Friday, April 27, 2018

Pushing Providence

Well-meant intervention
May hurt thee
And maken thee to blenchen;
May trick thee,
Maken thee to confuse
Giving and warranting interviews.

My death, mine intention,
May hurt yet,
When, hard by it, invention
May spark yet,
When, alas, I can use
Neither hand for to harness the muse.

Saturday, April 14, 2018


Danielle Nolan is a book reviewer and a fellow vertigo sufferer. Her interview with me, about my book “Apparitionist”, and life and writing in general, has today been published on her website. You can find it here:

Monday, April 09, 2018

Cuts and Valence

Intuitively, we glimpse
What presstitutes and their pimps
Would hide, whilst Cressida Dick
Brings, to the arithmetic
Of the Home Office, balance,
A less negative valence,
When she says “We are but stretched.”

On glimpsing what my friend fetched
From the car boot, hunter green,
I looked towards the crash scene,
And his entrance into it —

A paramedic’s jacket,
Good God, and the trousers too,
Of that green I had glimpsed through
The back window, green, the same,
But animate on his frame;
And I watched that green made quick
Whilst he posed as a medic.

Sunday, March 25, 2018


I hold the button pressed at the pelican crossing to keep myself steady as I investigate a tackiness beneath my shoe. In agony suddenly, I leave the chewing gum where it is to clutch my wrist. A road sweeper has yanked the broom from his cart and brought it down violently upon my arm. He explains that he thought I was being electrocuted, that he needed to knock me off the control panel.

Fractures to the radius and ulna
Retort upon my incunabula.

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Dread of Rebuttal

I don’t believe it was lost on the man
Who approached my daughter, that, other than
Some children, no one was around to see,
No grown-ups who might gainsay cogently
His stern claim, only those who were passive,
So that he might be determinative,
Peremptory, without opposition,
By an opportunistic volition.

If it was lost on him – how she trembled –
Then how much his decisions resembled
Cowardice, authenticated yet more
When I stood in front of his car and saw
His eyes fearful at my countenance, there,
Waylaying him suddenly from nowhere.

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.