Sunday, November 29, 2015


There is a Royal willy-holder, and he has a Royal willy-holder's willy-holder, and he has a Royal willy-holder's willy-holder's willy-holder and so on, and when you see them all in silhouette on a hill, going for a wee, the sun behind them, they do look silly.

The male is one aspect on the feudal strewnfields of relief, where, in fief, the serf holds the villein holding the freeman holding the squire holding the film censor; and as they watch seven hours of paint drying by Charlie Lyne, the other just squats and leaves.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015


Saying "Hello there?" out loud to myself, stentorian, conditions me into thinking someone is calling through the letterbox. They have found me. Disturbing my own quiet, with my voice they have found me; retroreflector, catalingual eidolon, calling extempore.

Saturday, November 14, 2015


Our ghost, Pot, has been particularly active, exteriorising the dog.

I was awoken in the night by a clawing sound and, descending the staircase, saw Larkin lying in the centre of the room. Beside her on the floor was the blue towel we use to protect the sofa she sleeps on, pulled out.

When I reached the foot of the stairs, she got up and walked to the intersecting step between the kitchen and snug. I noticed that the light in the snug was on. It seemed rather dim, but I assumed this was due to it being an energy saving bulb. Reaching round the wall with my hand, however, I realised that the light switch was in the off position. Clicking it down made the light glow brighter, and then clicking it up again made the light finally go off completely.

I re-tucked the towel back into the sides of the sofa, and went to bed.

The next morning, my son went down, as he usually does before the rest of us, and I heard him call out: "Where is Larkin?" I ran down and into the kitchen, where I saw the dog through the window of the back door, asking to come in from the garden. The door was locked and bolted.

In exile, deprived of social sustenance, Tsvetaeva lived in notebooks, in debts to log,
As a starving body eats its own heart, and a weak story turns to the pledge of the prologue.
In Prague, she had felt devoured, so came to Paris, receiving a small stipend. Shadows clog
The tiny holes of my bedside clock’s speakers; and I thread through the stinging stipple of a fog.
The clawing sound is mastication of the last thing to take cognizance of my self—the dog,
I must exteriorise the dog, must, from the oast, as a ghost, knocknobbler and pedagogue,
As the one no one sees in the gym, untraceable but for citations in the catalogue
For Salgado's exhibition, irreal, ill, I must; entice her out to the brackish bog
With a beef trachea, or if that is too grisly, a scab of sanitised jerky to jog
Salivation; and will by evanescence enjoy some kind of esoteric dialogue
With the poet living in Paris, 1925.

Tuesday, November 03, 2015

The Signalling Man

In the audience during the curtain call for Buddy, the West End production of 1989, I noticed that one of the cast members appeared to be waving at me.

Initially, I couldn't bring myself to wave back, but when he started cajoling me by pointing, and then, I felt, almost frowning disapprovingly at my reluctance, I lifted my hand hesitantly whilst keeping my elbow hard by my ribs, and did a sort of coy "toodle-oo" with my fingers.

The cast member continued to point and wave. I looked around and saw Colin Welland sitting behind me, just as he was starting to notice the signalling man.