Tuesday, February 20, 2018

The Type of Pose

Facing towards me, uterine,
A ram, adumbrated outline,
The electric fence’s canine
Reel stand,
Are replicas, and Byzantine
Depictions of Mary enshrine
The original icon's sign,
Her hand,
And iterate her head's incline
Towards salvation, the design
That makes the mortal reassign
The land.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Taking my seat on the train to Fleet I notice that a man on the other side of the aisle has raised his hand to cover the side of his mouth. He is saying something to the woman sitting opposite him. She looks at me fleetingly, he does the same, and both look away again with a suppressed laugh. The man is obscuring a little girl who is sat next to the window. She leans forward and peers round him in order to gain a view of me.

None of this wounds me. Instead, I am left with an impression that the girl is full of sorrow, that she is also excluded by this relationship. Her parents begin to busily write text messages on their mobiles, and it is clear to me that in this way, although they are facing each other, they are carrying on with their ridicule. Reacting to each message, they take it in turns to show quiet amusement until they get up to alight at Walton-on-Thames, followed by the unacknowledged girl.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018


On the assertion that too many Tory supporters lack the confidence to air their views on social media, as made by the newly-appointed Chairman of the party

Unciatim, membership dwindles, till the twelfth hour,
With Walpole's spirit imprisoned in the Tower,
When every hubristic Tory has turned wallflower,
Wilting-shamed neath Victorian ideology’s bower;
And they will never again, never again gain power.

To Peter Stenson, who has banned all bloggers from his Dublin establishment

Alors, voulez-vous laisser
Wilde et Proust
Se rencontrer au Café
The White Moose?

Saturday, December 23, 2017

Unaccustomed to New Glasses

I will put my sighting of Morrissey down to the fishbowl effect of my new glasses and a lookalike fan on a pilgrimage to the demolished Jacobs Studios in Dippenhall, who I wished, as he hurried along the pavement, to be him.

The cut of the lenses fills out the edges of my field of vision, acting like collagen to give a smooth curvature to all that bounds me, and whence I was admitted of walking neither over nor past a rounded crown, I saw my tapered pilgrim.

People from towns and villages up and down the UK claim that Johnny Depp has bought a house in their neighbourhood – it is pleasing to imagine – and similar desires are implicated in innumerable sightings of Morrissey, Spring-Heeled Jim.

What is buried beneath this mound always just ahead, so that, lifting my knees too high, too high each time, I tread vaguely like a coupling rod as I scratch back with my feet beneath where I thought they should land; this false mound seen through the part of the lens near the rim?

Perhaps these bulges beneath and above me, and to my sides, are partially protruding spheres, but then where are their centres and what do they hold, these spheres I see overlapping our reality, beading its frontiers with a cambered facsimile trim?

Then the piteous figure, who moves like he is trying to climb a ladder with the next rung always missing, suddenly finds purchase for his leading foot and advances unexpectedly onto the mound he thought was false – he does climb, this Nephilim.

He climbs not one mound after another, imbrications, but an integer, one ever-swelling wave.

Monday, November 20, 2017


A book of rhyming couplets on the shelf
Adds to repudiation of the self;
And we, in sequestered parts of the realm,
Crondall and Estonia, dream, unelm.

I am pleased to announce that, as of now, my book, Apparitionist, is published and available to buy from Amazon around the world.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

The Life Review

Encountered on the trail:
A grey enenra pall,
A glinting Hilti nail,
A pug, the dog du jour;
And all the children quail
At tympanic pumpkins.

These images assail
My mind and yet withal
Enprehension detail—
Quicksilver the allure
Of each before they pale
And the last block begins.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Shell House, Polperro

Frontispiece for two doors oblique to each other, viewed squarely
Is seamed by the perron that enables, however rarely,
A person to exit and, should they wish, climb and re-enter
The house through a porch on the noble floor, skewing momenta
Of a life in progress and a life's totality reviewed,
So the mind queries among coat hooks, and once more when endued
With a power to separate, why the body diverted;
Viewed from one side is unfolded, and shows me in hair-shirted
Recursion climbing the steps, grey steps not visible square on,
To cover off a possible way to leave that, so far, none
May have taken: I leave through the ground floor door a second time,
And go to the Blue Peter Inn; still I see just one sublime
Passage, despite wavering interpolations, coalesce,
One pass, resolutely reformatory, as I assess
My life. A face, unfamiliar, presents itself to me –
This review of life must be independent of memory –
Face of a girl who is perhaps 11 or 12 years old;
I with true wakefulness, as one who is over the threshold,
See this child, and note that her hair is blonde beneath the sedge hat
She is wearing, but still cannot recognise her or see that
This could pertain to my life even; and her voice as she speaks –
Its quality, its colour and the curious way it peaks –
Is strange to me also: "You abandoned me," says she, softly,
And leaves me brooding over her statement's import whilst I see
Myself continue, an apparitionist, towards the Blue
Peter Inn. This girl and my excursion are contiguous through
One pass, a single conjuncture.