Thursday, June 22, 2017

Below Solomon's Temple

"I find, if I shake my balls," grabs my attention as the opening to a statement, spoken as if into my ear. It makes me glance up.

The voice that sounded so close belongs to a man who is actually some way off, apparently illustrating his words with an unfortunate mime. He and a woman are approaching from above, descending along one of the permutations of pathway. Although I can see them, it seems that they can't yet see me sat here in the valley, veiled as I am by mist. It must also be that the mist is increasing the amplitude of his interjection, his ejaculation so to speak, which continues, "it makes me go stiffer."

His display of ingenuity in overcoming impotence is suspended when he notices me sat on this bench, suddenly distinct among buttercups, their yellow at once accenting the white mist. I hear him say to the woman, quieter but still surprisingly discernible at this distance: "Do you think he heard me?"

Wednesday, May 31, 2017


Saturday, May 13, 2017


I can only settle in a position that injures me. Lying prone, each voiced exhalation a soothing groan, I bring my hand underneath my body, bend it forwards and use my outer wrist to apply pressure to my tummy. I have fallen asleep this way only to be roused by an ache in my hand, and have not been able to pluck my guitar strings properly for three months until the tendons have healed. Despite this, I still do it; my fingers generally tremble, dexterity is never quite recovered, and it sometimes feels like I am re-learning to hold a pencil.

As a boy, I would fall asleep with my neck flat against the headboard. The rim of the headboard would be wedged between the topmost vertebrae, so that the globe of my head tilted back onto the wall. I think that some gradual realignment may have occurred over the years, where there are nerves and arteries, because I now walk with such imbalance.

The human flesh miasma encumbers
A pledge to increase policing numbers.
I cannot, cannot as one who lumbers
Aggregate avoirdupois of slumber's
Bear; the sky and the oceans it umbers

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

The Scapegoat

At ten past eight,
And for two undifferentiated whiles,
I vacillate,
Migraine beneath my occipital condyles,
In this passageway,
Uncertain of where I am in the sequence
Of my day.
AM or PM? I, whom, in their frequence,
Phantoms affirm,
First stamp one foot squarely off-gait on the floor,
Pivot, infirm,
And then stride as purposefully as before,
But the other way.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Blue Screen (On twice reading that Brian Matthew has just died, on the 5th and the 8th of April)

When did he die? Somewhere, in some place, the family shared three fewer days with Brian Matthew;
It separates from this place, where the family stole
Three further days; but I feel that I too was there, am suddenly here, now, rogue to the curfew,
While outside my window, at a passing place, the whole
Side of a waiting van is blue, reflects into my room, and all furnishings take on its hue,
But not my green greatcoat, nor the grey fibres that roll
From its revers into the ends of my grown hair.

I write for the desk, till Amhai's largesse pays the toll;
You discriminate not arbitrarily, nor out of hate, but to fit the hat of virtue –
Conformiter for a disposable pulp sick bowl.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

The Amateur Hermeneutist

The self-styled world-weary and woke
Poetry book reviewer
Asserts tartly that I invoke
The worst a hermeneur
May bring to his note, by decree,
That states "no cishet white men".
Aided by a dichotomy
Between discrimination when
It is merely consumer choice
And when it involves oppression,
He expatiates with the voice
Of one whose pained confession
Is that he himself is "cishet".

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

I rinse my hand briefly under the tap – lifting the toilet lid gave me a slight sense of having condensation on my fingertips – and the water is kept running to mask the sounds of my bowel movement. After using the rinsed hand to wipe myself, the tissue paper adheres to my damp fingers, preventing me from disposing of it; shaking it makes it hang down momentarily, like a tired festoon, which then falls onto the floor beside the toilet bowl.

Gloating at stale readdressers
Of love, I lengthen, in lieu
Of hypothetic successors
Hazarding poems for you,
Shadows beneath my beetling verse.
Groat, with likeness of the swain –
Let it be muled with the obverse
Die of a coin from my reign.