Wednesday, December 20, 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 that overlap our reality?

Monday, November 20, 2017

Apparitionist

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.

Tuesday, August 08, 2017

Narrowband

Years 1 to 17: all een
Years 18 to 34: all null
Years 35 to 45: all een

A pie, Low Saxon, up high on my skull,
Through a lifetime’s noise, either “een” or “null”
Notch each year – remnants of a lifetime’s noise.

“Een” is happy and “null” is not, up high,
At the apex of the sutures, then I
Felt for one weary width no worthy joys.

And how long and wide, all null, this next block?
Foregone, does my outré confession shock
Those who loved me in years after the boy’s

Notches were made? I was not happy, friend,
In our time. These blocks of een and null bend
Like a triskelion’s legs, when, in poise,

This next block is coming.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

For Woo, Who Made Me Milk With Cloves

A private sensation—
Explosions that inhere
In the indentation
And sacral diapir
Above my bum crack, where
The buttocks’ contours let,
And a pocket of air
Formed between in the sweat,
Once risen, egresses;
This private sensation
Is felt, effervesces
To mark the privation
Of awareness of it,
But could fizz like Cava,
Still I, like a spirit
Barred from his cadaver,
Benighted, may not know
Sensations inside you.

Monday, July 03, 2017

Experiment with a Sunbeam

There is a sun spot on the floor in the doorway, farthest facet of a sunbeam that penetrates through the window of an adjacent room. Slowly closing the door to my bedroom, I watch to see what will happen when it reaches the spot. I expect the beam will be blocked, but instead it bounces off the back of the door and remains on the floor as a reflected beam. The glint then moves ahead of the closing door, which cannot gain on it.

Like the sunbeam constant on the closing door,
Glimpsing its reflection moving on the floor
With an independent will,
Enticingly towards the threshold sill,
I am thus barred, divided by rejection,
A constant desiring its reflection,
Clothed by the self's conspiracy,
In so nude a bum in the mirror see
The object of desire.