Tail lights on the Westway flatline

Under an all seeing eye
Tail lights on the Westway flatline

On this journey you buy a bottle
not a bus ticket
You say goodbyes
don't plan hello's

and hope for no God.

Dear Poet credit the muse.

Dear poet
I saw your flyer for a show I couldn't get to
but
You look like everything
I think my stalker will be
when I first invite him into my home.

You see my stalker
far from being the man waiting for me
will be the man I am waiting for

The man my father warned me about
but will give me to.

Boiling Water.

I walked away from it and headed north.

Towards evening on the second day the snow came, 
two hours later I was seeking shelter. 
Without snowshoes my progress was laboured and awkward.  
I came across a cave in a narrow ravine; 
a drift of smoke and footprints in the snow 
from someone coming from the north; 
small footprints, 
a woman or a child.

The cave was lit only by the fire 
enough for me to see the woman, 
dressed in grey, 
sheen of her hair like a well oiled gun, 
a woman from an unknown tribe, 
sitting, 

heating water. 

The makings of some ritual tea ceremony 
laid out on a rock.

Startled but unafraid she silently watched 
I found myself a place to rest opposite her, 
the fire between us. 
In perfect English she said: 
'We will wait for the water to boil. I will make tea'.
A shoulder gesture indicated the paraphernalia on the rock beside her. 
'Then you must leave'.

We sat in silence but for the fire 
as something foreign to us both crept into the cave 
settled within us. 

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
she she added a ladlefull of ice cold snow-melt. 
We sat on in silence.

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
I took up the ladle and added snow-melt to the pot. 
we sat on in silence.

Into the early hours we sat watching that pot never boil. 
Finally, having covered me in a blanket, 
she lay nearby. 
We slept.

I awoke to find her making coffee. 
We talked; 
each to the other brought magic.

On the second morning we departed, 
heading South.

In the cave on the fire rested the pot of water. 

Singing as it boiled.

December. (work in progress)

Do not tell me everything on skype
leave some things unsaid for
rainy December cafe conversations

Do not send me google maps or coordinates
leave your body uncharted for
rainy December garret explorations

I am well past that point in time
when , had you been here
I would have touched you on the wrist or shoulder
perhaps leant in to pick a piece of lint from your coat
or pushed a stray hair back from your brow
that would have let you know
I had passed that point in time

that point where interest turns to affection.

And if suddenly becomes when.

God comes to a child in a dream.

Visiting a childrens cancer ward
in my capacity as poet
I knelt beside a bald headed child
studiously writing
tongue out
deep in concentration


I asked him and he replied 
I am writing about god and Jesus
listen


god came to me in a dream 
and said
Jesus was my favourite
and I made him suffer
Imagine what I am going to do to you!


the child went on to say
that the priest at the playground
said he looked cute with his bald head.

The next Event

Friday 24th September


the Tabernacle, Powis square, London W11.


Doors open 7.30.  Stuff happens 8.00.


Tickets £7.00 

On leaving you.

Poetry, along with beauty, can be found in anything if you know how to look at things (and people) the right way!




Twelve years ago, or thereabouts 
walking in Highgate with the woman 
the woman I loved more than any other at that time


Oh Judy...


we passed a skip and in that skip was a chair
a kitchen chair, a cheap kitchen chair; tatty but serviceable
I wrenched the thing out from its resting place
and Judy said:
throw it back, it is horrible
I refused and continued on our way
'you are not putting it in my house' she said.


Once home and Judy gone to fill her day with what she did
I stood the chair in my room
eyed it critically
It occurred to me that it was only a chair when sat upon
otherwise it was clutter.


I found paint and brush, sanded down the wood
then painted it turquoise
I upholstered the seat in faux leopard skin


on strips of paper I wrote out lines from a poem I had written as a youth
gauche lines written about leaving a girl
the girl I loved more than anyone at that time


Oh Sarah...


The poem went:


On leaving you
This morning, although there was no sun
A shadow fell across me
And pools of dew formed
in the impressions left by your fingertips.


I pasted the strips of poem to the slats and spindles of the chair
then stood back
It was no longer just a chair
when sat upon indeed it was a chair
but when standing unsatupon
it became a poem
no longer wasting space.



the next time Judy visited


Oh Judy...


she saw the chair and asked about it
I told her that it was now a poem
I showed her how to read it


She read:


On leaving you
This morning although there was no sun
A shadow fell across me
and pools of dew formed
In the impressions left by your fingertips.


she naturally assumed the poem was for her
We all make that kind of mistake
at one time or another in our lives.


She said: 
Please may I have it in my house.


That tatty old chair from the skip.

Urinal song. Work in progress

I love the sound of piss on zinc

Donna's sleepy tales

of rain on Trinidad tin roofs

that she told me as we lay

in a Gloucester park how

she reeked of passion

and coconut oil

The downpour

on the corrugated school bike shed

where Mandy and I

traded tobacco smoke laden kisses

and held our own geography lessons
discovering America

The rusty dutch barn

in which we made hay

and then hasty crop circles

in that hay

and planned al fresco escapades

in the ripening wheat

Come the sun

Of the beach girl

dancing naked

save a transparent plastic mac

the deluge

drumming on the upturned boats

as I drowned in her exclusive proximity

Before realisation that

it was the breaking of our 'summer'

30 years have leached out all but

the salty memory of those monsoon kisses

that creeps up my spine

At the sound of piss on zinc.

Agony Aunt... the state of the planet.

Dear Auntie

I'm in agony

I've fallen in love

with the mum of my cousin

yeah the twin of my mother

and then to cap that

so has my brother

he's fallen in love

before you get thinking

that that can't be to bad

I've just discovered

that so has my dad

he's fallen in love

Dear auntie

it's agony falling in love.

they're now always fighting

my pop and my mother

when they're doing that

I'm fighting my brother

We say we are all doing it

for the sake of our aunt

our maxim our mantra

our scientologists chant

Dear auntie

I'm in agony

And i'm no longer in love.

Poetry is the new rock n roll.

Write about a rock star

write about his vices

write about his fall from grace

his mid life crisis

write about a rock star

dress him up in sequins

rock n roll ain't a world

in which Joe Meek wins

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about the cocaine

do a line of cocaine

talk about the cocaine

talk about the cocaine

talk abou... Oh buddy

push the needle on

and write about a rock star

sing it when you're done

sing it to a techno beat

badum badum badum

(guitar solo)

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

then kill him when your done

do it with an overdose

or maybe with a gun

but kill that fucking rock star

before he gets too old

that way you'll get to number one

before the bodies cold.

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

sing another poem buddy go buddy go

kill another poem buddy go buddy go

It's all write muse. I'm only dissin' my ho for attention.

Portobello Rocks

http://www.portobellorocks.com/

Port Eliot.

I will be performing at Port Eliot festival this year. Hope to see you there.

http://www.porteliotfestival.com/

The enjoyable lie.

Lena lied compulsively, even when the truth would be perfectly adequate.

Lena talked in her sleep continuously, Lena told the truth in her sleep.

Lena had great difficulty hanging on to men; her daily deceits nightly exposed.

Until she met Gus.

Gus told the truth compulsively even when a lie was essential

Gus talked in his sleep continuously, Gus lied in his sleep.

Gus had great difficulty hanging on to women, His truth's were far too acute.

Until he met Lena.

During the day Gus would sleep in Lena's studio while she painted.

The white room filled with lies.

During the night Lena would sleep in his room while he wrote.

The black room echoed with honesty.

Each morning and evening they would share an hour or two of wakefulness.

He would tell her: Do not tell me you love me, do not say you will stay forever.

In return she would lie: Do not tell me you love me, do not say you will stay forever.

During these times they made love.

He told her that he loved it when she screamed out: 'No, No No, I am not having an orgasm!

They both enjoyed that lie.

The whores fake orgasm.

You cannot sell love

love has no monetary value

You cannot buy love

there is not enough money on the planet.

Love is like brownie points

you can earn it but cannot spend it.

However

Some of us have an eye for a profit

some of us have an eye for a bargain

some of us trade in forgeries

some of us happily buy fakes.

Love has no wheels to grease

no hands to ring

no feet to Manolo

no wings to feather

It is the immoveable object

and the unstoppable force

The immoveable that stops the unstoppable

the unstoppable that moves the immoveable

When money changes hands

love grinds to a halt.

The whore's fake orgasm is the sound of that grinding.

Holiday romance.

Sorry about the lousy sound quality...

Obsius and Xenia.

This all happened some 2,000 years ago so forgive me if it is a little sketchy.

Obsius was a Roman. An explorer. Happiest when his eye was on the horizon and his goal beyond that.

Having travelled through Egypt and the Sudan he arrived in Ethiopia and as was his wont he eschewed the well travelled roads setting out alone into the Mountains of the moon, somewhere in the Amhara region.

Close to exhaustion he came across a woman living alone on a mountain side. She was like no other woman he knew; she stood tall and proud, skin a deep brown, almost black, bright flashing eyes again deep brown almost black.

They eyed each other suspiciously but she led him to her cave, gave him food, allowed him to sleep, to regain his strength. Not a word passed between them; she had no language to offer him and understood none of his.

They communicated by glances, by gesture, by glottal clicks, by smiles, by frowns. Finally by touch.

Compass spinning, the explorer had found his promised land. He called her Xenia.

He stayed with her for some months, exploring the region, making his maps by day. Exploring elsewhere by night.

One morning they came upon a long dormant volcano, it's caldera filled with water, the surface shone like a mirror; it gave the appearance of having no depth yet seemed bottomless. Xenia seemed panicked by this strange place and tried to drag him away but Obsius would have none of it, leading her down to the waters edge.

Where at once they were confronted by a strange and terrible brigand. a brigand of such cruelty and ferocity that no other man would serve him lest they die by his sword.

Now this brigand had a particular liking for challenges and sport. He said to Obsius: 'There lives in this pool a serpent of obscene nature and unsatiable greed. It regularly snatches my goats from the waters edge and has had a lunge for me on more than one occasion. If you can enter his domain, dispatch the foul beast and return with an eye as proof of his death I will reward you with your freedom.'

He, of course had no intention of letting them go.

Before Obsius could respond Xenia had plunged headfirst into the black water, instantly disappearing from sight. the two men could do nothing but stand there and wait. And wait...

Unbeknown to them there was a cleft in the rocks under the surface it led upwards to a cavern. Through the cavern ran a small stream. The bed of the stream was littered with perfectly smooth (the result of thousands of years erosion) spheres of black volcanic glass. Xenia made her way to the cave, selected a sphere she felt was the right size for a serpent's eye then returned to the surface. Whereupon she held up the 'serpents eye' for both men to see.

The brigand, quite naturally furious, pushed both Xenia and Obsius into the lake...

They disappeared from view as She led Him through the blackness to the cave, then through a labyrinth of tunnels to safety.

the brigand meanwhile, out of curiosity went to the waters edge to see what was going on down there. At once the serpent's head smashed through the surface, snatching the brigand, taking him down into it's jaw, it's gullet, it's gut, the black depths.

The last thing to register in the brigands brain were the serpents yellow eyes.

Sadly for the serpent the brigand's unsheathed sword ruptured it's spleen and caused a long agonising death.

Time passed peacefully on the mountain side but both knew that he must return home. On the morning of his departure, wordlessly she handed him the black sphere, pointing out the mist that appeared trapped beneath it's surface then indicating the tear that seeped from her eye. He kissed away the tear, tasting...

Back in Rome the black stone was the talk of the town. It sat upon his table where he worked. He told no-one of the tears trapped within it, not even his wife who knew better than to question him about the strange piece of glass.

The Romans learned to call the thing Lapis Obsidianus.

He called it Xenia.

Ruby.

Home

Drinking Milk reading Bukowski bored

I'd rather be drinking beer

Fucking the woman who turned Bukowski down

Reading her my own poetry

No obscene horror in that

The doorbell

Then she is here in my room MY room

In her leopard skin silk

Agent Provocateur

Bright red mouth

Hair as black as a raven's wing

Bottle of cheap red wine in her hand

A shadow of the Sapphire in her navel through silk

She has not changed much in ten years

Except the unmellowed ageing

Oh Ruby.

Two glasses in she says

You have not asked me to stay

If I knew you less well

I'd ask you to stay

You are every man's dream

But not every night

Repeated dream becomes nightmare

In which you do not turn Bukowski down

Ever

An explanation of sorts.

We lay together on the big brightly coloured sofa watching a film about Patagonia.

She said: 'I did not have a teddy bear when I was a child. I had a seal cub'.

I told her that I did not have a teddy either. Or a seal cub for that matter. I had a rock.

I had found the rock shortly after I had started to walk, I had found it in the shed in the yard near the kitchen door. I brought my new friend into the house to play. I soon learned to love that rock.

When my mother found us together in the living room she tutted then took the rock from me, throwing it onto the fire.

I was saddened by the loss of my new and only friend and saddened also by my mothers cruelty. I also wondered if perhaps my mother was racist; my friend was black.

It did not take me long however to return to the shed in the yard and find a new friend. I loved my new friend almost as much as the first.

It was not long before my mother found us together. My new friend followed the first onto the fire.

This time I did not waste too much time grieving but returned to the shed for another rock. This process repeated itself until I became quick enough on my feet to get ahead of the fire whereupon my mother would put my friends into the basket beside the fireplace saying: 'Who's mummy's clever little helper then'.

I could not for the life of me see what was clever about burning my friends. Since then I have had difficulty forming relationships.

The woman beside me on the brightly coloured sofa said: 'I am your friend'.

'I know'. I replied. As I held the cigarette lighter to the hem of her dress.