hate ferment,

what once was fire we now resent,

poured on those boiling oils.


Sodden sod-offs we won’t lament,

sour lullabies sing me your torment,

what’s left of love I right repent,

to the losers send the spoils.


Now laminate your hate with care,

in fury do our soft eyes stare,

what once was fair is now unfair,

in blood that’s set to thicken.


The pulses in your neck have slown,

red spots upon your brow have grown,

search the symptoms on your phone,

my breath does make you sicken.


I’ll block you and you block me,

free fingered digital amputees,

shoot spiteful shivers thru and thru,

as you block me and I block you.

Friday, 12 November 2021

Got The Ticket


Got The Ticket



Shoved through a few turnstiles in my time

that chew shirts off backs; fingernailed grime

as I'm back-pushed forwards by impatient crowd

drawn panting low down, heard screaming loud.

Bitten by interlocking teeth painted rusting red,

as steel maws tongue your ground brown bread.

You must shoulder arms against meshing cogs

after they rip off your ticket, giving you dog’s,

that punter behind you, nipping your heels,

asking plaintiff-like, 'well would you feel'?

I’ve climbed stone stairs and found cold seat,

in concrete concourse planted hopeful feet,

wolf howled until both teams are well beat,

chucked out, half hoarse, on pickled streets.

I bought that ticket, see? Watched the flick, too.

Well versed. So, understand me, following you,

that sometimes I will feel it. I’ll still be around

to watch them kicking dogs that are down.

You standing there, all sorry and frowning,

but I’m over with clinging couples drowning,

like any football team who promise plenty,

you'll go through full but leave half empty.

Saturday, 30 October 2021





Soft ochre on light brown, like blushed toast

buttered gold in sweeting yellow.

Concealed minute beneath gaudy blooms,

vain dilettante butterfly flitters by,

toiling honeybee, might stop and see,

linger here awhile to pull at petals.

Not plain at all, but for want of rain,

dry coy curled, she unfurls with touch

of tasting tongue, from old to young,

gathers juices probed in senses swim

this flower moves and shimmering.

Hot breezes sugar brown bushes blown,

shell petals do seem to sigh and groan,

poplars tall push wide pink parting sky

growing strong beside her filling lake.

She’s flowering there, full opened bare,

bloomed shivering in new summers fair.

Saturday, 9 October 2021

The Return of Peter Pan


The Return of Peter Pan



Wendy, your Peter has returned to see

bedroom window shut. Barred against me,

its curtains, in sallow pink, flap open wide,

call more welcome crooks to peek inside,

while the frigid clasps, for want of use,

are fixed in stubborn hardness fused:

yet here I fly all milk tooth pearly grin,

casting cast off fairy spells to let me in.

Why do you draw back? Ah. Pain.

Now, printed here on paper plain

for readers’ gaze, the horror. Years strained

to drag down face, penned sagging rhymes

in drooping loops on that page’s aged lines;

Did you grow old, Wendy, promise broken,

exchanged true love for something token?


I can’t part with any change, shan't

pay to look, won't turn back pages of your book,

read lips’ gold thimbles were cheaply sold,

that hot pyres of longing burned only cold.


We should've used soap to fix dark shadows,

she might fly away when warm breezes blow,

her stitched on smiles unpick themselves,

in unread fables that fall from shelves.


Do you still believe in fairies

like you did when you were young?

But you’ve come and come and come

so many times, that songs we might have sung

melted like gold thimbles and are all gone.


You grew old Wendy, in promises broken,

forgot how to fly and Time has spoken,

like candles snuffed, all dreams have flit,

in cloud of moth, dun and thick, to fires lit

who tinderbox, burn and burn and burn,

melt lost tin soldiers, to gutter and yearn.

Roll all love’s imagination into one ball,

pitched into darkness where devils call.


And there she sits. Hides her beastly shape

in plain view for all, but you. Ah, it’s fate?

It lies not in the stars to steer our course,

but in ourselves, we must pick which crew,

like all lost boys, which ship to join, or lose.


Oh, she’s every pirate rolled into one,

her hook sticks deep and twists in death,

like cuckoo plants eggs in your nest,

stabs your flesh, cuts short your breath,

hangs off with teeth your sagging breasts,

like lead weights now they plumb new depths,

you partnered something you detest.

You wanted monsters? Her crocodile clock,

her tick tock stopped, her jaws are locked,

chain-stitched her shadow on your back,

her vulture smile snaps clackety-clack:

Oh Wendy, see what you have become,

you grew old before you grew young.


Please, my Wendy, look not so sad at me.

Take back those outstretched hands,

you’ll weep enough tears to blossom sands;

and they hang so heavy on my heart.

Would you conjure some ancient art,

try alchemy to turn free spirit to lead,

mould it into anchor, fix to sea bed

then watch us drown? Maybe you can

turn boy to man, but see your Peter Pan.

I gave you books of brilliant things,

but I cannot give you back lost wings,

Wendy, poor Peter returns your regrets,

and calls you to forget, forget, forget...