Toilet queue poem

The pain of
Life skills.
A bar. The relentless
Upon your past,
Upon your armpits
Upon your life experience
And also dreams.
Oh leave it.
We can live without it.
Without walls,
A city wall.

Barriers. Also space.
Dream time. Aced it.
Speculation. Gratification.
Arse poems. Death divide.
Whatever. Well, here I am. A dance,r.
A pathetic space of excellence.
A spurious angel we call
Spastic. Energy. Selfish
Shut your death.

Where is the new world you
Arranged? Where is the new night
Of great. Dead. It is death.

A shining age of Unknow. Here in the the crystal nightclub. Here in the dawn of cunt. A dilemma in green, in burnt ombre. We call it fun but not fun, a scourge. An embarrassing leap for connection.

Where can you go from here? In real time. In real response time. In real Madrid time, the stinking penalties, the glamour of failure.

Hi. Hi to you, the loser of the toilet queue. A quest. An internal space. A fight. Gratitude. Disease. Anal spite. Age. Extra strong. Fabergé. An emptiness called dread, called face. Oh face. Oh bream. Disaster. Fabulous grief. Darkness. Fantasy. Space and computers. Computational ace. Computational spend. Too much. Expensive poem. Six thousand pounds at least.

The Dreamover. Dream of dank spunk. 


No one knows where the
Morris came from, some
say Africa. Or what?

Blackface see. Tradition
with its wreaths wrapped
alien tight around our

island. Don’t touch it. We
are not for you. Our children
suffer, whatsisname prizing

out the tuck from under their
Roman noses. Scarcity,
a woman scrabbling in the dust.

Brown people bleeding their
brown blood everywhere.
Muck. Time to look backwards

to a time when things were
lighter. Just don’t mention the
wars! Our Great Nation spraying

Enlightenment all over the
place- a tired child learning
how to use the Big Boy.

Nope. Your utopia is short-
sighted. Love is finite. No
space for humanity here.

Time to dial it back
to a dreamless rock,
all lonely in its sea of Mine.



one for joy 
two for joy 
three for joy
four for joy
five for joy 
six for joy
seven for joy
eight for joy
nine for joy
ten for joy 


Waking in September is
half great half death-
the sexy low sun that pierces
your eyes and the wailing

Of the washing machine. O
sadness, the softener is all
gone, the trees are killing
themselves all over the place-

You are wedged in your bed
like a loose tooth. The imminent
bare-sole pain of the coldy tiles-
the depression! Smudges on

The wall, your mouth, the alarm-
a bastard. White skies undress
in the tsk tsk of autumn rain,
and the summer cries evil! Dead.


New Year New You
A freefall into a cupboard full
Of metal coat hangers
As collarbones
As elbows bare as bones the
Spare branches of whitened

  • Birches
  • A burden
  • A foghorn
  • The untaken path
  • An unhappy wife
  • Open firs
  • Months as a moon
  • The awful bone bare days

  • White flags
  • New teeth
  • The new Terrible Terrible
  • The whitewashed burden
  • The last ever Mother
  • They are running out

  • On the earth
  • Into the sea
  • Ashes in flashes
  • Finger joints
  • An eyelash
  • One broken wheel
  • A space in your contacts

  • A never resolved space
  • A lack of love
  • Lack of input
  • Lack of action
  • A desire
  • The Never-achieved

  • Drumroll
  • Tin foil
  • A discarded status
  • Deletion
  • Backwards living
  • Granulation
  • Ghosting
  • See also: Flight

wonder of the copt
and tiniest
marsh sprite
bright eyed
super girl
in bluebells
& sea-lavender-
pink as a
an essex sky


untangling myself from the sheets and rolling
round i see your smile and it is vast as a
smile, your spider hand comes down onto my
face which is a face lined with worry and black
marks round the eyes and crust

hello you say. hello to you, waking up and
considering tea and all the things, like cash
flow and how to change the world by inventing
a robot super race that is not human in the
best ways. hello softness. your mouth is the

exact warmth of spring, but also wet and dark
like soil. your eyes are mostly full of laughing and
i am pretty sure it is at me. i think this is absolutely
right and my crow’s feet crinkle up into a million
different roads to take and this is also very good

i expect we will be king and queen


Période, and the tower out the
Window. It was transported over ze
Sea! Well that's one way, isn't-it-not.
Romance is a dead horse- Nietzsche
Knew about that. Gendarmes
Guard the girders and Hitler
Only had one boule- he held the
Key in his grubbed up mitt- a Man.

We traverse the Tuileries and look at yon
Kittiwake. He hisses and drives back the
Dross. Get out, he squawks and pierces the
Enemy. The golden ball that rests on the
Water is just for show- this will end
Badly. Faces in a cafe and old skins lying
Around like off a snake. Casual tears and
A church with crosses made from driftwood

Or birch. I am jealous of the peace. There
Is no peace. I think the idea brings me
Peace. Paris. And what
Are you? A beautiful pile of rubble.
The river is high with rain. Padlocks flap
In the thin wind. People try and hang onto things.
In danger of exploding- our bags are full of

Weapons. We are terrorists and terrify
Ourselves. But what about we say. What 
About? And all these bones. What about these
Six million sets of ivories! You kiss me hard
In the bedroom and we wonder about the
Girl in the wallpaper, the rakish Gent-bird,
Hurt by exactitude-
Ossifying in the dark like a self.


not just grief but
marks & sparks

tights what leave a mouth around your
waste. she probably opens in different ways,
a small aperture. a large glass of wine
is half a bottle.

if you snap open your peepers through the murk and static 
somewhere there on the bloody horizon lies Securitas. 
it is a sinking city and the inhabitants grow lacy webs 
like doilies between their toes. the walls are cakes: 
it is a place of pain.

we am bound to get fused 
like the chin and neck in an acid attack- to be one 
like a single crow on a lorry, bled together like sense, 
your duty like a dull grey throb that pulses nil.

outside are stretches of tears, cat-hair. 
long days of pouting at mr death like a milkless christ.
Men to battle on Relevant Subjects, 
the endless teachings of older women 
wrapped in disappointment like mystical roadside hags.

you travel back in and grapple with an artifact.
it is a rolling pin, yet the end is covered in human tissue.

you recall your mother reversing into a motorcyclist.
i could have fucking killed him

that queer sort of joy, 
quickening her hips into life.