Disappearing Peering from battlements of pillows and duvet, peering into herself to witness her vanishing. Who is there to see her go? Who really cares if she fades out? She’s architect of these eiderdown barricades that blanket her requiem, bar the plaintive audience. Her tears are like half-penny coins: Pointless and immaterial. What good are…
Jun25
OK, Computer↵ >: Loading… >: Ready… Unhide me something that would postplusfree me↵ >: unplug the command for anteundesolation… In unabundance I rot↵ My teeth are falling out↵ >: Collect them and unconfuse them to be unold artwork… >: unbore them unhardful on screens and in notes unseparate… Can unbright doubleplusflickerful picturethoughts unquestion oldthink?↵ >:…
Jun24
Our Passion’s Course Our passions are too quick: Melding blood and sweat in Our own mix, black and thick. Our might is all but gone: Our strong will twists and snaps, Vacant eyes stare straight on. Our hope is flawed with wrong: Corrupt words crush debate, Evil knives cut Plato’s tongue. Our passions are provoked:…
Jun23
A View from a Bridge From my overt vantage, I see: high cooling towers, like fat coffee-pots, spouting steam; loving young mothers at garden gates calling their kids, who return in a steady stream; the streets, as a sudden down pour drenches twitching washing hung on silver dripping lines, which are awash and the loud…
Jun22
A Walk to the New, Old World I walked around the glistening streets and damp ginnels to capture old memories. I meditate, looking down upon a dull, wet town. Huge square structures pierce up from the ruins of battered industrial carcasses. Shadows stretch from the round tower block that commands the skyline, and beyond the…
Jun21
We often walk together down from Stevington to where the river is split at the weir head. The shallower of the two flows falls into dappled Sun, shielded by the lines of bristling Beech and the congenial waving of Willows that keeps it special, beyond the wide pool. This stretch hosts two small islands, the…
Jun20
Same Old Poison Old people are neatly sinning again. They get down on their battered mats and pray, They know their time is too short and in vain, And idle hands make them cold, stale and grey. They moan about other foreign peoples… “In France they cook pancakes by frying clay”, “The Spanish push young…
Jun19
Chilling to me, Cold as a bone, His logic. His reason, Pointing to the source of God, Ruthless. He drew a line Parallel to heaven, True and venal. A colour of blood, Of hues of muted slaughter, Of splattering and wrung necks. The steam of life escaping From those ragged ruined wrecks, Beached like dead…
Jun18
Receiving Feedback at a Meeting The feedback began to hurt my ears. It built up, and built up, until the screaming was tangible. It invaded, skulking at the back of my mind, its long shadow growing until it overtook everything, but I knew this was not my song. I was stuck with it now. Whatever!…
Jun17
I spent all day with wrinkled brow And back hunched up with stress. The weight of worry pressing down Beneath a giant press. It squashed me into far retreat, Oppressed my weary head. I drown myself in hoppy beer And slumped down in my bed. From boiling pan to blazing fire: Sadly dehydrated. Blandly regurgitating…