Tuesday, 7 December 2021



All work no play makes one a dull Homo-ludens...
I go round and round like Ossie the dog chasing his tail.
It's feckless, it's fruitless, I need to be more efficacious,
the witness to those weird creatures been and gone
needs to get back where he once belonged and that's
not necessarily smoking a joint with my friend Paul
who knew nothing about any weird creatures at all -
but where it is I should be has never been determined
and could be a new direction, and could be singing.
Singing a new song, the true blue song of Man. I can
pick up a guitar and blow your mind, make you believe
I am the new Syd Barrett or Kurt Cobain. Alas I am
too old for that now and have been there and done it all.
I contemplate going to Cambridge by train like I 
would in days gone to meet Paul and talk all that 
light evening jazz, unhook that inner book as good
as Proust everyone has. A sheet to sleep under 
was a luxury in those nomadic days. On floors 
under socks and curtains I'd often re-wake and bake 
and fuel the new me, sizzle the dream, place a 
bet with the mind, the drizzle outside a vision
or so it would seem. So no I will not go back. I 
will not pester Paul and his family. You cannot
escape what's inside just by changing the four walls
which immure you. Escape is never the safest path in life.
There is more soul to stay. Leaves on the line will
probably keep me at bay, delay me all day, anyway.
So to the neo London skyline I raise my cup of tea
from all the way up here in the Lake District by the sea
in which the sunset has already put out its giant spliff,
and resign myself to this gravity-trapped chair of oak,
allowing the natural peace to settle around me. If
it naturally happens to settle in the shape of a bear
I am not one to particularly care, but I might wonder
what else it might have been, given some work.
We sleep in that fire, with the deep-sea creatures.


Portability still seems the Apotheosis of Form.

Sometimes I can be walking along on a sunny day 
when I jump from the jungle to the Arctic to the Sahara... 

Mutation in consciousness itself, 
truth too simple to understand,
these are gesture-without-motion-bones,
like sadness gene and dreaming gland. 

It's not impossible to write an anti-poem.

Love is not a mechanistic set of rules.
Love was once aligned with madness, fever and intoxication.
Love became grouped with language not God.
Love became a pragmatic choice of words.
Love has no ego as everyone knows. 

I think Lucy in the soul with demons
may happen to be an actual substance.

Travelling south, as I read Rimbaud,
a rainbow smashed a railway train window.

A baby cannot trip without memories. 

I remember “every atom ate our eyes.”

Our eyes: they are ingrown in the ocean's
bellyful of wine, down in the seabed-orchard.

There’s new, angelic music inborn in the inner ear;
but those whom the Gods wish to drive mad
are sent the end of Bike in their heads
and madness is not something to be
Romanticised as a return to Purity.

Impunity is more what the poet wants.

He likes to float on the artifice of organic
emotions through these new synthetic 
sounds, and is into exploring alternative 
histories suppressed by the overarching metanarrative.

For plastic surgery of the soul there are libraries.

Poetry is the bike riding itself. 

Monopoly money will get us wine,
Monopoly money will get us bread.
She picks the blue tac off the wall 
and sticks together my wounded head. 

I put my wounds up on bright flags;
I take the rapacious angel up the arse.

To plug my senses in the mains
might yet engage all !00 % of my brains.

It’s all about a permanent reactivation
of the Glastonbury Festival spirit. 

Money shags in the dark. Thoughts 
of one’s greatness only diminish one’s
greatness. Skunkfoot is putrid demons 
excreted through stone. Love an army of fire. 

Shall I touch my heart with a red Biro?

When all the air in outer space is consumed…

The bird in the wood, it was definitely a horse,
with solar spike I can use the Force, 
with R2D2 I cleanse my doors, 
I’m just trying to win my Star Wars. 


It's laced with ecstasy, the bright, deadly beck
That trots down from the fell’s striated way,
Split with discourteous unicorn hooves,
Brackish to Blue and Blakeian to me,
Brackish to Blue and Blakeian to me.


Singing with longkissing sweet-throat BBC birds,
It falls two feet into a sound as sweet
As a kettle drum’s metal petals of silver bliss
That bloom mellifluous on the carnival's street,
That bloom mellifluous on the carnival's street.


It gushes down into a double-barrell'd tunnel,
And disappears for a mile or more underground,
And bubbles up singing in a farmer's field,
For all the world a good map of sound,
For all the world, a good map of sound.


Optimus Prime leaves blocked the tunnel
And water seeped in under the back door
To scatter an action painting archipelago
Of our tasteful vinyl on the black-flagged floor,
Of our tasteful vinyl on the black-flagged floor.


Poor Ossie the dog was marooned in his basket,
Barking on the store sign for a gone HMV,
And record stores close and folk heroes pass
But the beck still lucid dreams down to the sea,
And by the BBC tears we do mean the sea.



O il faut que je m’en aille.
Sometimes you’ve just 
got to hit the road and


‘Game B’ I do not know much about 
nor what may soon ensue from @
in the international language alphabet.


Colour circles red. How many circles?
Colour triangles blue. How many squares?
Colour oblongs orange. How many triangles?


My name is David Bonky, 
I’m a knock-kneed hummingbird, 
there’s a tear up my jacket.


We are the velvet e’s, 
we’re shitting in Cuntington’s letterbox,
the Roman road below, 
beneath us as we fry. 

(enter bass organ of ‘The End’)


If a flower-press ending on cannabis 
could be said to equal a dialysis 
a love poem hoping to impress Flora 
could be said to equal more a motor. 


Leaves that played on the surface of the water, 
these are the leaves they have in Heaven,
these are the leaves of love.


Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light. 
Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light. 
Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light. 


Signed by everwell, 
she couldn’t hit it sideways, 
or maybe a soothsaying Spiderman 
with the hairgel of Dracula, 
Atlantis, Aquarius, the 60’s. 


Isolation is Elizabeth Regina,
Emergency Rescue is Made In China,
but diseased vagina is diseased vagina


Blessed may be the end at last
under the sea
below the soul
in the upside-down
Oceans above us

(all that heaven sends is rain)


Bart Simpson’s yellow zigzag hair apostrophe d
@ Van Gogh black border sun 
heard James Joyce would just use |||| 4
ROYGBIV in Fibonacci sequence barcode smile


Thank you for dialling 911,
you are through to The Velvet Underground, 
I like to lick the honey between the stars.


I. T. might stand for Instant Travel too,
LSD for Lucy in the Soul with Demons,
H20 for her hypothalamus tattoo, 
ESA for extra sensory allowance. 


If God = pi times MC squared
it’s because you wish to think Him round
and O is the key of water – be assured -
and its soul-assuring sound. 


He found himself on a plane.
He found himself on a.
He found himself on.
He found himself.
He found. 


Wouldn’t it be pollen, 
if Barnes has scored a chicken
and spring is a red horse?


The symbol [R] might represent the stance,
the large-R Romantic stance, that there is 
room for creativity in the synapse gulf,
that Creativity is not predictable in advance. 


He has spines all over him. 
He is a ne’er-do-well; but
as Dr. Bob says, he is not evil. 


I still cannot tell if sipping sweet tea 
or stretching honesty makes the
more funky an encryption of the 
future that ain’t what it used to be 
but I still await the future with 
rapt uncertainty, full of suspense. 


This particular finger, why this finger here?
Keep it in YOUR purple, velvet box. 
It’s toughened at the knuckle where pens have 
been gripped. I can count it on the sun.


I’m not going to die at the age of twenty seven, 
watch the dream-tapes on repeat from a golden seat in Heaven,
I’m going to plug my senses into the mains. 


Wear an emotional condom before you fuck my mind.
I may not be good looking but I am not blind
A clock is only as fast as a wounded cheetah.


Love is the hope that the heart 
literally needs in order for it
to beat, to survive, without which 
it can stop meaning death, who 
is H suspended in deafness.  


Be careful when you mash the Y- key.
It might look like snowy, Alpine mountain
tops, flowers in vases, underpants or
the tip of a kid’s yellow crayon. 


When we wake, dripping, 
no sea-weed in our hair, 
words are stone shoes worn 
by the bottoms of clouds, weighing 
them down hopelessly. 


Where once I wandered far and wide 
on a field-file, a file-field, 
a fenceless farm without 
security alarm where all hearts bleed
and all arts breed, now Hell
is very quiet, unadvertised.

feed your kids.

Gentle face erasing cream,
smear it in and let it sink
down through the pores of your skin
to erase your deepest down dirt.

O stars the government
that truly speaks for us!

Get an extra kid for free
when you spend 99p.

Freefall 0800 down
your own black hole pupils.

Maybelline you maybe only make-believe
you may be the true mating queen of the hive,
may mad vampires stalk you,
stalking walls walk through
your vagrant dreams.

I see state of head
is more than Head of State.

Monster Munch can
gobble up your food.

Cancerel can always 
sweeten the stewed-
carfume coffee we sip in 
this liminal afterlounge.

In emergency please 
break glass and exit.

Credits at the end of innocence
are falling like numberless lists
of fallen autumn leaves.

Snatched handfuls of light
come to nothing in the dark room.

There must be a use for 
this dust amounting.

There’s nothing like digging 
a meaningless hole as if to cure the 
spiralling lethargy of Hell.

And when I went into the 
woods to bury my soul, 
all the trees knelt down.

O perpetual orgasm of the sun! 

Privation is the mother of imagery.

Prayers, ghosts and 
e-mails chatter on 
the ego-loss breeze.

The chitchat in the solipsistic
kitchen of fiction is 'phatic'.

My new motley fridge magnet
letters contain no question 
mark in the pack but the first
qualification of Modernism
is enquiry and furthermore
wilful ignorance is a sin.

Meanwhile outside the 
fallen Autumn leaves 
are where bears have 
dipped their feet in pots of paint 
and danced across the threshold 
of the paving stones.

Water clears its throat from the tap.

Gunpowder was only invented
for fireworks and a firework
is a champion sperm nosing up
blind to explode bright and wonderful
deep-sea creatures in the Ancient Night.

The world is a cool, bejewell'd
marble snug in Holy Orbit
suckling on a mother sun.

Supposedly there is soon
to be New Atlantis on the moon.

The cure for cancer 
sustains your heart.

Robbed by a bastard vending machine,
somewhere a tramp drinks paint-stripper 
to cleanse the doors of perception,
a drunkard attacks a wall
on an otherwise empty street,
a policeman forces himself
to come with a gun.

Hey salesman 
slow down 
with that

I don't mind
waiting here
for a year. 


Di di dit 
di di dit 
di di dit dit dit

Di di dit
di di dit 
di di dit dit dit

Di di dit 
di di dit 
di di dit dit dit

Bring bring
bring bring


Gold member, you're the one,
the one w/ the heart of gold

Vowels, pure vowels 
Immanuel Kant
will come to thee 
w/ immanence

You come home smacked up you come

d/ d/ d/ down
grooving up slowly

d/ d/ d/ down
grooving up slowly

d/ d/ d/ down
grooving up slowly

yeah yeah yeah
yeah yeah yeah
yeah yeah yeah


how did we get down here from flat-top
wide tunnel cities self driving cars
bears in the moon and liquor and drugs
and whisky baaaaaaaaaaaars

boom shanka, you're the one,
the one w/ the sonic boom

knickers knickers faster than lightning

skin up fall out of bed

and did those feet
in ancient times

rain down, rain down,
come on raindown
and walk the sun

fatter, hippier, less well connected

always walk the hallways
down to create my own
and in the meantime
and in the meantime
I'll do the monkey bars w/ my legs

manic depression has enraptured my name
don't know what I want but I just want shame
don't know what I want but I just won't shave

rainy waif, rain always,
lay back and dream
on a rainy waif

now I know how Kurt Cobain sang
oh now I know how Kurt Cobain sang
no more la la's

removal van canes will be turned into furniture
we're thinking of putting Tricky's name on the front sir
you never see me dead near an inch of closure

|| | |||| | || | ||||


Simon says The River Goyt
might become the Styx in Heaven.
Will says Hollidot is a peaceable,
grammatical shapeshifter.

I say oceans smile with liquid
eyes and fill themselves with rain.
Dave says only the static caravan
knows a halfroad Rontaur.

James says let's have one more
crumble from dad's pollen.
Jesus sits at the right hand
of the Lord God our Father.

Paul asks wear an emotional
condom before you f**k my mind, man.
Mother says imagination is a
muscle and language a creature.

Hal says I know you spoke
against September 11th in 2000.
Mark knows that I said a clock
is only as fast as a cheetah.

Andy says “I know the chords
to this tune by Bob Dylan.”
Kit says Bob Dylan invented
rap, he was the first rapper.

Hannah says the main attraction
of drug-taking is the connections
you make with other people -
but I for one will just have butter.

Stef says I'm right it's impossible
to remember a new yellow line.
Mother says I must remember
when I smoke to shut the door.

James says I was right that
dad used to smuggle pollen
and that the art smuggling story
was just an elaborate cover.

Mark says something like there
is no virtue beyond fashion -
or was it no vice I cannot
quite remember anymore.


I imagine now telling the bros in the den
in the woods my theory about the chain

of dark or even anti-evolution, that says
James Joyce, who also saw new creatures,

writing Ulysses is the reason why Ted
saw a monster in the river in childhood

who in turn wrote The Hawk In The Rain
which is then the reason Jim Morrison

saw winged serpents in the desert on acid,
whom we know is never quite flaccid,

and his writing The Lords And The New
Creatures is then why I saw not one but two

which I shall not delve into quite yet
but which I shall never again clean forget -

the bros in the den in the woods might well
fall in with my scoffed at, empurpled Hell -

and with freed minds start to write poetry
to read out under the fallen down tree

in amidst the empty beer cans and ends
of cigarettes dumped there by their friends -

but what their fair maiden female companion
would make of the chain of dark evolution

could be that it's a bundle of fairy tales
unlike the crawling of actual snails

whereas I know the whole thing to be real -
and if I could show you how I feel -

would have you convinced that I'm right
but not well in the head, at least not quite -

which leaves me standing like a tall tree
in the wood where we used to read our poetry

which did, back when we were young,
and getting a foot on the ladder's first rung.


It’s actually a rather saddening story for now 
I’d be in and out of hospital for the rest of my days,  
still my father thought it hilarious, how, 
when I was first hospitalised I ran away, 
on my first escorted walk in the grounds, 
through a field and across a busy motorway

and up a serpentine trainline to the station 
from which I made it to Scotland by train,
thinking there’d be a different jurisdiction -
but oh how my athletic efforts were in vain!
The police found me wandering that other nation
and took me south of the border again! 

I’d been put under a curse unbeknownst to me...
forced to abide by the stringent rules,
I sat back in hospital writing poetry
in a waiter’s pad, inventing brave new schools,
smoking on the banks of the Styx of sweet tea, 
calling the conspiracy of doctors fools! 

I scored a question mark on the musical scales
in my writing, in that place so clean, 
such a sterile-surfaced Hell, run by females,
while Rachel’s party far away on the green 
summit of Parliament Hill went down with pale ales
and left me to dream of the space in-between.  

I’ve got a degree since then. My feeling is 
that the ill are capable of increased lucidity
but I rue the new remit: not to dream with open eyes,
nor await the future with rapt uncertainty,
not to plug my senses in the mains, but de-stigmatise
mental illness. It doesn’t come naturally.


In bed, at night, have you ever reached the point 
where word and muscle meet – where you 
attempt to think in words without moving 
a muscle in your mouth and stumble 
upon the secret, white, silent alphabet? 
There are certain letters, certain sounds 
you simply cannot think without 
a twitch from your mouth muscles -
so you play dead. You lie there and 
try and underwrite the thoughts… 
some graphemes, phonemes, plosives 
and fricatives are possible in silent,
white and secret thought alone but 
no utterance seems completely pronounced.
The silent alphabet thus has several letters
missing; and by dawn you might still 
be lying there, awake, trying and trying 
to think the word “whisky” without 
a movement of the tongue. It can 
be done but is found further in 
the mind, where hands can not go. 
That’s why seeing in the dark is so tough. 


I escaped last night
into a heightened dream
from a dull and longing sleep

and the stars murmured
their cool ballad
to the approaching sky.

Secrets hung like ghosts
in the corner of my wanton world
all blurred and drugged too deep

and I knew that she loved me
from her invisible motions
and the dagger in her soft reply.

The questions concealed in her eye.

Her smile a luring prison.
Her blink a beautiful danger.
Her breath a poisonous magic.

And I knew that silence
would soon let slip its whisper,
knew that fantasy
had never been so real
and I knew that she loved me
because I knew everything.

I knew.


Swimming in the Irish Sea with my mother,
watched from the stony shore by my poor, dying father,
languishing in wound-healing expiation as a
laughter of seagulls flew past in shark mask replicas,
I turned my body away from the beach towards
the peach-stone of a black-hole being slowly
sucked into the sea's watercress-hives and
drowned and saw that bonfire jaws is Holy,
bonfire jaws is bought and sold and silting gold
leaking out in all directions like mc squared =
swimming in the Irish Sea with my mother,
watched from the stony shore by my poor, dying father,
languishing in wound-healing expiation as a
laughter of seagulls flew past in shark mask replicas.


The doors computer game, I found it hard, 
it was hard to find. Luck blames the winner.
Chance blames Ariel, Fate blames Caliban.
When dad dies it is the end of an era.
When an era dies it is the dawn of a new age.
Door, a miracle in the divine corridor. 


All my rage in the cage for the minimum wage,
I sketch the shadow of my hair on the page. 

To plug the senses into the mains
might liberate 100% of the brains

I don’t know how to renew the bird in the wood
where once upon a time I stood being good
but I guess it’s something I already did
and then they stuck the end of ‘Bike’ in his head

O bullet up the top of a telegraph pole 
the pole itself is already Robert Lowell

Now I see that I speak too soon
under the sleepless omen moon
who shines like an electric coin
over the fell’s unravelled groin 
and seems to be in love with the sea
a little bit further down the valley
or at least with her own shattered reflection
having as she does quite a fear of rejection…

One night we’ll chink pelvises like champagne flutes
atop the fell wearing leather walking boots.

There’s no such thing as Secret Chord H
I believe that the mating queen is a bitch
and if she said she’s in love with me
I wouldn’t go taking it personally
a bimbo in limbo a waif in a safe
she expects too much out of life
though I confess my open heart
is lying with both her legs apart

I found my voice isn’t papers scissors stone 
when you’re most in love you are most alone 

I extirpated every trace of recognition 
from the mind unloosed the mind of form 
method acted every adjective in Howl 
set myself the task of growing new soul 
attained visual radio broadcasting dreams 
dreams that billow like a weeping willow
in the wind that seemed deeper than memes 
only once in a while setting head on pillow 
but what goes up must come down
even if you cut a route direct to Heaven 
and make out death to be a clown 
and stay up holding Holy Communion 
and that would be mad as Arthur Rimbaud 
which reminds me of the time an acid-rainbow 
smashed right through a railway train window when 
I was sitting there travelling holding a pen
going backwards to Christmas on a train 
placing bets on the drops of rain 
running down the penny-tasting glass
dissolving the mind of prejudice and class 
trying on the doors film for a costume. 

Now the pollen has gone under Gondwanaland 
since I left my last rock n roll band 
the ecstasy pill gone under the green hill.

So monopoly money should work on wine
and monopoly money should work on bread 
and Freedom is the bike riding itself 
carrying messages like those in the blood,
let’s permanently re-activate the Glastonbury Spirit. 

I remember I once felt like a fine-mesh net 
back when Jokeo and Ruliette met 
a net so fine-mesh it was but smoke 
and static and grey and fleck no joke 
neither retaining nor permitting a thing 
and the edge of life was a playground swing 
and then I felt a leaf and fell 
out of life and down a well 
which probably no-one else knew 
but then there may be some who 
followed my path on the internet 
back when Jokeo and Ruliette met 
a meeting as star-crossed as their namesakes 
in the land of flying fairy cakes.

Now new music searches the night for a mind 
and I am the one it happens to find 
for music chooses you not you it 
and I’ll have to be patient and for a long time sit 
at a new laptop working out how 
to use Ableton and meanwhile a cow 
is not made of dialectical antagonism 
and I hurt after each little musical orgasm.

While my friends turned Einstein’s nose 
into a magnanimous hot -air balloon 
that floated away over the carking crows 
I stayed with the moon inside myself in the noon 
and fought putrid demons excreted through stone 

Let’s hope the universe is not in a hearse 
let’s hope if the universe is but a corpse 
it’s a luminous corpse with love in of course.

I am but a lost soul looking for a dream- meet experiment  -
to Heaven not McDonalds we went 
driving a drum through outer space 
in realtime leaving a sparkling trace.

I see through your mirrors in the big, glass day 
I see through your costumes in the summer parade 
As a kid I mixed up drugs and AIDS

but now I know more or maybe it’s less
I am made to beat with the Otherness 
let stress be the enemy of mental illness

I couldn’t tell you why there are fallen leaves inside 
it could be a clue that Romance has not died

We stuff full the Nothingness with butterflies 
there’s a bit between its wings / I am not telling lies,
we adorn the void / a schizophrenic mechanoid / 
with many lost belongings / when we’re paranoid 

I remember we used to stand in CD shops
in social states gone to those on our tops 
rereading the sleeves of albums we had 
like Joy Division / exploring the bad mad and sad 
hardly ever making new connections 
although we were filled with defamiliarisation 
fresh alien eyes / visions entombed in our brains

I have come to recognise the lay of the land 
as a playground for us and every other band 

we long since passed a fallen road sign 
saying THINK in the nettles as we drank our wine 
and the mystery of the single shoe 
beside the Cambridge B-road too 

we tripped up on buttercups / and fell in love againe / 
yes we were teeming with visions in the brain / 
and left alone on the Circle Line / 
at night to get it out would be fine / 
but we didn’t do anything before the cctv. 

we’d write on money in Berlin bars / 
we knew of love under the stars / 
we knew the impunity of being true / 
to yourself was only being what you / 
dreamed you  were / not a figment or a blur / 
and reality grew arcane with a drug-slur / 
and air started talking / and a feeling was lost / 
as a colour was passed through / a border was crossed / 

the music was full of osmotic porosity / 
the music was a film of cell division pulsing on the wall / 
the music was solipsistic in listening / 
and back in the day my best friend was Paul / 

we start with endless possibilities and 
then they narrow down to one / 
like a phonebook full of soul-mates 
reduced to dying alone under the sun /

We slept on the ceiling with feelings of love/ 
as we slept on the feeling with star-tracks above / 

Soft and loose like yellow pencils 
scribbling dreams as they arrive/ 
a long blonde hair of yours is a system 
through which all my dreams could thrive /

the spies were out but the spiral was in/ 
and everyone knew there was no sin/ 
when the world was after Bin/ 
and new maps sprawled on the point of a pin / 

Over and out testing testing 123/ 
welcome to my presence and its intensity/

All things must be returned to earth / 
surrendered like a rented thing to death /
and the breath of the morning is fresh up in the Lakes / 
where the stolen Dream Factory car is made without brakes / 
and the logging on of brains with marmalade and tea / 
means they dream a bit of the deep blue sea / 
in whose maternal bosom there are many fine wines

Money, money is but an ode to death / 
death is an out-post of liquid crystal meth / 

the ice cream van turns his menu around / 
so the customer can procure from the map of sound / 

now I know as many words for young love/ 
as the Eskimo has for snow / 
but I grappled like madness with Simon’s dove / 
before I went down to the dealer’s below / 

seth portal menu-bats eeked to the conker tree spolar spike 
but only in the sense that woofkitten voices sever to themselves. 

I remember how the Regret Industry booms/ 
how lithe and limpid laser lights fuck far-fetched rooms / 

I believe in music in a room with no door / 
making quite a racket / and more and many more /
and seek not the silence of beautiful snow / 
falling slowly to a petticoat earth / 
but new electronic music fattening the soul / 
who flies to the stars in myriad mirth / 
and gestures without motion to signal that it’s time / 
for the proverbial mating queen to also come / 
come to Harpshire’s shore where waves come home / 
crashing with white and froth and foam / 
marrying together stunning juxtapositions/ 
of all unlikely Orders of Being/ 

Sensation precedes thought in art/ 
chain is made from same as key/ 
waves make gentle love to the shore / 
homework tonight is to remember your dreams / 

Man is words and man is a word and 
words draw bridges / across metaphysics / 
and words make connections / 
between first and third person / 

O O O O O here we go again / 
in search of trouble kicks action sex and change / 
going out at smouldering sunset in the city/ 
before the sea change into something rich and strange / 
the redolent and fresh and enervating scent / 
of change fermenting on the ego loss breeze / 
knowledge is steam/ always have a dream / 
and in autumn we’ll drive off just to look at trees / 
for the beauty of love is everywhere /

I’ve gone from Barrett- esque 
screerunner-death totalisme to / 
tree-hugging, tea-totalling blue / 

just another shooting rock star trying to find / 
a voice amidst the inchoate breaking up of culture 
/ into a pluralistic atomised vulture / 
incommensurable islands may commence / 
from henceforth like a strange new tense / 

I’m drot so nunk as some thinkle peep I am / 
I was thinking of moving to Amsterdam / 
but I have to colour in the government’s new / 
application forms for £ove with a yellow / 
crayon and join the dots and spot / 
the difference and yet not / 
that Spot the Dog is a constellation / 
on the saddest night of life at this station / 

O track the low-hanging sensational star / 
back to the boot of a beat up old car/ 

planes are the shoes of clowns in London / 
but I’m here now not away being wanton / 
the fashion police car crashes into the tree/ 

Simon says that the River Goyt / 
might become the Styx in Heaven / 
so I say my dad didn’t smuggle art / 
it was recourse to euphemism for pollen / 

don’t paint it black I like all the colour/ 
but colour’s not enough / gone under the dollar / 
so nothing could be duller than the dollar methinks/
and I turn attention to our physical hyperlinks /

content is a palette if form is an easel / 
that would be ample for a new steeple/ 
bind it to life/ obviate not titivate / 
turn to the light your deepest down dirt 

Only Smarties have the answer / 
girl you’re such a beautiful dancer/ 
give me a twirl / give me a swirl / 
then give me a glass of sparkling water / 
the trees kneel down for you in prayer / 
the skunk traced its footsteps back to its lair / 
the demons recede with tails between knees / 
the angels swoop down from the boneless skies / 
and fly about your head and bless you on the skin / 
and the dream necessitates that the dreamer dream on / 

now I hear the porous chorus, the jingle / 
of my soul telling me to stay single / 

Language speaks man and vowels are our souls.

I am the Burger King I can eat anything.

I take out my eyes to see in all directions at once/ 
the infinite cocks are fucking the infinite cunts/ 

The heart beats to the rhythm of 1.

Only tomorrow is covered with leaves.


Voices also told me to write of the
colour purple. In Steiner homes for autists,
rational but socially inept, the corners
of the rooms are round and purple
because it's less threatening than the geometry
of rightangled corners. My room
turned out a little like that when,
as my dying father lay in the attic,
my screen bloomed a numinous purple
light daubing the walls until the
bedroom, an anagram of boredom,
seemed like a featherlite love poem shop:
a little girl's lava lamp of a room!
Sometimes the seeping foxglove aura
vacillated back and forth between
purple and its normal screen light,
refusing to settle for any long period of time.
My bro said I'd caught some virus;
the computer programmer down the pub
just said dying, and he was right,
for by the time Blue passed away,
Blue being the art-smuggling codename
dad used in his shady occupation,
the computer broke down. R.I.P. data-tree,
and farewell luminous dark of half Denmark!
Now all I can think to say on purple
is this: I would put it in my mouth.
And I would chew on it like a cow
grazes on grass, mulchy and blind.
And I would ingurgitate it fully
not spit it out like a child his dummy.
I would taste it like her name. It's
the colour of mystery and sex and
saudade and longing and shame. And
it's the colour we associate with depth.
When I first looked at the colours of the vowels
I noticed the presence of its absence,
as if you'd expect it there because
it's the colour of deep things.

RAP NO # 19

Dream with open eyes or else you’ll force / the bird in the wood to turn out a horse / the dog used to run up to the farm / the Natural world has a psychosensitive fire alarm / I like Boards of Canada / I like Radiohead/ I like Arab Strap / not so much The Grateful Dead / and I can be free from tradition and institution and emotional repression and profusion / it’s why I sip cyanide but now I am gone / and I’ve left my pink pyjamas on / space is big and the middle is the edge and the edge is the middle and the roadside hedge / is brimming with metaphors / I will collect / and later in love I will get wrecked / and you’ll get ruined / and we will say yes / to each other’s plans / but it’s just a guess / and from a Saturnine corridor / we will emerge through the Other Door / and ladybirds love as much as us / and lay on the charm / and make a right fuss / but to be in love with the idea of love is only to be in love with your own sadness.

RAP NO # 34 

Such a glum day at the foot of Black Combe/ a day that recalls the eyes of a fish/ but mother always said from the mundane can come/ a wish-fulfilment fantasy if you wish/ I think for a split second of the taste of heroin/ then I pause to consider Kurt Cobain/ then I think of slipping inside a watercolour/ then I think of travelling by xylophone / if I include you when it goes tits up/ I’ll have to scrap it all and start all over/ PURE GENIUS is written on the coffee cup / I got from another former lover / but it’s you I await in a dream without a packet/ pacing in the solipsistic kitchen of fiction/ the kettle rises to its silent scream / its steam Ariel returning on Caliban’s chain / and we won’t be walking anywhere today / we’ll have to stay in and have a brew / I’ll be trying to think of something funny to say / that brings a sunshine-y smile out of you / hey how’s it going have you got a new remit? / I fell from the top to the bottom before / I might try a new stance and angle of approach / before you come and knock on the back door / excellent news could be delivered in a reel / renaming reality could last forever / the poet only grows bare in the soul / his anger at the sun is a rusty saw / he sends a share in chair legs on the blustery wind / he doesn’t want to do anything unless he’s sure / he needs a brand new female friend / he knows what you get when you mess with the law / and that the guitar is tuned as it is for the reason of maximum variety. 


I’ll show you how strange and wild
With wanton promise comes she
On an unknown hour
Like an uninvited guest
You’ve somehow brought to bed.

All night we’d
Sit and think of history
As if it hadn’t passed,
The great wars and the ancient peoples
And all the silly fears.

We’d think of how much we’ve changed
And how much we’ve remained the same.

We’d think of moments of mine
We somehow shared and how I longed to live
In circling illumination of all those moments,
Fragments gone.

And softly I wished
To expand history back into the past
And never to move again an inch forwards.
And to run through the memory of Time,
Ancient, timeless galleries.

Often we’d sit and think of speaking
Or retiring to bed or even sleeping.
Always we’d realise we never had
Time enough to waste or spend.

So we gloried in ourselves
Like invincible lovers,
Always boundless in new being.

And if I seldom spoke in sad regret,
She would turn and smile
As if to boldly offer

‘Come take my hand,
And we’ll wander across no-man’s land.'




I prophesied the ire ii net way back as a seven year old. 

I wrote one poem in which a clock is only as fast as a cheetah. 

I did the maths for the red skin cell in the same book.

I do not know if that means the new colour as a scar though. 

I invented in theory a living spreadsheet called Grand-darth’s Ship.

I conducted a scientific test on a theory from The Lords And The New Creatures.

I divorced, that is, the object ‘hashish’ from its name, habits, associations.

I met the juggernaut, that bird which wriggles its little wing.

I encountered and read the living spreadsheet “Grand-darth’s Ship.”

I honestly cannot recall what I even did with the hideous thing. 

I survived mine own maths for the red skin cell in the bath. 

I don’t know if what I mean is the new colour as a scar. 

I wrote an album called The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob. 

I started a second band called Oedipus Wrecks who gigged in town. 

I lead my Jewish buddies to the face of stars on a starry night.

I started a diy poetry press/ magazine while still at school. 

I started a third band called Secret Chord H – a metaphor. 

I spoke against September 11th in the year 2000. 

I uttered the name and concept of my future tutor’s future paper. 

I got the address for our Plough alignment wrong, saying “maybe in India.”. 

I predicted the God Particle from looking at dust in a sunbeam. 

I wrote the highest-marked A-level exam essay in the country. 

I recorded an album through state of the art binaural earphones in The Flood. 

I had a mobile phone I can only describe as effervescent. 

I wrote some good undergraduate pieces like Lucy In The Soul With Demons.

I was placed under a curse and became mentally ill and diagnosed.

I still got a first but was sent insane as I have said already. 

I hosted the alignment of The Plough and Black Combe. 

I attested to large skywriting at The Secret Garden Party. 

I attested to a pint glass exploding from thin air in the capital. 

I found my name scratched on Piper At The Gates of Dawn.

I listened in to many a psycho-technological post-poem. 

I formed a full fathom fifth band in Black Hole Myths. 

I worked at a numinous, purple-bleeding computer screen. 

I had a book that emanated the smell of redolent perfume. 

I had a book that seemed to have lost a limpid line it once had. 

I built The Tower as an instrument of civil engineering. 

I cooked the tape whose pause in the song where cut and glued in the reel healed and was gone. 

I discovered the James P D Tucker sheet that grew pictures. 

I discovered the pictures depict the lyric of a song I once wrote. 

I did what it took to attain visual radio broadcasting dreams.

I suddenly heard from a little bird of The Future State of Poetry. 

I recently had Reiki to block the curse I was placed under. 

I am thinking of preserving nothing from before that moment. 

I think my father would hate my use of the first person pronoun herein.

I think my Prep School teacher would bemoan the lack of variety. 


For money, you cannot ignore them,
the house-pipes glugging a guilty gulp from
a big, culpable jug of the ug of drug or
smuggle or ugly truth revealed inside.


You wish to make things chime like bells,
reverberating up in the fells and strike
a warm, psychic chord, use a word-hoard
including the new dog Baxter's bark.


This time, you hope to note the loose,
Betfair jingle of shingle lifted from
the big, flat bird-table when cars arrive in
Cumpstones drive or if they leave.


You intend to reference the MacBethian
treeline of windmills, with their Mercedez
Benz sign arms revolving out there
on the blur and seam of the Irish Sea.


As a fellwalker you smell a poem on
the breeze wherever you walk in this
bucolic spot, encouraged by the grizzly
drone of the tractor in the background.


You love the fresh, redolent, enervating
scent of change fermenting on the breeze,
the ferment of music in your head,
the tidal roar of wind in the trees.


The edge of The National Park is truly
demarcated by traffic lights, on the
bridge over the trout-brown Duddon,
drawn with appropriate faces for the waiting.


How the Plough alignment, holy cow,
that goes by the name of “white eyebrow,”
has only worked for the poet Mr. Obama
in my whole lifetime, I do not know.


Literature from the city is of alienation
and born from rootedness, it's repetitive,
while if the city's intellectual breeding ground,
rural life is closer to how we ought live.


It's but a myth that countryfolk are dim
just because the rhythm of life is slower,
and that there are tunnels lines with free beer 
dispensers and fruit machines in the fell.


You reckon the artistic centre of the universe
is ubiquitous, the same ideas available
everywhere on Tap, and a religion can not
be transplanted from its landscape.


The Enlightenment is the simultaneous
astrological and sociological de-centering
of Man and the White House its child
in terms of both philosophy and build.


A bullet to the top of the telegraph pole
standing in the Combe field before the fell  
will only wed you to the mating queen in dreams
and the pole itself is already Robert Lowell.


My brother and I mow the grass here
for nothing, for mother, and we share
the workload, dividing the front and back
and it takes a day, still excluding up the beck.


That is the shocking truth revealed inside,
a burlesque newsprint headline, sending 
up the parochialism of this siding. 


The Tower is a mad childishing, containing
the fume of the mating queen, a mystery -
and a vanished line: “history is a way of thinking
about history without thinking about history.”


Gone are the new creatures like pudding,
though we spare several weird species of insect
crawling out of severed telephone cable,
as if to have vision is to have tunnel vision.


I quite like shoplifters of the world uniting
in a loose, nerveless ballet of looting,
when weird sudden giants have knocked a new door
that will not lock for all the docs of the law.


It is later that we think said WH Auden,
like meaning comes after in riots and art,
like Rimbaud bemoaning the peasants only
revolting to loot and burn, no coup d'etat.


If liberalism is the allowing of all perceptions
and it leads to Hamlet's harmatia irresolution,
pragmatism can be the reactivation
of an attitudinisation in that situation.


Food, prawn and chilli, tomato pasta,
got to move faster, to my ghetto blaster,
the walls are shaking maybe the plaster 
will crumble like the hash of a Rasta, 
fed up writing, witness in the lightning,
never got a penny, living off the State,
wait for Kate she is never coming back, 
and we have still failed to paint it black, 
track the low hanging sensational star 
back to the boot of a beat up old car 
driving around London Town, down 
in the south, it started out as a noun, 
planes are the shoes of clowns down there, 
binoculars to God hanging tight in a bra, 
Rah the Sun-god is sleeping upstairs, 
I don’t want to be doing this says ma, 
it’s too cold for starters, and anyway 
we’re all martyrs in this modern day, 
training the river to sit on the point 
of a pin when you’re high on a joint, 
begin with the Louvres then manoeuvre 
the Hoover to the song it is a groover, 
lover is later, a bit like an alligator, 
tripping on a trinket a bit like a traitor, 
dreaming of an Eden, dreaming of an Eve, 
oh what a mess, you would never believe,
it’s so hard to cook when people can’t be arsed
to put things away, let past be past, 
got to give up sugar, got to give up smoking, 
and I am not joking, I am not poking, 
forever is forever, it dips in the middle, 
all at once the cat ran away with the fiddle,
a drivel while I drive, I was free to cook 
but I sat here all day glued to a new book,
dreaming of the green eyed princess, 
and now you arrive I am all in a mess, 
need some more peppercorns and then 
we’ll chill with the still all over again,
play let’s pretend and draw on money, 
all sorts of funny faces that aren’t very funny. 


She used to do the washing up in the river.
Now she has got a dishwasher.
If necessity is the Mother of Invention, 
it does not augur well for my Millennial list:

- a virtual death machine

- a drug called Strictly Free,
that does what it says on the tin, 
is and makes you strictly free to consume 

- a word-chord constructing piano
at the vacillating threshold of resolution 

- an holographic horsecock wheeled
into the Prime Minister’s bedroom 

- a red-bleeding type-writer
inside a ping-pong ball 

- an invisible square of air called
stroked on live television 

- a neutraliser drink that expunges
all noxious toxins of deleterious 
self-derision from the bloodstream…

These things seem to have no need.
I think of them while I am washing up.
They may be images born of privation. 
There were further futuristic ideations too. 
One might also consider things like:

- receiving a random text
messagefrom an alien

- having the mind all
about you on a screen

- a quick Nirvana pill or
maybe Nirvana button

- a website called
true love dot com

- the doors computer game

- a God Simulation including 
real live lightning bolts 
daggering down 

- a psycho-sensitive fire alarm 
sounding out like a 
demented, stentorian bird

- high ideals I have invented like 
Heartbook and the Smartpoem 

- a fruit salad of Apple and 
Orange and Kiwi 
Fruit and Grape

- a spiritual or germ X-ray acting 
as a cinematographic super-freeze

- two brand new types of 
poetic feet in the spongadiddle 
and the bongsteroo

- Top of the Poets on 
magic alphabet radio 

- a computer somehow 
speaking to you in the style 
of Arthur Rimbaud 
(translated by Mathieu). 

Again there is no need for such things. 
They may be but consumerist entertainment. 
A button with which you can text yourself 
to sleep may augment the little list but 
they exist in a state of Unreality. What’s 
wrong with them is they aren’t Real. 

Anyhow, I was just faced with tonnes
of washing up. It needed doing. 
I surrendered to the necessity 
and on doing that a poem 
started to form. Now I am free. 

I am free to dream of other inventions, 
though I’d rather tell it like it is. 


A Russian has a right to a square of red perceived by someone from another land and Liberty and Trade go hand in hand. Smell is the most primal sense, in love, absent in cinema. Blissful Lovingness is where all religions meet. Better and worse are but materialistic, Western concepts. The Age of Communication momentarily endorses, means the Age of Alienation. Each age is unable to see its own prejudices, its own cage of retrospective categorisation. The Age of Enchantment is an echo of The Enlightenment. The Enlightenment is the simultaneous astrological and sociological de-centering of Man. The opposite of something is the pre-requisite. The pre-verbal, the thought-pattern, into words, via the mechanics of meaning, is dilution. The condition of knowledge produces no Triumph. When you renounce the quest for meaning, you find it, fall back on meaning-by-proxy. When you lose your concentration you die. Your ordinary speech is surreal enough. There are too many words in the world. Everything living shares the same heartbeat in a given lifespan. The artist is the missing link reintegrating into a society of worms below and the artistic spirit androgynous. You should not trust systems for they rule with fear not love. All guns should be flown in a spaceship into the heart of the sun. Without difference no contradistinction. Everyone is my brother and I love them. 


In the hour before sunrise the Eastern sky is a negative.
The trees in the garden hog an inky blackness. 
Then the bird-nosed sun probes over the horizon;
and floating in the quiet of a weightless dawn, 
the buzzard is the crux of the flux of Time.
He knows to obviate not titivate like me, o’er
the top of the fell. The foothill of Black Combe 
is called Sea Ness, and according to a white witch 
who proofread for Norman Nicholson, it was once 
Seer Ness, after a seer and his trance. Nobody 
seems sure if it was St. Patrick or not but I am 
known as the seer now by some locals certainly. 
I’ve seen strange creatures, I’ve seen the face of 
stars, I’ve seen the future on several accounts, 
I’ve seen quite a lot more, but am still not sure.
Nevertheless I love to live here a Londoner 
in the Lakes, devoting my life to literature.  
Nature’s scales are diatonic and from all background 
static depression here is her sonic, spiritual tonic. For 
all there is no noise in Nature, only sound. The beck 
runs its hand through an angel’s hair in the background. 
The powers that be may be clouds passing by 
in slowtime on their superior roads while down 
here our own roads are still meant for horse and cart.
Only opportunities for vice, the birth of the internet
and the MacBethian treeline of windmills out 
to sea revolving their Mercedes-Benz sign arms
seem new since Nicholson mapped the area. 
Also global warming, making me feel eco-poetic…
well, the literature of rootedness can be repetitive;
still it is a pretty and privileged place to live.
At sunset, pale, emaciated, blue, monastic light 
calls to you from over the dark shoulder of the fell. 
By summer nights, the pink blossoms look like 
white snow in the darkness. Then the moon might 
emanate a mercury halo up there in the ragged, 
Gothic, wolverine, malting, Star Destroyer clouds,
lighting the dark. Meanwhile, down on Silecroft 
Beach the waves make gentle love to the shore.


If after garage and house comes library,
that may be where we go to learn things, to see 

“full fathom five” could not be another number 
for Virgil says “there are tears in things,” brother.

I dream of a magnetic language, by the way;
that Radiohead’s a field with a river down the way, 

where mad children can splash and play too, 
trying to escape the blue that they once knew.

Jerry Springer, meanwhile, won’t breed gilly flowers, 
and between us is the weather, the weather ours.

The Yellow DogMuckels M atop the pole 
is the postmodern churchspire, bad for the soul, 

in the spiritual vacuum, postmodernism theme
dissolved into message. To relive the dream, 

the effect of global warming on the unicorn
succeeded Piper At The Gates of Dawn, 

became a kind of Freudian, postmodern ‘id,’
left us all feeling irate a bit like poor Syd. 

Ours is the generation with X tattooed on its face
and we copied it from a ballad to Outer Space.

Numbness to love will likely heal the wound, 
where selfhood is a tumulus or burial mound. 

Don’t fit in or else you may well never fly.
When you lose your concentration you die. 

Even that means to an end the alphabet 
could seem Nelly the Elephant’s suicide note… 

the stars themselves have turned out sleeping pills, 
and only seem visible up in the green hills. 

The new rain falls with as many tiny hands
as there are names for unformed rock bands. 

Society has started changing inordinately fast,
since they erected a new telephone mast. 

Portability seems the Apotheosis of Form 
and it’s not impossible to write an anti-poem.

McTruth and Flies could be an inscape of wings
that flap around, careless as lost key-rings. 

There is ironic equipoise in their collocation.
Isomorphic, they underwrite the name of a nation. 

So I get dumbed down against the rising tide, 
and say the first things that pop into my head. 

I privilege a standard of truthfulness ahead of 
a need to sell a story, and wish I was in love.


I love the day the first, fresh scents 
of spring suffuse the air 
and pervade the senses.

An AEIOU bird 
toots its hollow horn 
outside on the A595. 

A celebratory genesis is everywhere. 

Mother earth 
is giving birth,
menstruating season 
and ovulating dawn.

Fresh lovers maunder hand in hand 
and knee-deep in redolent flowers 
into shade to take repose 
by cool, running waters.

Sybaritic sylphs swoop in sentient air.

The blue sky arches and swoons, 
I bridle the mind and race 
apace to the shore where 
seabirds scream from the ragged rocks,
O is it their love-song or elegy?

Waves make gentle love to the shore. 

Liquid night spills on 
O moon, O beautiful,
sleepless omen moon, 
who shines like an 
electric coin and 
seems to be in 
love with the sea 
or at least her own 
reflection: she scatters 
her jewellery box all around. 

Homework tonight is 
to remember your dreams.

I prefer telepathy to 10p.

Because the world goes round and round.


May mandibles mumble “marry me!”
to the pulchritudinous, nubile sylph
of dreams, and who knows, may she
answer “yes I'll be your wife,”
and may we all grow up to be
now and here and real in life.

Feeling too, proving love not death...
and may we park the driverless car
and be cool, not know sexual dearth,
but know of her soft, mangled jaw,
down on sentient, rosethirsty earth,
where all the stars seem so far.

May the Ancient Night capsize
the cave-skull of the Undying Worm
and may we all grow up to be wise,
and not be terrorists, and park at the farm
and look her in the emerald eyes
and gaze and muse and love and dream...

for the very bonemarrow of beauty
is to be here and now and real -
and may we all fulfil our duty
and not want to cheat or steal -
and may we not be made to feel lonely -
for lonely is no way to feel at all -

may we seat the blood in its Roman throne
and decant the moaning wine of sighs
and on our dying, when all alone,
may we have sipped from her eyes,
known love under stars, and flown
in freewheeling machines over the seas.

May we  feel the resin in our souls,
crushed with butterfly wing, mascara bruise,
velvet and feather, may the holes
hold out in the soles of our shoes,
and may we not live in goldfish bowls
but turn on to the excellent news.

May grey turn blue and may red wear
a glittery dress to the new ball,
may all our deals be right and fair,
may not our angels come to fall,
may the circle fall in love with the square,
may the door not come off the wall.

May you be you and me be me,
may we speak not in stuffed double,
may all manner of things be free,
may we keep out of the way of trouble,
may our hour of darkness now be
gone and may no-one burst this bubble.

May we all wear what we want,
may the sleeping bodies wake,
may the sea not give up the hunt,
may the loving feeling not be fake,
may the pollen not have to be a front
for the art that the mad people make.

May the face of stars come down
from its sweet packet picnic in the sky,
may the guitars between the stars be tuned
into a beautiful, new kind of key,
may the new songs not all be drones,
may the free life never have to die.

May the new dawn mesh the best
of my new writing into a new look book,
may the myriad mess pass the test,
may the people even take a look,
where the metal vest of the West
is buried in too deep for its own sake.

May the gushing beck flow on
reminding of music but not the wood,
may the lamb meat not be gone,
may the remnant day be good,
may my loving brother's son
be born like he'd hoped he would.

May we be aloft on states of ecstasy,
may the local town celebrate together,
may the way ahead still be free,
may the sign of your day be purple heather,
may the world not come to see
falling frogs in its new weather.

May madness not obfuscate truth,
may I be a decent, loving person,
may we be free as we were in our youth,
may our conditions not worsen,
may we not surrender like a rented thing to death,
may we all learn well to listen.

May the gone things be retrieved,
may the lost and last E be regained,
may the dreams we have be achieved,
may the consciousness not be stained,
may my new look book not have deceived,
may I now look at the river I've trained.

May I be sensible, know when to stop,
may I heed the need for a warning,
may we not sell our souls to pop,
may we be happy with the morning,
may the sad raindrops no longer drop
on the new patio at the amazing dawning.

May the tone and colour of love be one,
may the mad bankmachine learn to lend,
may people be free to have fun,
may knowledge not be pretend,
may Kate do well under the sun,
may Kit my puppet friend understand.

May diamonds shine under the earth
and in the branches of the tree of heaven,
may we dig deep for them both,
may we let our children imagine,
may we shock only with new truth,
may we be better than Dylan and Lennon.

May the canonical voices switch off
and the late conveyor belt of poetry
not like an engine splutter and cough,
may love and happiness happen more easily,
may a playground swing on the edge of life
blow gently in the breeze for all eternity.



E was the heart of the new creature science 
E kept it hidden for decades in silence

E met the juggernaut as had James Joyce 
E didn’t know if it even had any voice 

E invented a living spreadsheet too 
called “Grand-darth’s Ship” and E might know 

if media compression has to be the way 
a true new creature can come into play 

(it was a flat, plastic rectangle with a pattern 
of black eggs splurged on top all of a sudden 

in a jacket that E had tried on and taken off)
E kind of objects to being called a toff 

E wrote “I have a scar+ that is red and black”
putting in a plus sign for the F of scarf like 

E had done the maths for the red skin cell 
E recognises that one isn’t Universal 
E took two Jews to the face of stars 
far from the passing of the midnight cars 
E lead the brothers through the Vortex again 
E said when the Towers were going to come down

E foresaw the God Particle’s discovery 
from looking at dust in a sunbeam differently 

E uttered the name and concept of his future 
University tutor’s unpublished scientific paper 

E got the address for our Plough alignment 
wrong even though E was being prescient 

E wrote the highest marked A-level exam 
in the country and E deemed it just spam 

E recorded through binaural earphones 
in full de-tunings and Eastern style drones
E had and held an effervescent mobile 
reverberating the rhythm of William Tell 

through every technological inlet in the room 
before it rang from his old man, whom

it would seem gave E the phone as a gift 
one Christmas, forever healing the rift 

then some fuckwit put E under a powerful curse 
and E didn’t know but it made life worse 

E was sent insane before he got his degree 
and lived nearly two decades in ignorant misery 

but E still hosted the alignment of Plough and fell 
E attested to large skywriting as well 

E encountered a pint glass exploding from 
thin air in the city and many a post-poem 

E found his name tattooed on Piper 
as if by some sprightly hypertext-sniper  

E had a tape with a tiny little pause 
where it was glued and it became a lost cause

E put the tape in the AGA when it healed,
when the pause was gone and all love revealed 

E used to write at a purple-bleeding screen 
some people say that E became a machine 

E built The Tower out of magical books 
E freed many minds from the heart of the sticks 

E discovered the sheet where the pictures grew 
E might be me and then E might be you 

E’s got the whole wide world in his hands 
Nirvana were one of E’s favourite bands

E’s mother says E’s gone and fried his brain 
but if E had the choice E’d do it againe 

E would half it and laugh it with his brother 
E would find a way to engage with the Other 

E would light it and write it on a comedown 
at the Gates of Hell, and burn and unlearn 

and E would be free to connect in all directions 
and Even A Dick Gets Big Erections 

and E feet walk in a sensuous graffiti of 
blind white light when you fall madly in love 

but E has developed in his soul a new jingle
and it is the stance that E is to stay single 

E found out E had been cursed at last 
and E decided to do away with the past 

E says an anti poem contains the negative 
of the mewling foot but wants to stay positive

E had a poem that encrypted the mystical
as a series of adverts for imaginary products, all 

satirising consumerist greed at the same time
then E rewrote it so that it would rhyme 

if E had to keep one poem from before 
E might rework that one and E thinks guitar 

music is of dad’s generation but poetry 
is not a dead art form, as some people say 

E says it is the dancing of the soul to 
the music of the heart when it feels blue 

E says it is not as Simon says, the cancer 
of language, for E thinks it is the answer 

E thinks the poet a translator of feelings 
not just someone who passes out on ceilings 

E seeks to delight in a wilful opacity about 
what E gets up to and scatter seeds of doubt 

but E keeps crawling back to naked, face 
value exposition about his life, his place, 

his Naturalistic Observationism, of childhood, 
when E first stood being good in the wood

E wants to redeem the dream of being a writer
E keeps wondering if his fag lighter 

would survive a shipwreck, that leads to a 
desert island, where he needs to make fire 

E has very good manners and is very kind 
E knows of madness and the split mind 

E has seen extremes of the human condition 
E has lost a lot of trust and been in the institution

E had a hard upbringing, but has now relaxed
E is for Jupiter now, and E is also for sex 

E concatenates the red electric guitar 
E coined the word amazeballs, and the genre

‘grime’ in the year 1998 down in London 
E was 7 when he first found dad’s pollen 


The universe is but a projection of the mind. 
The G note is green on the guitar fretboard.
‘Born Slippy’ is evidence dance can have soul. 
Poetry is untranslatable. Death is God. 
These are beliefs of Dr. Calculator Ptom. We 
boarded a train not knowing where it was headed,
fell asleep and were woken by the conductor, 
somewhere around Luton, missing a ticket.
We got sent packing back the same way home,
slept the day under leaves in a suburban wood…
we were sparsely dressed as if it were Rome, 
so the end result was that we felt the cold. 
I liked ‘noetic’ meaning ‘of the mind,’ but 
‘Homeric’ was his favourite word, he said.
Bold we were in the London days, two youths 
writing notes on hyper-vision like The Dude. 
It’s not too hard, for example, just to believe
that Monopoly Money should work on bread. 
It wasn’t long before, at the age of sweet 16,
I started my consumption of timeless acid. 
I guess at first I believed in the substance 
as a tramp must believe in his next food. 
Soon Dr. Ptom and I became blood-brothers,
and we still are, after a sporting exchange of blood. 
I feel bad because when I first met the guy
I lied and told him my dad was a landed Lord. 
Still, they were happy days, the Summer of Love, 
when we rode the rhythm, and felt so good. 

(Hadrian Unit)


I read through the news, 
hats off to your blues,
a chimney falls under my head.

I stomach the wood 
that tastes very good, 
like mopping up gravy with bread.

I glow for the coal, 
don't bury your soul, 
backwards in spire I get high.

I'd change for the house 
that's quiet as a mouse 
and emblazon my name in the sky.

I'd slip through the skin 
of a thesis as thin 
as the Rizla it's in and be born.

I'd burn and unlearn 
what names people darn, 
with tyger-tongue scream of the dawn.

I'd sip on White Russians, 
on white and South African, 
and amble to 360 vision.

To take out my eyes and
see in all directions at once
is but one general direction.


Along the ancient way beside the River Esk,
we puffed our pot at a tarn at perfumed dusk, 

perambulated back through concussive dark, 
guided by nothing but a cigarette lighter's spark,

came out of the dripping trees into the open,
the universe enlumed, drenched with electric diamonds,

crossed on the stepping stones to the other side
and a fire fish tail well it conspired to glide

across the dashboard like wet, electric semen 
and Tom and my hands shot up meaning 

we were already pointing up at the face rapt,
the face where the fire fish tail fizzed out

like a wink from its twinkle twinkle little eye
and I won't omit that we emitted a little sigh

like a Fanta can can when away on holiday 
in Portugal or Spain where natterjack-sparrows play; 

and so by the dark dream radio of the wood
in synchronicity, simultaneity and syncretism we stood

gazing at the face enraptured and enthralled
the face that is now to my myriad mind recalled

when from the river bank Ben came to join us
to have me elongate his eyebeam across the universe

to that face of stars who surely made no nose
and then I was me and they a duo of Jews

and everything was amazeballs, yes, yes, yes,
and for once I was not just the solitary witness

but out there with friends footloose and fancy free,
less than seventy three miles from the Irish Sea.


“Don’t tell Moronika,” squawks the purple parrot perched on the shoulder of Dr. Calculator Ptom. A green parrot, meanwhile, was sent to space through the conch, singing “I won’t always be an orange just because you’ve sectioned me, no I won’t always be on Orange just because you’ve sectioned me – but at any given time I’m working in a crane.” Now that a salmon has escaped the ancient net, a sprightly hypertext-sniper on Piper At The Gates of Dawn accrues to the procession, and the anguila eel is wet, named after the devil for mysteriously appearing in the puddles of towns on rainy days. A Lion Bar is driven through the economy in a car and a carfume whooshes from the unicorn’s bottom… and why did the chicken cross the road if not to break on through to the Other Side? I am the Burger King, I can eat anything. Preferably a Double Whopper with cheese, fries and a large Coke. Gone north, to the foot of the oldest fell Black Combe, where the Plough aligns, I would say the buffering boa-constrictor of loneliness could be the wind. The scissor-bird is smitten with the chocolate mousse but the chocolate mousse prefers the Kit Kat. Baxter the dog sits down. James Bond’s fly ‘is’ and ‘isn’t’ at the same time, buzzing in B flat. The computer mouse is universal. My brother James takes Baxter the dog out for a walk on a beach where a dead seal lies washed up on the golden sand.


Let us have a go then, you and I -
when we are tired of getting high - 
when the note-well is filled with giggling, 
frilly sisters of stars, let us kindly lie 
down on the top of the oldest fell, 
one midsummer night on the heather, 
and munch our popcorn in front of the cinema. 

Let us travel by xylophone up there, or,
even better, bullet up the top of a 
telegraph pole opening plentiful CD shops
at all the local telegraph pole tops. 

Let us bypass normal societal procedure,
and stay there until we yawn at the dawn 
and emerge from dreams as if from water,
brush the crumbs of sleep from our 
eyes, befuddled, encrusted with glue…

For up the fell no cars come and go
with rudeboy bats on the stereo;
and no go faster stripes of blood
are streaming on the unicorn’s side. 

Ha, let us open a Burger King joint 
at the top, not so much to reappoint 
the pantheon of Greco-Roman gods 
whom it seems disintegrate under their sods,
but to allow a new sense of archaic gay,
replace that emotion now gone astray 
with gun and bud and band and butter:
let it be like writing a long letter 
either to or maybe from a higher self 
whose brain sits upon a Waterstones shelf. 

Let us first dare the darkness to insist 
we sip our flasks at night and get pissed
on firewater whisky – let us turn 
to God and see what we might learn. 

If God still equals pi times mc squared,
because you want to think Him round,
and O is still the key of water, be assured, 
and its most soul-assuring sound,
let us babble down in the morning, 
all the way, heeding the warning, 
to make as mezzanine our science, 
in an increasingly competitive world…

already the elements have nettle stings for names.
The deep, green lane leads you home,
but first you must launch your song 
into the blue ether like a Timeshare salesman
sizzling the dream of a plate of roast beef.

Draw on this dystrophy of darkness
soon coming to your cinema screen 
now that we’re at the summit and can glean 
honed alertness, awareness, from a purpose 
achieved over a long afternoon of walking,
walking side by side and even talking 
on telepathic walkie talkies of how no,
there’s no such thing as the Nirvana barcode,
how maybe in Heaven every step 
we’ve taken up the fell, will be kept 
in a pile for us to count and compare -
or how there will be no statistics up there. 

Ah, I forget if we are up or down -
let us fetch the wines of the wise men -
it seems planes are the shoes of clowns -
but forgetting is part of escape and return…
there is only loss of self and recollection, 
which templates over life and writing, 
which templates over experience and data,
which templates over the now and the after.

Let us phone a supernatural female deity 
on collect call, and find that she 
never hangs up, after a prayer, 
let us pray to the closing of the door,
the ordeal of the seer may well soon be over,
the on and off at once invention is far too clever, 
let be the beck as it rambles and falls, 
let know the flowing of dry stone walls, 
let over be under and all be at one, 
let the land of flying fairy cakes be fun. 

Some say the effects of acid and acid-rain 
on an imaginary species equal the same, 
nothing, but then again there can be 
no more proof, if you ask me, 
of something being real than saying 
it was imagined, and so the effect of global warming 
on the unicorn is still a postmodern id,
and that must be something hidden from the kid.

Margins are centres, centres margins,
surface is depth, and distortion 
clarity, and there is a lot of cheap tea
from Africa in among the supermarket bargains…

Hell, we’ll have another game of cards.
We’ll link to the internet in actual clouds. 
Yes chink pelvises like champagne flutes
atop the fell wearing leather walking boots. 

It seems in dreams I find an organisational system 
for the organic whole of the magnum 
opus, that living work of art 
I might call Gondwanaland yet 
which is a living thing, and which I leave so long, 
until Truman speakers wake me like a gong 
augmenting the end of the Lemon Song. 

Who will renew the morning dew 
that music has moved the grass to?
All the birds have gone south by now.
I heard that they sing with their wings. 


You can't have your break bird with the skin of snake
and eat it. You can take a horse to water and drink
the horse. Don't forget if you are getting a puppy
for Christmas, THINK and wear a seatbelt. Drink
driving is for life not just for Christmas. One door
closes, another door parades in dandified attire.
We go a month of Mondays and by the time we
arrive, several weird species of insectivorous spy
crawl out of severed telephone cable. Life is not
just like a box of chocolates. One door closes
another one allows for an otter to be exchanged
for a snake over long distances. When in Rome
all roads shit in the woods. The bear is a catholic.
Sticks and stones may break on the beach but
words will never go for a run. By the Combe I
sat down and wept. And did those feet in ancient
times raindown and walk the sun? Never judge
a book by the blurry photograph of James’ sheet
that bloomed or even grew pictures depicting a
lyric from one of my old songs on the front of it.


Break, bird w/ the skin of snake,
seabird w/ the skin of dreams and flake,
stand naked on broken school
and have no clue as to who you are,
you and the child brother who weaned you,
who found you, who ran fast away.
Leave no chaos in your wake.
Turn wet water into wine like turning
turgid lessons into playful break.
Blow the candles off your birthday cake.
Be old, senile as the ancient lake,
(my God it's full of giggling stars
that swap places when no-one is looking),
and be as nothing, for God's sake.
For we are summoned to eat burned steak,
at the end of another busy working week.
Be fair, be averaged out like a wave,
that rises and reaches an ecstatic peak,
soar on high o'er green fields, where
petals fell that made her fall down weak.
Pray not tell of when smoke spoke,
felled and crumbled by a minor earthquake.
Leave w/ her hurts in your bark,
bite the bullet in your swelling beak,
begging the whole wide world to birth.
Africa, soon may mend your ache.
Thailand, craft the love you make.
London, let us off the secrets we leak,
the laws we break, the lies we speak.
Curse the lies, and up w/ the cheek.
Long the bogroll out and allow
the baby's kick to not be a fake.
Morning has broken w/ a bone to pick.
A chick flick channel to drink until you choke.
To watch until it makes you sick.
'Luke,' the first voice said, it said 'Luke' -
and that it was imbrocation is my take.
Now there are millions as if by fluke,
raining e-mails down on Nick Drake.
Raining e-mails down on the Duke.
Rein back the voices, the eels of children,
silvered, and let me take a toke
on the Nirvana-blue solar spike
w/ whom I battle or just a long stick.
Stick to the backbeat on the click track.
Lay me down on my long back
and let me take a good long look
up at the lake, shining w/ stars, and like.
Let electricity run through the beck.
Let us seething wet meet in fleck.
Let pornography pan out in the system
that we arraign and inveigh against in my book.
Lo and behold, here comes a shock.
A numpty comes in a whole flock,
a dream escape from a mean old rock,
lowered down from a tower block.
Lo and behold, we took your rook
and hold your fate in our hands
and choose w/ it to burn the black,
back in the mansion of J. S. Bach.
Mine b/t/w/ is the book that shook.
Look under the rock where I crawled into
a nook too soon to sign the guitar pick.
Loom on high o'er the low fields
where grass can grow so creamy and thick,
seek the wick of the candlestick.
Look not for the time on the kitchen clock.
We've agreed there is none, no joke.
Gordon Ramsey knows how to cook.
Check the back, for a new word
or two describing my new work.
The porcelain laptop is an Apple Mac.
The fridge is full of delicious pork.
Smashed, I type, my fingers have crashed,
on a screen where before was board and chalk,
when they may need to go for a walk.
They mean goodnight, mean God bless,
and be not afear'd of the dark,
I'm here whenever you need to talk,
and although I might not be sunny as Blake,
at least I no longer ship around five bags
for a black dude on a riot-stolen bike.


Isolated we are up here like the tiny islands 
of the words “I love this place,”

tiny islands of the ink droplets that 
comprise the tiny islands themselves,

and I do love it, parked beside the sea 
with you staring out at the residual glow 

in dark mountain range clouds out there 
where the tiny island of The Isle of Man 

seems feint and like a stray dog 
sleeping on the horizon’s vertical wall 

that props up the windfarm out there…
we speak of the privilege of place 

inside the privilege and pleasure 
of each other’s company, in the car, 

not quite in love but in fond affection,
enjoying each other’s loquacious charms. 

Why I would isolate and pinpoint 
this moment with dull precision I don’t 

know but maybe to form a narrative. History, 
where everything happened, proceeds 

through conceptually carved up eras, 
cut into neatly sealed packages, 
digestible bytes and portions. They 
say the poet, like the madman in searching 

for the teleological reason of illness, 
also cherry picks and isolates moments -

and a moment it certainly was, sitting 
in the car, half-way to Heaven as now,

trying to close the distance between us 
with words. Blink if you are sexy. 


Barnes has scored a liquid horse 
it got on to the writing course 
and when at last its work was done 
then it flew back to the sun 
when it returned it was burned
the people asked what had been learned 
and Barnes’ horse said why of course 
we have to have more intercourse 

Barnes has scored a liquid noose 
and it’s full of pussy juice 
I’ve never strayed from the plan 
that was put forth by my old man 
we dream in synch we loot the dawn 
we have a cat we don’t watch porn 
and when at last the work is done 
we too shall fly up to the sun 


I think the Night sky only seems to revolve 
on axis unobserved. Only moments ago 
there was a crucifix-shaped constellation,
three stars across, one above, one below, flying 
above the house – but it would not move 
when I stared at it, only when I came 
inside, to my screen and went back out 
a bit later for a smoke. Speaking of a crucifix,
I think my right to write of who meanwhile 
is in the power shower, that makes the house 
sound and feel like a P and O Ferry, ends 
where another’s body begins. I think it is 
rude to write of the living, all writing is fiction, 
and maybe all selfhood mythology. I think 
I agree with Michael McKimm that history 
is malleable and with Syra Sowe that 
there is no immutable truth. So these 
make five tenets of aesthetic faith which 
make one’s creative writing a little bit harder.
At least though there are principles on which 
the art is based, and which I doubtless will 
go against in lax moments, though maybe not,
for I can always delete dodgy poems with 
ruthless and murderous revisionism if 
and when they irk my sense of self-defence.


Washing up againe, 
I think how the provincial poet 
and the Buddhist share 

the belief that freedom 
can come from accepting 
limitation and how 

washing up may become 
like the garden in 
Brian Patten’s urban 

poetry or the leaking 
Tap in Bukowski, my 
recurring decimal, and 

of how the literature 
of rootedness can grow 
quite repetitive, how 

Norman Nicholson would’ve 
been even better had he 
gone like Wordsworth 

to the French Revolution, 
somewhere, anywhere, 
to get miles away, and 

when the work is done,
I feel better for having 
done something good, 

to contribute to the house, 
and make mother’s life 
easier, for as she says, 

life is not about 
being a genius, it’s 
about hard graft, day in 

day out, for as she 
continues, poetry is not 
the entrance and exit of 

life, it is not the root 
cause of all things, which 
I with my over-inflated 

sense of poetry’s worth 
sometimes forget, growing 
as obsessed as Hendrix 

was with practising his guitar, 
nor is it an ego-dystopic 
obsession, but a vocation 

which to those who 
have one means a calling 
and to those that don’t

can mean but a mild, 
Amateurish Hobbyism,
like painting toy soldiers. 


A says to not grow too attached.
B remembers last time you had a woman.
C was sectioned three fucking times. 
D is fickle, renowned for it. 
E will only break your heart. 
F likes to flit from man to man. 
G doesn’t want to pick up the pieces. 
H says it’s fine to kiss and hold hands.
I warns not to have sex too quickly. 
J says what she needs is companionship. 
K says she is lovely, you could be a perfect match. 
L says she is on the rebound watch out.
M just doesn’t want you to get hurt. 
N represents the top of the telegraph pole. 
O is the key of the babbling unicorn.  
P says not to jump in too fast. 
Q is for Queen of Cumbrian scenery. 
R is a psychtrance fan from London. 
S says she heard you two had a snog.  
T says you fancy her rotten already.
U isn’t getting told off just warned. 
V knows she is lovely and beautiful. 
W doesn’t know what’s wrong with it. 
X simply can’t fix it when it goes wrong again.
Y could be the answer to all your problems. 
Z awaits the morning with rapture. 


I love this place, love staying awake at vampire o’clock,
love drinking tea and smoking in the rain before dawn, 
love the way the rain seems to concur with Shakespeare in 
not believing in a sexual truth, only in multiplying 
pleasure… I love the alchemical way it penetrates the ground.
I love loafing around, I love truth, I love the fresh, redolent, 
enervating scent of change fermenting on the ego-loss 
breeze, I love the sound of wind in the trees, I love to 
cut it all back down, my virtual Brainforest, my magnum 
opus, to but a few spatterings of ink. I love the dawn chorus.
I love to call it a day, and I love to start againe, and I 
love every permutation therein. I love to have Kathryn 
supposed to be coming round to pay me a visit today. 
I love the sound even of the cars grumbling up and down 
the valley, before the morning is even really up and running.
I think you’re never so alone as when you’re in love.
I love to defeat plastic with my life. I love to forget. 
I love the happy truce between us in the family againe. 
I love the new music scene around the area, I even 
love lugging the drums about like a roadie for my friend. 
I love the red flowers decorating the table but know they 
are poisonous to eat, so I won’t. I love the valley outside.
I love as I have said the feeling of starting out all over 
againe. I love the way the fag-end of winter has her 
compensations, like a blanket of frost underfoot or the 
rosy red cheeks of a girl down the local train station. I 
love the way plugging your senses in the mains you find 
the Natural World. I love the Natural World. I used 
to love all manner of noxious toxins of deleterious 
influence but now I love to be clear-headed, now I 
think the poet not just pilgrim to Parnassus, deep-sea
diver in collective unconscious, psychic map-maker, 
alchemist of perception, liver-function of language 
but essentially a translator of feelings and the feelings
you get when on illegal drugs are all fake. I love to 
love loving love’s loving lovely lovableness. I love 
to have my health, or some of it, and even though most 
of my youth has gone, I love to look back at it, and love 
likewise to surrender to the present tense. I love the 
smell of tobacco, the feel of dad’s baggy hammock 
from Afghanistan, the copper coin colour of bracken 
on the fell. I even love this winter women’s work. 
I love the whole world, and all its men and women, 
all its actors and players, and I love to connect with them. 
I love to look at the clock and find that it’s ten to eight, 
my birth-time, a time which followed my dad around 
before I was born, and which Stephen Fry uses as his 
example of meaninglessness in The Hippopotamus. I
love to look up at the field before the fell and see the 
sheep lying around and to subconsciously think of 
a stone circle and the length of female’s hair at once.
I love the name of Black Combe and its shape and 
its age and its shadow. I loved the Mind Drop-in 
- a safe space project for the mentally ill in Millom -
but fell out of love with it although I can remember 
saying yippee I have two blank bits of paper I can 
fly, down there, and of course love a brief fling 
with the politics of flight. I love the imputation 
of homosexuality in my song and flirting with it too.
For I love to sing in the masculine and oral joy of the 
bardic child like a New Beat poet. I love to unleash 
the song of myself at the Gates of Dawn. I love to 
log on my brain with breakfast, and I also love that 
the brain is not a computer for it can self-heal. I love 
to float on the artifice of organic emotions through 
synthetic sounds, like some of the Warp Records artists.
I love to explore alternative histories suppressed by 
the over-arching meta-narrative but now you are 
taking me back to University, 2002, where mutation 
in consciousness, truth too simple to understand, 
were gesture without motion bones, like sadness gene 
and dreaming gland. I love to take a breath, to sigh 
a sigh of relief. I love the quest of sensation itself 
to escape the narrow ways in which we perceive. I 
love to experiment into new modes of perception, I 
love timeless ideas transmitted across time, I love 
music that mixes the familiar with the unexpected. 
I love my family and friends and wish for them all 
to have happy and full lives, full of love and happiness, 
devoid of fear and pain, and violence both emotional 
and physical. I love Burger King more than McDonalds. 
I love the risk I am taking, almost like pushing the raft 
free of the medical gaze, love not being boring, love 
the catharsis of writing, the physiological kick it 
gives me, the instinct I pursue when I’m in the zone. 
I love the wait for things to say as much as the things
themselves. I love balance and radiance and more. 
I love the land of ample leisure laid out about me. 
I love the internet. I love to bring things into being. 
I love the way the rain drops blink like cataracts, 
or omnivorous frog eyes, in the puddles, while I 
am grogged up to my own eyeballs on medication. 
I love my mother. I love the smell of petrol as much 
as the smell of the Christmas tree. I love to label 
my pills poetry buttons whose names should never 
appear in poetry, and my voices quavers and also 
syllabubbles, and mental hospital Monopoly Jail. 
I love the way this list of loves may never end in 
spirit but in word it might have to. I love the sense 
of hardly scratching the surface, and I love the idea 
of writing in wrinkly, crinkly Christmas wrapping 
paper, before I forget. I love the abeyance between 
words, the word abeyance, the word propitious, 
the word noetic, the word suadade. I love the sound 
of the car arriving in the driving or leaving and
making a jingle on the shingle lifted from the big, flat 
bird-table. I love the literal bird-feeder out the back, 
that brings birds in spring like sensation after an 
anaesthetic, returning to the fingertips. I love infinite 
permutations of love this morning, where I turned 
back to my old file, and still decided against it
in the end. I love to not plough a singular neural 
superhighway with a trail of cultural subversion, 
shouting about mono-centric totemism and hegemony. 
I love the sense of sacrifice, this going without 
all those beautiful poems I wrote, which is married 
to a sense of adventure, in making new connections.
I love “bud scales” in James Schuyler as much 
as “poems the shape and texture of bricks” in 
Michael Hofmann, and love to learn more about 
the art of poetry, all the time, on the net, in books, 
in conversations, in experiences, all over the shot. 
I love the sense that the poetry world is the actual world 
in which we will all inevitably lie down and rest. 
I love one more cup of tea. I love to be humble,
love to aim Low. I love to be done with teenage 
love poems, Morrison pastiche, degree poems, 
mature student poems, dying father poems, poems 
from my amphetamine years, lockdown at the 
foot of Sea Ness poems some of which were published, 
and I love to be setting the record straight once more. 
I love the kitchen door. I love the laptop, slinky, 
though it mainly confers a spurious sense of Creativity 
and a garish blue light pernicious to the eyes, I hear. 
I love to hear that you are doing well, maybe even 
falling in love, dear gentle, reader, and I love 
my brothers and my sister, as I loved my father 
though we didn’t always see eye to eye. I love 
to leap. I love to keep a record this far out in the 
semi-wilderness, removed from normal civilisation. 
I love the isolation, with a few friends that come round. 
I love to create, love the first, unformulated spark 
of appetency in Nothingness preceding Creation, 
all the way through to the eschatological imagination.
I love ascetic indolence. I love the soul’s right to 
loaf around, languish, in a sofa of spiralling lethargy, 
even wash in warm soapy bubbles of absolution. I 
love living in a place with no light pollution, no 
Lucozade snakes dripping their liquid on the streets. 
I love fecund imagery, and yet I also love sound-sex
in the mind’s ear, which lies beyond the mind’s eye. 
I love the cars passing by, swishing in the rain. I 
love the way out of Religion, Insanity and Suicide 
I ended up with being formally insane. I love to count 
the corners of rooms, objects, almost like an autist.
I love to break free from tradition and declare that 
I love to steal a punt from Cambridge University
and head down the River to an illegal gabba rave 
at dawn, and jump up and down on Ecstasy, or 
rather, I used to, when I was footloose and fancy free.
I love the dawn. I love the feeling of being reborn. 
I love to poke my erection into the arse of a woman 
in the mosh-pit. I love to go crowd-surfing. I love 
to go fellwalking. I love the ambivalence therein. 
I love the city, I love the sticks. I love piles of bricks. 
I love escape as much as staying put. I love thought 
as much as absence of thought. I love Word as much 
as absence of Word. I love wood and glass and metal. 
I love things ethereal as much as tactile. I love to have 
osteopathy, love to find a mine of wine online, love 
a wine-slick in a dream meet experiment, love a Strange 
Attractor from Chaos theory on the shores of sleep. 
I love long lines representing the breadth and depth 
of idea contained in them. I love a plastic yellow M 
on the end of the word ‘them’ smuggled in prose. 
Love to smuggle art. Like my dad. An international
art smuggler nicknamed Blue he was. I love blue 
skies, love K’s blue eyes. I love to float an hypertext 
of the word ‘pi’ over the real like an astral body, 
but I haven’t managed to conquer that one yet. I love 
to have a goyt as much as I love to get. I love 
Rimbaud, Rachel, rambling on the bramble road. 
I love the falling rain outside the solipsistic kitchen 
of fiction and how cosy I feel in here, like in a caravan.
I love drums as much as lyrics. I love the idea that 
a drum is also a dream of bounding in magic circles 
in space in real-time and can cleanse the soul of badness. 
I love to have K coming round and know that even 
though I have not slept and have not showered it 
will still be OK. I love to be thought of as someone 
with an over-wrought Imagination that no-one else 
can keep up with. I love life. I love life and think 
maybe all I need is a wife with whom to share it. 
I love to share, for I have many siblings. I love to 
fix myself a drink when I am on the brink and my 
mind is on the blink like a tired and yawning lion. 
I love Paradise Lost and I love Ulysses as well. 
I love the sense that art is all biodegradable as soil. 
I love the kitchen. I love the bewitched mystic scapes 
of yesteryear and the gear shift of brain cells of the future. 
I love to leave nothing on the pitch when I write 
sometimes, except my all, my heart, my soul, my love. 
I love the savoury tang of cheddar cheese in a 
Ploughman’s lunch in the cafe of the Natural History 
Museum down in London. I love the planetarium of
the mind. I love to write rhyming riddles on my 
family’s Christmas presents, almost to deflect them. 
I love the dream of finding a soul-mate more than 
a sex-body. I love the rest of the poem whatever it is. 
I love to liberate my self through feeling shame. 
I love to live within my means, I love to eschew 
what I was going to and did not know how to say. 
I love to go back on my promise to scrap the magnum 
opus and to finally make it work and work my way.
I love to return to a poem a few days later, after 
24 hours of sleep, and augment it, without even 
re-reading it, like James Schuyler might’ve done. 
I love to get osteopathy but can rarely afford it. 
I love Liverpool FC, and love it when they win. 
I love it when K might come round againe tomorrow. 
I love it when I have done enough, drank the Duff, 
sunk the Plough in the top pocket on the pool table, 
moved through moods and emotions that are new. 


The rain applauds my good thinking. 
It speeds up like a galloping stampede.
I was thinking about that time I stood 
before the Millom audience and said 

my dad took an idea for a book to his grave, 
and I found it: to write it on speed, 
to make it about waves, and call it 
A Season In Heaven. I see a cloud 

of powder’d light billow in like magic 
curtains on the high, karmic wind 
and know it is an open chamber. 
That’s how it began, at the Mind 

gig, raising money for mental health. 
I was thinking back then how the poet 
can harness waves that have also passed 
through the Beats and which might 

date back to Wordsworth for whom 
it was very Heaven to be on the crest 
of that wave. So in remembering 
these thoughts, the rain sped up fast. 

It applauded. And it may not be lost. 
One’s connection with one’s dead dad. 
He could be surrendered to the elements. 
There could be no reason to be sad. 

I have a theory too, that in dying we 
can re-access history at any point, go
become a real, live Red Indian, or a 
bird of prey. My mother says whatever you 

believe happens when you die is what 
happens when you die. Death awaits 
and awakes the same me, I happen to say. 
And so Dear Dad, Dear Dead, what 

did you mean by the book you took?
I cannot believe anymore, now that 
I am no longer on the machinist drug, 
that you meant for me to take phet. 

So the rain comes down. I write on. 
When it applauds my thought I happen 
to believe in that, and think it like 
a neo-shamanic stance, a religion 

of anima, and an almost pantheistic state. 
And as I think I finish my poem, the rain 
stops. And as I think to augment it 
with another little flourish againe, 
it picks up a little bit. I turn away to 
Facebook message Kathryn, and when 
I wake from that little writing trance, 
I notice the rain has once more gone. 

RAP NO # 35 

She’s a reason to wash/ she’s not after your dosh/ you haven’t even got any/ not a single penny/ and God you’re so boring/ always sitting writing/ at a slinky screen/ you’re a writing machine/ have you ever been to Magic Faraway Land ? / there’s no Dogmuckels footprint in the sand/ you should go up to Eskdale / she loves it too/ show her St. Catherine’s pool / where the sunlight is new / you’ve got to be less passive/ see that Jungle is Massive / and your breakfast was good / three boiled eggs with butter’d bread / you were spreading the same pack of butter / over and ever increasing surface area of toast / and then one day you were cursed by a nutter / and it’s not something of which you should boast / who named Sundays? / who named the sun? / is she really coming round? / is she the one? / please send your answers by text message to the number on the screen.


The first thing you notice when you have Reiki 
to block out a long-standing curse is 
the clinical voices temporarily disappear…

the next thing you notice is skill returning. 
Imagine that – being deprived of your own skill 
for nearly two decades, grogged up to the eyeballs 
on medication, being told you are mentally ill 
which you of course are, no question about it. 

And now I deem it no longer enough to 
have a brew and a fag and a laptop. 

Now I deem it time to give up smoking. 

It was one of my dying father’s wishes for me.

And now no longer will I wake in the bedroom 
where he passed away and be short of breath. 

It is for him that I am doing it, but also for me. 

I have given up smoking because it is nearly dawn.
I have given up smoking because I am bored. 
I haven’t even reread the Allen Carr book, 
but I’ve read it before and know what it says. 

I’ve just chucked all my smoking stuff away
in the bin, gone cold turkey, like a renegade. 

No longer will I wake in the bedroom where 
my father passed away, and be short of breath. 

I do not wish to talk about giving up smoking. 
I only wish that it happen, and hope it lasts forever.