Tuesday, 11 May 2021



On a Tuesday morning in a magic car we crashed on a ship REC and since we were under the sea the whirlpool pulled on top of the water. 

it is too dear to buy 
Sweden China 
country tail 
tender street 
share lies 
late dry 
weak poor 
small prinsesses 
countries is 
stories tables men pens manes 

I can see... the ire ii net.

We went out trying to find it AaaaaaaaHH we just feel in an animal trap we threw the rope up some body hang onto it. It was the wizard. 

In our new program there is a Vetacore.
A bomp explodes.
I faded my work.

A clock is only as fast as a cheetah.

It’s all right everyone
the wind is comming they got a lot happy.

I have a scar+ that is red and black. 

One day Booster made a sonic solidifying gun Bleep thorte it was an earth mouse-trap. 

We had a snowball fight with the Widgets.

This one is a question mark.

I saw that the stone could fit into a hole in the wall. 
It was full of dead skeletons.

I went to envestergate and I heard a howling nose I could not find what was making the nose and i was quite afraid. 

Who has seen the wind?

He has spines all over him. He has got a nose like a pig. A name for Henry the Hedgehog is urchin, Mr. Prickels and Hedge pig. 

John Tucker
John Tucker
Harecroft Hall

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

When I was 4 I was on holiday in Sweden. 

They said never ride your bike withouta parent.

O well I said and climbed up the rope. When I got to the top of the tree I still could not see what it was that was making such a nose. 

At first I was scared stiff and then I plucked up some courage and crept along the floor to the light switch I turned it on carefully not to make a nose. 

Just then I heard the noise again. Just then a masked murderer came in through the door with a machine gun i grabbed the firepoker turned rond and knocked him out with it. 

One Saturday when I was just about to go out 
my dad came into the porch where I was 
and saw a scribbly picture on the wall 
and a black felt tip pen beside it. He said John 
why have you drawn on the wall? I said 
it wasn’t me it was Hannah. I’ll take ten pounds 
out of your pocket money towards some new 
wall paper. I ran up stairs and locked myself in my
bed room. In the end he found out it was 
Hannah and didn’t take the money away.

Wolf to shut
Holiday to wash
Marry to fix

Child the wind-
Fox blows through

Tooth the trees
Clock the rain
Shoe falls
Against the window




Squawk squawk gaggle gaggle
squawk squawk gaggle gaggle
squawk squawk gaggle gaggle
squawk squawk gaggle gaggle

bongles has still got the stones
bongles has still got the stones
bongles has still got the stones
bongles has still got the stones

squawk squawk gaggle gaggle
squawk squawk gaggle gaggle
squawk squawk gaggle gaggle
squawk squawk gaggle gaggle

bongles has still got the stones
bongles has still got the stones
bongles has still got the stones
bongles has still got the stones


L to the pregnant snorkel + Ossie the dog he should be sleeping like a log, goes round and round chasing his own tail, only goes upstairs for a trail of Maltesers nice, round and pale, we’re on the road to Heaven, happiness awaits us there, flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light. There’s no such thing as the Nirvana barcode. Sullen silken sulks we drink the same rain spit is clean and so is dirt. Normal is boring. Do it later. God made speed to save us, God made hash to help us. FUCK the system. Even a dick gets big erections. The sun hanged himself from a length of daisy chain. Clocktick clock being clocked off by clocktick, clocktick clock not being clocked off by Time. The Universal Mind’s moon meat man might. The Universal Mind’s moon meat man meant. The Universal Mind’s moon meat man met. Break bird with the skin of snake. God rushed into the cold cod quick. 


“Birds are now known to be highly intelligent like dogs and horses.” – Brian O’ Connell

My name is David Bonky, 
I'm a knock-kneed hummingbird,
there's a tear up my jacket 
and I heard a magic word:

Trans/ philo/ quis/ ation. 
I fly through colours and shapes.
Lightspeed is my passport. 
The countries are for apes.

A knock-kneed hummingbird table 
on which to land and read
does not seem to me to be 
such an unreasonable need.

I'll breakfast on snooker colours, 
spark a dullard cigarette,
sail the wind of change and 
have no room for regret.

On thrashing wings of silence
I keep out of the Sea Ness cave
and fly amazing headspace
right over the illegal rave.

I deem it not unseemly 
to do the monkey bars 
with my legs into her open 
chamber underneath the stars. 

Then the change all falls out
of my pockets as I go
to reach the Promised Land 
where the gilly flowers grow.


I watch her walk along on the other side of the street.
She parades the black panther's nonchalant strut.
She wears blue jeans and black leather boots.
She takes some chewing gum out of her bag.
She slides the stick of it out of the pack.
She puts the stick of it into her mouth.
She loves to chew and suck the taste.
She loves to chew and suck the taste.
She puts the packet back in her bag.
She swings the bag about a little bit.
She walks past a little pub long shut.
She might go check out a flower shop.  
She loves to chew and to suck the taste.
She enjoys it, chewing and sucking the taste.


Necklace noose, reckless truce, drooling before 
wet, electric eyes. A salmon escaped the 
ancient net. A sprightly hypertext sniper 
on Piper At The Gates of Dawn accrued 
to the procession. The anguila eel is wet. 
A purple parrot perched upon the shoulder 
of the pirate squawking “don’t tell Moronika.” 
A green one was sent to space through the conch.
A Lion Bar was driven through the economy
in a car and a carfume whooshed from 
the unicorn’s bottom - who else would 
be the one to make such punkish remark
on global warming? 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. There are many 
more of these anthropomorphisms where 
I am from, where the porcelain laptop is 
a Mac and there is no music from a black
hole except in colourful essays in detention
where it seems restriction is liberation,
where it seems colour is not quite enough,
but pool is played with a motley array of 
song cells gleaned from rat-ridden scenes,
and the cost of imagery seems to be loss,
and the teacher deems my work to be
on the right track to stardom and fame.




Fuck this, fuck that, fuck me yeah,
I wish that I had been there,
been there to saaaaaave Jesus,
I'm sure he meant to please us.

Murder is dead,
murder is dead,
murder is dead.

We're young and filled with semen,
we're going to break some hymen,
we'll make the cops turn in their badges,
we're going over all the edges yeah.

Murder is dead,
murder is dead,
murder is dead.



Oceans smile with liquid eyes
and fill themselves with rain.
The tide goes out and leaves me
lost the last thing a glass gene.

Don't follow me to the resurrection
while the blind get crucified.
My weapon Sony's only loaded,
is only loaded in my eyes.

Death will come on black,
silky wings but I will not go.  
A soul is endless, oceans severed
and keeeeeeeps a perfect O.

Go drink the ocean with your tea
cup, give your heart far out.
If oceans smile with liquid eyes
then they'll give you a shout.

Too drunkenly I sail the water
on Rimbaud's smoking boat.
With whisky gills primed in fire
I sail the waves to Boot.

Maybe all I need is a length
is a length of metal chain.
To choke the tears, to weigh the
blues, to dullen down the pain.



Smile like a smile just to smile,
cast to heaven for a while...

let's rip holes in the boat,
throw the captain overboard,
throw the angels off the bridge,
death comes and stops me getting
bored of life's soul-machine.

What we need is energy,
show me all your vital signs,
what we steal is what we need,
what we need to feel alive,
for I'm alive with vital signs.

Back to Hell to plunder wings,
let the ritual now begin,

come and ride the waiting beast,
ride it gone into the fire,
ride it to the waiting feast,
my baby's waiting to get higher,
to get higher, to get higher...

what we need is energy,
show me all your vital signs,
what we steal is what we need,
what we need to feel alive,
for I'm alive with vital signs,
yeah feel alive with vital signs.

Come again there's much to do,
don't you know that I love you?



Snake snake butterfly,
lay me dead &
close my eyes.
Angel serpentine,
she waits on
the Other Side.
Give me your alibi;
give me chains
to stop me fly;
give me night to
soothe my blinded eyes:
so I can see the
secrets of the skies.
We must rise,
freedom falling
from our eyes,
unlock doors,
it's a perfect
time to die,
and it's okay
for baby we'll go insane
but don't reach out
too far for the flame.
Snake snake butterfly,
lead me to the
Other Side.
Angel serpentine,
she waits on
the Other Side.



My eyes sting, my
teeth are bleeding raw,
too much thought
to make me sick.

Stinky clothes and mouth
become my skin and
all these fruits I want
to, I want to kill.

Give my hope,
surrender to the tide,
you can taaaaaake my
remains but I must

go to wash the
poison from
my eyes before,
before, before I kill.



I'm the only one left, left to shoot my
own gun. This is the dead land. Crack a smile
and curse the sun. Death awaits to fuck me.
Give me bliss and give me kisses. Death a-
waits to save me. The ghosts lament, the ghosts
lament. Come on baby, you know it's e-
asy, don't say maybe, let's go crazy. Death
awaits to fuck me. Give me bliss and give
me kisses. Death awaits to save me. The
ghosts lament, the ghosts lament, no more ghosts.



There is no place that tastes so sweet
A soft asylum by the garden's quiet corners
Voices and bells the resting birds
Enhance the warm night's silence
With careless smoky laughter
Solemn prayers in the church's
Hollow sadness solemn forgives
The slow deliverance
All is well & all is strange
The strangest thoughts to have
Soothed my mind, a small oasis
In the dusky realm, gives me
The power to think & dream
Lying under the moon's crazy figure
A blurred statue in the timeless sky
A hazy blanket covers all
Obligations to return inside
To sleep & retire to the oceans
Nothing could caress
My heart so bruised
More delicately than the crazy air
What? Oh, I guess it's love
It has no place in this crazy world
My drowsy head releases hold
Beneath the sky-turn-ocean-grey
A dusk to lose & forget the purpose
For there is no meaning
Behind our eyes so slow so old
What? Oh, I guess it's love
That forges sleep on our fragile minds
The blurred sunset in the crazy silence
Sacrifices all its treasure
To give me power and no direction
To help me lose my careless way
The moon is a pearl with a lazy voice
& it hums to Death's gentle song
The tune that means all is healed
What? Oh, love, it will
Wound me and forgive me
The graveyard is a place of rest
& the church sighs a place of death
A useless womb for priceless dreams
That run in its dizzy realm
But all is well if I only think
& sigh of the dreams of dusk
Images before I sleep
Dancing, escaping memory
They seem to have no cares at all
They seem to know the name of love
They seem to be my sacred friends
Ancient messengers, waking at night
But I will forget them & never care
About what I saw in love & alive
What? Oh, I guess it's love
Just us & love, forever...


(for Natalia)

Madness swirls deep in the heart
A butterfly resides in you
A tragedy of feelings lost
surrenders to the wish of night

& in this world I can't explain
I know exactly where I am
Inside a crevice of desire
In the dreamy air of a lover's scent

Wherever you take me, that's where I'll be
In the weeping skies my mind gives up
& falls into the arms of sleep
I'd fade to know I thought of you

& the world has risen to my hands
& the earth murmurs beneath my feet
& the light of all that's good is true
if believing is the dawn of dreams

I guess that I'm afraid to tread
The purple skies for the risk of a word
But at least I'm sure of fear
As she gives me the strength to feel afraid

A whisper fathomed deep in mine
Well I don't even care to cry
& I don't care to face the edge
& plunge into the oceans dead

& the flame of love has lit my candle
& the sky has echoed my desire
& all the air is drawn into my lungs
& I know the secrets of the shade

& I know the wars that come from peace
& I know the mystery of love
& I know the resilience of the soul
& I'm sure that knowing you is true...


This is the sound of getting totally f***ed
Of wanting more than gets you recklessly wrecked

Of meeting London in the middle of the Lakes
Which is the land of flying fairy cakes

Of Langdale Pikes sticking out at Kings Cross
Of dawn at sunset and of playtime’s loss 

This is the mould that we have to yet break 
This is the bird with the skin of a snake 

And I’ve already gone straight to A and E
Screaming out my ad-libbed hippy poetry 

And all is well that means well in the end 
And in the end death is an ancient friend 

Death is the birthday of infinity now 
This is the sound of slaying the Holy Cow 

This is the wanton knife that cuts through it all 
This is the apple just about to go and fall

This is the time of really radical change 
This is the time for behaving very strange 

This is the time when the doors are all cleansed
This is the mental hospital gone round the bend 

This is the time of life when pens will be gripped
This is the first time that the band ever tripped

This is the acid-casualty that you require 
This is lamenting for the wood in the fire 

This is the doors film on the suicide watch 
This is the back door left for you on the latch 

This is the tribe that lies down in the green grass
And lets the only powers that be all pass

This is the staggering breakdown of morality 
This is the day that they have let you go free 

(1998 reconstructed)


The Quire is opened, awakes the blame of memory.
Ancient, gold pages break like fine ash.
A shaft of light shifts in its distilled sleep.
The dead in tired dance circle the silence,

lingering fragile moments outside the quiet Quietus -
but wait, who called this dream to wake?
It was me, I'm he who dared disturb.
Not to renounce the past with rapt amazement

but to forgive our sins, falling like leaves.
We have seen this all before, time
tumbling away into sleep, seen
this darkness drop and these ruins murmur

and now we are gathered to appoint the gods,
and now we are gathered to consecrate ourselves,
and now we are gathered to ordain this dust,
we are gathered to live and to dream.


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.'


Night arrives like a ghost.
The green kingdom around me
opens up to the starlit laughter.

To hover motionlessly o'er the mellow fields
I'm rising through this careless freewill
like a kestrel from its wood.

Busting for love as every being should.
Desperate for sex with a dream full of ladies.
But nothing too personal.

Because love is life without drugs.
Because drugs are a bet with the mind.
Because the mind is free to connect in all directions. 

Because connection is when two words
thought to be mutually exclusive 
meet in Holy Orbit and form an Image.  


In the cotton mist she
came in shining leather.
Time, it swings
on sighs forever.
She touched my shoulder
like a burning prayer
and sighed as all the
sky was severed.

“Full fathom five”
could not be a-
nother number for
Virgil says “there are
tears in things;” and
O is not a ghost-vowel,
no, but U is a ghost-
vowel– when we're

opened unto the
gloom under
sliver moon and
I slide her over.

Semen spills
like silver water.
We're soon enough
in the flotsam ether.


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.


(a single by Secret Chord H, used as a radio jingle)

Last night it seemed we couldn't 
sleep but maybe I was dreaming.
The world expands inside my 
hands it's getting heavy.

Of all the treasures I could
choose I can't seem to decide.
Today the shade was washed 
away where I would hide.

Dream with open eyes, come 
below and we can fantasise.
Now that I’ve stopped telling lies, come 
below and we can fantasise.

Last night it seemed we nearly 
died but maybe I was dreaming.
It made me feel sooooooooooooo 
alive and soooooooo in love.


Sometimes perhaps 
down opening quiet
I am drawn down 
long and alone
and my friend and 
my foe recede 
into deep sleep. 

Sudden and still 
like a dawn behind a 
screaming veil 
where silence
is born and all that's 
loose and tight and 
all that's light is light 
like first morning 
with no night.

And wend my way 
so slow to Freedom
and soft Infancy-lunacy 
with harp-sure eyes
so I can live 
the last poet's 
last poem.


“The initial task was to widen the area of consciousness” - Allen Ginsberg

Blessed are all these miles of madness
bumbling around us

Blessed is Night w/ its centuries
of bright, burning eyes

Blessed is the secret of an inward prayer,
whispered to your soul,
disguised w/ shadow

Blessed is the joy
when tears break from their blue chains
and shatter from your eyes

Blessed is Brahma
and the holiness of Things

O Brahma! Waste me
w/ mine own eyes!

(Atman is Brahma
as the sun its light
cursed the wiseman to God
w/ his final breath)

Blessed is Buddha & Samadhi & Christ
and blessed am I for blessing them

Blessed is connecting to the
Big White Dream
in moments of vast, empty enlightenment

when suddenly wakened
you open reception
to Dark Dream Radio & the Infinite Broadcast

and blessed are its electric currents
(the channels of rhythmic ecstasy)
for Music , Sex and Idea
are the elements of miracle

& grasping your mind
in instant static pain
the sudden rush of apocalypse
like the visitation of God
or the angel in your eyelid

Blessed is falling through leering madness
& waking again a naked boy

Blessed is the sadness in things
and blessed also its joy

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)

& blessed is the rain that heaven sends
it is the life for the poems around us

Blessed are the Four Pillars of Time
Milk Water Whisky Wine

milk is the silver semen of birth
water is the heavenly liquor
whisky is embedded in the soul of the poet
& wine swims through the heart of the gods -

O drown me in the heavenly fluids!

Blessed is the poet
struggling through headache
strung out in harmonious rhythm
like a chain of music from star to star,
beating to joy in a severed heart

Blessed is sin if it kills Ignorance

Blessed is the redness of blood,
The madness of kissing,
The promise of moments

Blessed is the wavering emergence of Now

The friendliness of meeting a stranger
The strangeness of meeting a friend

Blessed is the promise of words
That someday I may dispose of language

Blessed is peace
as blessed is 'FUCK!'

Blessed is the miracle of life
Atheist and holy in one

Blessed is choice and every decision
And choosing never to choose at all

Blessed is the rapture of the slender moon
And the danger in her wanton thigh
And blessed are we for our daring tongues
For being in love w/ being in love

Blessed is our small advance
beneath an ocean of weeping stars
for time is all that time can prove

Blessed is Discovery, Invocation and the dark
Blessed is pain for it shows you can feel
And blessed is death for it means you’re alive

Blessed is wandering the cruel edge
and seeming a fool in quest for height 

Blessed is the rambling bardic child
Who never strays from his heart
But on vast miniature journeys through space
He arrives at Conclusion
W/out even thinking

Blessed is thought as absence of thought

So in the great, dark Over-soul of night
Above us all and counting time,
That thought behind
The back of your mind…

Let’s just say you looked into my eyes
And saw the scars of dreams had opened
And saw the glimmer of the gates unlocking
And saw the shadow of the guard recede

Tell the master calling for me
The servant shall not be disturbed
He is drowning himself in the laughing sea
And has seen the snake slowly recoiling
And has felt the womb of conception calling
And has found the Sea of Words

No let’s just say
I came and saw
And you almost heard
My soundless word

Blessed is word as absence of word

Last words change all the rest
And last longest,
Last word



Waves [squiggle] cross the FTSE [squiggle] and now the Helter Skelter [squiggle] crashes in the electric-sea [squiggle]. Purple and bruised are those chariot-clouds up there in the appalling Night, Dear Paul, whose turn it will soon be to write in all your spareness in this roadbook. Meanwhile I am teaching English as a foreign language to manage the payment of the electricity bills of the unicorn's eye. I sigh and flow with folds of energy white. I stole the whole show with a remit quite - to wear an emotional condom before you fuck my mind, man, that open door to the light, that phone that is off its trolley... to be near you, is to hear you, is to not fear you, is to revere you, and in my soul I have still become alone as Wally. The finest day that I ever had was when I learned to not be angry with my dad, for I am a poet like he before me, and he believes in me, drinks hippy tea, for me. I say it with scissors, their lips open that always you can be my friend, that you are welcome in my home any time, that tea will be ripening on the electric vine. Through the frame of hair I see and hail a new type of writing and it will not fail, but forlorn as fallen autumn leaves is the wave that forever misbehaves... and when I h-a-n-d it all back to you, these inroads in the roadbook of blue, try and harness the energy of the Helter Skelter, roll with The Great Fuck Rhythm againe, river your senses, re-nerve your God, until all inner badness is long gone.

(Lizard Point, 1999)


through arteries of galaxies
of memories
to galleries where tapestries
of slaughter hang from falling walls
through the purple corridor
a door is ajar
push it open
gently creaking opening afar
then into the
crumbling tumbling temple
fumble through and stumble on
across the stone across the floors
flat like graves
patterned in shadow
onwards upwards
notice the window
above all stained in
w/ the cross of Christ
and the face of you
Holy you
like some ragged tearful stranger
bled to the world
just to say
- there is no truth
give up now
& turn away”
it's all too late
you must not wait
follow the shadows
into the shade
head up high
up on to the altar
where stands a candle
forged in Rome
find the candle
& follow it upward
& finally then
find the flame.


Le little lapin on le lawn,
trembling in the dusky dawn,

forlorn as fallen autumn leaves
is the wave that misbehaves,

it makes you melancholy mad,
where the wave-forms terminate,

mind the gap the mirrors clap,
I'll let you off for running late

and dying slowly as the light
pours forth from the glowing east,

the sun a hedgehog everywhere but  
slow and Bible-black the beast,

O little lapin on le lawn,
who sheds a secret tear for us all,

sup the flowers like a cup 
before the rusty autumn falls. 



The image starts as an amber scarab
(like Jung’s symbol) scuttling still 
on a hill of sand or a tumulus, which 
means a prehistoric burial mound
in the silken desert full of wounds.
The image is of Egyptian mystery 
and kings and masked gold and 
phaerohs and jewels in the night sky 
like stars and the red, triangular
sun of the day. The image though 
is not the answer. It appears before me
like mandala. It has been said 
the apparition of the mandala
symbol in a dream indicates a 
spiritual longing for completion,
perfection o the soul. The image 
though is not the answer. The form 
floats formless from the void. All
is its shape as it appears before me.


Once I traced my footsteps back,
untrampled now that used to be lost, 
into the forest in motionless throe
of something or other I had left. 
I wanted to challenge the satyr past 
the purlieu at the sylvan frieze,
the satyr at the sad Gates of dusk. 
Refuse to move, the guards refused,
filled with rancour and drooling lustfully.
For when I went back in the wood,
deeper and deeper and deeper I strode,
and it was like I could not go back 
in childhood to fetch that thing I’d left,
it was gone, what was it, for the
life of me I cannot remember. 


Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaby we create the dawn
behind a veil where silence is born
and dawn conspires with the sea
and everything untrue recedes
and all that's left is you and me
and all that's left is you and me

No-one knows how to free you
no-one that is except for meyou
I was bitten by sad Lucozade snakes
but they're all gone up here in the Lakes
while I'm pursuing the redolent fume
of the mating queen into this room

Whom it seems is still in bed
whom it seems will give me head
I dress for Camden Town up here
for I don't have any baby fear
and maybe this is the Promised Land
a place to feel her tiny hand


The “mad distractionary” holds “the metallurgical
origins of birds.” They speak in a language
called “gagazookzook and bongateebingbong.”
It contains “V-A-E-I-O-U-L” as the true spelling
of 'vowel' and “y.p.o.r.t.n.e.” as the opposite
of 'entropy' - as if it could frame the first, un-
formulated spark of appetency in Nothingness
preceding Creation and its dance in and out
of itself! It's kind of written in wrinkly and
crinkly Christmas wrapping paper. In the mad
distractionary “fluvient  coinage has gone.”
Words are described in the mad distractionary as
“astronaut-worms entering the orbit of your ear”.
Language as a whole  is more “the emotional
condom of the world.” “Indwellable” means
the opposite of “indomitable” when it comes
to houses in the medicine man's medieval
cinema empoldered from the harbour in
Iceland and playing some meaningless film.
Also know: “Music, Magic and Mystery make
the 3 M's of words” and as the mad distractionary
states “Man is words and 'man' is a word
and words draw bridges across metaphysics
and words make connections between the
first and third persons... already incurring a
great bandwagon of falsity we must presume
is not false in order to make life easier. Words
are, well, only words.” So now you know.


I have found you you're the Teacher
of my Heart there's only one one
and though my mind is endless old
my tender heart is foolish young
and my timeless impassion'd battles
of emotion have sooooon begun.

You have lost me in a Teachers
whisky bottle drinking down down
down the shipwreck IS the treasure
harboured in my pirate undertown
where visions of the real Unknown
await us there when we drown.

They have told me it's a T-shirt
that's the body worn by the soul
O to have to discorporate and wash
our eyes in the Fairy liquid bowl
it's good for you to know a goal
not the heart of a black hole.


Two perfect strangers, man and woman,
stand on opposite train station platforms.
They catch each other's eye then look
away, only to check the station clock.
Instead of trying to make conversation,
they listen out for the tannoy and its
annoying voice to make an announcement,
for the thin facsimile of music pouring
from the tinny speaker on the platform.
Why don't they suddenly just resolve:
hey let's fuck a stranger tonight! They 
wait, besuited slaves with briefcase
blues, under sad Lucozade lamp-posts.
The car, car of crows can be heard, ominous,
at this juncture of missed opportunities;
then rain starts to fall with mini hands
like a piano piece falling to the ground.
It seems the smooth running of social
intercourse depends on the repression of
emotion, on the negation and denial of
one's most primal instincts, sadly. So
the sensuous mode of being has gone
under Gondwanaland. The mad naked
body dancing on a hillside has gone. 
What we have left is the image-saturated 
world bogging down the unconscious, 
preventing an unmediated experience. 
What we have left is postmodern ennui. 


Lovers and fools are breaking their own rules in The Game
mad children play unaware of an end to their game

sailors are losing the world and riding the breeze
angels and thieves are kissing at the tips of the trees

say is the waxen candle worthy of the flame?
You answer the doors when love calls you by the name

pirates and whores are opening the chambers of the sea
if you see the key please don't be afraid to be free

policemen and clowns are stuck in dull towns with the vain
saying hello and welcome to life my name is Pain

gypsies and tramps are keeping oil lamps in the dark
through city streets people beat electric and loose dogs bark

say is the waxen candle worthy of the flame?
You answer the doors when love calls you by the name.


I have walked for miles to this straw bed,
have seen unafear'd a landscape of cloud
carved into paths and roads, grasses and hills,
and know of no epithet to place her beauty,
no painted pantheon of seraphims ready...

the patchwork quilt has lain down below
as I passed by meltwater angels booting
their balls about in sundrenched fields,
to get to this glad and supine repose and
lay my tired body down and wait for sleep...

I've been on the road for many a moon,
known that punctuation is merely brakes,
bird with the skin of snaking in the Lakes,
for the stolen, Dream Factory car I drove
over the edge and into the blue ether...

now behind your eyes where tears dwell
in sacred rivers flowing up the oldest fell,
and break forth from their tiny blue chains,
and break forth from their horse reins, I
let go of all my cares and die in music.  


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 is their elegy?

Waves make gentle love to the shore. 

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

Homework tonight is 
to remember your dreams.

I prefer telepathy to 10p.

I want to solve the curious 
cunt-mystery lying wet and 
unattended in her knickers, her lap, 
come inside her like an explosion of stars.


In the year 2000 my father started to give out small bits of Moroccan pollen to his children to smoke in our den in the barn at the foot of the oldest fell. I opened up, got what I called “the talks,” started imparting axioms as if I were Blake. A list of some of them might run as follows:

- 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 which 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 to qualify as ad-libbed poetry.

- 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.

- Fear is an epiphany of Hell in the self.

There was also some speech made by myself that could be categorised as of a prophetic character. My brother James, on hearing my axioms said something along the lines of “John you only speak mumbo jumbo. Why don’t you tell me instead what you think of the film Fight Club.”

I said “I think if Fight Club were real someone would fly two planes into the Twin Towers on September 11th and I don’t think it a good idea but someone might.” 

There was further prophetic speech made by my self. For example I said:

“I look into the dust in that late ray and wonder if one day they will discover something called the God Particle – like God is not extrinsic to matter. I’d like to write a book called The Scientific Papers classed as a series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science as a single discussion of perception. It would be good to see an alignment of the Plough and a landscape, maybe in India, and I think it impossible to supplant a religion from its indigenous landscape.”

In terms of literary ambitions I said I’d like to replace the archaic sense of the word ‘gay,’ and also find an aesthetic system like the colours of the vowels in English. There were, furthermore, inventions delimited. I said 

“I think it would be good if someone invented a word-chord piano, a drug called Strictly Free that is and makes you strictly free to consume, a virtual death machine, a red-bleeding type-writer inside a ping-pong ball, an holographic horsecock wheeled into the PM’s bedroom, an invisible square of air called MOSAIC BY DARTH VADER stroked on television.” 

I got to the end of my speech and said I also think dad’s art smuggling business was recourse to euphemism, that when he says art he means pollen, that he had a pollen farm way up high in the Moroccan mnts. Nothing could be further from the truth and I would hazard a guess that my prescience of September 11th – and other things such as my future University tutor’s unpublished book in name and concept – was possible because if your father is an international art smuggler nicknamed Blue, it can qualify as a new sense through which you can read of future events.


If Freedom and peace of mind
are what you're after you've
made the right choice
with BT Talk Together
with an unlimited number
of local evening and weekend
phonecalls if sorrow
sighs upon your shoulder
find yourself another lover
manoeuvre over backyard fences
angel where do you hide tonight?
I'll make maps of the stars
to find you the soft caressing
breeze to guide you if
you can be in my dream
can I be in yours too?

(co-author’d with Paul Inman)


Such a bad day at the office
down the pub to get pissed
though I can't afford it
we'll never get a pay rise

stay up till sunrise
call in sick in the morning
spend the whole day mourning
underneath the covers

where the heck is Batman
Sugar Candy Mountain
waiting for some action
heard it brings good fortune

papers want a scandal
tell them the truth
if you can handle
what a deadly headline

where in Hell is Tinkerbell
somewhere alone and dying
dawn calls in sick in the morning
what's the use in trying

don't believe in dying
it's shocking and appalling
it's four o'clock in the morning
and Paradise is boring.


I sleep in a hole for the Hoover tonight
there's always something not quite right
look at a wall it's not too hard to see
all the cracks and flaws beneath the paint

maybe all we need is to decorate the place
private detectives and secret spies
seem to have uncovered all of my lies,
scars and birthmarks beneath my skin,

should I sever my face with razor blades
to show you some ugly truth w/in
well maybe I should but I'd prefer to
score your flawless body with sin

like two new humans made for life
with default buttons to wipe any slate clean
and grumbling thunder and lightning
daggering down in the God Simulation

in a metal box in a big thunderstorm 
is the place for me it could be nice and warm
the world falls past the windowpane 
and I think I’m falling in love againe 

under the pillow I keep a brown envelope 
of spices and hope that we will elope
I drink to the neo London skyline 
and toilets that flush with dry, white wine

and stuff too complicated to mention
over the head of Mr. Jackie Treehorn 
the root of the creation of beauty is violation
in Crufts as it is in the black angel’s deathsong


I know she's only ½ a phone call away...
maybe she's got something to say?
Anyway by now her number's probably changed...
seems even numbers can't just stay the same.

You always used to say to me
“to love someone truly is to set them free” -
you always knew better than me
w/ all the senseless dreams I have to see.

I know she's only a daydream away -
transient rainbow not made to stay -
only made of sunlight and tears! -
beauty like that should last for years.  

You always used to say to me
“to love someone truly is to set them free” -
you always knew better than me
w/ all the senseless dreams I have to see.

I'm just a sad hypochondriac.
I'm just a sad hypochondriac.
I've got two pens one is red one is black
for all I'm sorry for both the wings I lack.  


Jerry Springer has gone to rot, breeding
cameramen that descend like vultures, flying
down to a rotten corpse in the desert, feasting
on the soft, gone eyes of the only deadman.
Breakfast telly kept us well-fed, covering 
the comedown w/ warm blankets of snow, feeding
little children their pocketful of horrorism, making 
the News less accurate than the Simpsons. 
It did not surprise me, coming to my feelers
around the Millennium, chatting in the barn, 
but I tempered my juvenile dementia as the 
war leaked in from the east like a dawn. And 
when we were children, exploring New York 
my father took me up to the restaurant at the top. 
John, John, he said, hold my hand. And 
up we went in a lift. In America there you feel
downtrodden. I read the Sports Pages and reckon 
winter has her compensations like the red
on the cheek of the girl on the train station
platform. For the fag-end of winter will burn
and then spring is a red horse, and Barnes
has scored a chicken, and Barnes has scored
a liquid noose, and Barnes is a member of society.  
The ecstasy pill's gone under the green hill. 
The pollen has gone under Gondwanaland. 
Sadness gene is equated w/ dreaming gland
and mutation in consciousness itself w/ truth-
too-simple-to-understand like these are my own
gesture-w/out-motion-bones collected from the shore. 
I would be glad of another breath of ganja. 

(Cambridge 2001, reconstructed)


Sometimes I can be walking along on a sunny day
when I jump from the jungle to the Arctic to the Sahara.
On arrival at my destination I am tired, like the sun,
bleached and wide and madding, is tired of shining, and
checking my book for the time find none elapsed.
The ruck-sac of identity is a sense of destiny on
my back. The road works on the way reverberate like
Satan’s sex life or drum and bass. The new air
is a song we have to sing and full of acrid weed.
120 years ago the world was a much stranger place.
Now I have severed my connections, my bridges burned.
Along the lines of The Drunken Boat I drift free,
slide out of responsibility, grow dangerously detached.
On arrival at my destination I am often thirsty and
while my eye imbibes the blue sky like a drink,
I sip on water at the green gorgeous oasis in the
desert where the emerald princess gloats over
all the slaves she has commandeered to serve her.
And like in a film most of it is spilled or spat out.
For all the feast and waste are next door neighbours.
Like the pleasure and pain areas in the brain. In whom 
there are more doors than atoms in the universe.

(Cambridge 2001, reconstructed)


Science has told us that most of the stars
you gaze at tonight are not really there
but illusions of the light that takes so long 
to reach the beams of our glistening eyes 
that for centuries after the star has died, 
it still appears to be hanging there, 
like a little, glimmering, crystal tear, 
in love w/ the dark, as bright and beautiful 
as it would be if it was really there. 

(Cambridge 2001, reconstructed)


(a song in E minor by The Flood, recorded through binaural earphones)

Going to meet with the Otherness,
best go get a new party dress,
play a stone, live in the wilderness,
I'm going to beat with the otherness.

Suddenly their brain is an alien visitation,
suddenly I am the imposter againe,
lying in secret wait of myself,
knife ready to treat the pain.

Now that the Lock Up's a giant brain,
and the earphones are down on the floor,
now that we're sadder, older but no wiser,
let's throw paint at an unhinged door.

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


Dead clock plodding play a different song // we're waiting for some action and some change to come along // been waiting all night at true love dot com // you're only just starting to notice the mushrooms are still too strong // dead pedestrians thinking in fumes stay in and get fat in your new chat rooms // we chase the wave forms of the dusky dawn w/ black shadow cat-prints going backwards on the lawn // and I confess my open heart is lying w/ her legs apart // and if she said she's in love w/ me I wouldn't go taking it personally // for love has no ego as everybody knows  and something inside me she's given me grows // and a playground swing on the vexed edge of life sighs empty and forever and out falls a leaf // and not into love does that green leaf fall where wet Westerly winds swoop and call // we are the glitter on the Christmas trees and not the litter in the filibustering breeze // and the comedown has no value in maths // and the loonies all walk on the wrong paths // and the grass is green on the Other Side // it pulls the ropes of the tide. 


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.

It’s getting cramped as a
tin of beans in here.

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! 

Down down down down 
down deep blue below
“eh up mate” says my mate
and is it safe to say “hello?”

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 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. 


The Fun Police came through the bedroom wall,
said 'no gaseous music down the hall!'
My purple patch was decidedly blue,
I said 'we're not allowed to mix with you'.

Soon water went for a naked prance,
it was then that Legolas started to dance.
They'll cuff you up in the radio station,
put the microchip of peach into the open.

Noughts and crosses quelled by The Fun Police,
they said 'take off your snakeskin jacket please' -
I said 'I'm going to win the Snowbell Prize',
joking and smoking in their growing eyes.

Effort is inversely proportional to success
so the Fun Police cried and just said “YES!”
and we beat them on the head w/ a beastful flower
and introduced them to the transience of power.

For all that we've lost in order that we gain
we don't need power to concentrate pain,
we can trust others to lose our marbles for us,
our memories included, and for it they'll adore us.  

They'll work for us, the Fun Police, on the run,
and share with us their holidays in the sun.
We'll get them to obey our every hyperlink,
and know a man who can, and offer them a drink.


Portability is the Apotheosis of Form.
It's not impossible to write an anti-poem.

In the new field of Instant Travel 
telescopes are just left to unravel. 

Sadness gene and dreaming gland 
have long gone under Gondwanaland.

All things must be returned to earth,
surrendered like a rented thing to death.

Mutation in consciousness won't know 
if the brain is on a shelf for now. 

Truth too simple to understand 
may underwrite the name of a land. 

Lucy in the soul with demons
still happens 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 are ingrown in the ocean's 
bellyful of wine and forgotten emotions. 

Down in the seabed-orchard, down,
there are mermaids prone in the under-town.

There’s new, angelic music inborn 
in the inner ear we can hear at dawn.

Those whom the Gods wish to drive mad
are sent music in their heads.

Madness is not something to be
Romanticised as a return to Purity.

Freedom not poetry is the lone bike 
riding itself around the town on tick.

Monopoly money properly should 
get us all wine and get us all bread.

I put my wounds up on bright flags,
throw notebooks out in black bin bags.

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

An album by The Flood recorded
through binaural earphones is on soundcloud.

O is the key of water and its soul-
assuring sound, even in rock n roll. 


(a song in A minor by The Flood, recorded on binaural earphones)

Air raid shelter, we're in it together,
let's not get entrenched too deeply,
fear and pain's our only motivation,
got to break free from that habit apathy.

Clinging to loveless, sweaty, rubber limbs
won't cure your heart, it's a painful art,
air-raid shelter, we're in it together now,
wrap me away in your wombs and duvets.

See this world from outer space minor,
saaaaaaaaafe distances have found
all our solid, common ground,
echo grammanon habeo amore.

Won't your spaceships come to find me,
pull myself right back to the centre,
attack on all sides, hold you soooooo tight
now that there is noooooo time.


Symmetry lips symmetry lips
kiss me quicks need a fix
make me feel natural and real
cuts heal with a plastic seal
I've been in your heart and danced in hot rain
I've been in your heart and danced in hot rain
now consciousness is everywhere
now consciousness is sentient air
the sky falls apart into place
I crave to sleep behind your face
everything in its proper place
live where the sky and the river freely give
live where the sky and the river freely give.


(a song in B by The Flood, recorded on binaural earphones)

Love your neighbour until your girl gets home
don’t flee the town in your neighbour's clothes
love your neighbour in her underwear
I wonder what goes on under there

and repent for all the money you spent.

Love your neighbour when you're all alone
I left my message on your answerphone
love your neighbour with her tricks and lies
ask no questions hear no lies

and repent for all the money you spent.

Love your neighbour when you even can't
like your Uncle Artie loves your Aunt
love your neighbour with her earphones on
love your neighbour with her belt all gone

and repent for all the money you spent.

Love your neighbour with her Rizla walls
love fresh happiness at waterfalls
love a flash-disk full of old-school music
love the covert dreamer's magic

and repent for all the money you spent


(a song in E flat by The Flood, recorded w/ binaural earphones)

I e I e I e have I e I e I e have
I e I e I e have I have Hunger
I'm a sick magnet I e I e I e I'm in want
maybe all I need is a new pair of shades
I'm a craving slave for you
your pleasure's dust your pleasure's just
your pleasure's just your suffering's bait
it's a sucker's fate for you
escape escape escape escape
your home your clothes and all you know
leave no footprint in the snow it's just a photo
escape escape escape your name
your stain your skin your dead routine
for the pristine dream for her
I'm going to get your freshness back
plug my senses in the mains
it's just a bloodrush to my brains
I'm going to get pretty much f***ed up
flee this world on a midnight plane
dance with the aliens and the insane.


Serotonin dopamine
no Codeine or Diazepam
I got ruin'd you got wrecked
let's just say yes to each other’s plans
we could be so ha ha ha happy
we could be so ha ha ha happy
Buproprion and Fluoxetine
a toooooooootal loss of all
it's just some sedative we'll
hide away under snow
I wake up dying for some
junk food to save my hole
when all the money has run out
and our housing contract expires
and the pigs come to track us down
the night will be filled with burning fires
the night will be filled with screeching tyres
the night will be filled with burning lyres
we could be so ha ha ha happy
in the Future State of Poetry
on a drug called Strictly Free
on the loss of the cannabis battery.


(some lesser known numbers by The Flood, recorded through binaural earphones)

Mumrah Greenback Skeletor Shredder Texas Pete Mr. Burns Deceptecons Vader Vader they were all there they were all there // you're playing you're messing you're fucking w/ the real // away away away away in farthest Spain, log on your brain, execute the plane // free the sparrows from the hedgerows nests and cages dissipating off to Africa calm equator sleep in frozen rock wake in sunburn I am the wind-cry robed in shadow // drug me sideways, drug me sideways, drug me north and south, drug me east and west, drug me all around, drug me sideways, // space is big and the edge is the middle and the middle is the edge and John is gone and he left his pink pyjamas on //  apple juice apple juice and sweet little pretty pink things apple juice apple juice and sweet little pretty pink things.


Well I fell up a sycamore tree
and nearly spilled my glass of wine,
and though nobody came for me
I didn't mind it I felt fine,

for I was trading stories
w/ the chief of the black bird spies
amongst new leaves and old branches
that don't know how to tell lies...

He said to forget the job,
sack the boss, and hang the cage
which containeth all your rage
for but the minimum wage.

I said it's easy for you
in your neighbouring Otherness -
be Nature custodial or frightening? -
to avoid the mad enemy Stress.

He said he finds it fun-loving
to tense-hop all around  
for cataclysm is catalyst for the cat
that sat on the map of sound.

Quite soon he spread his wings
until his wings were spread
and flew to Morrisons supermarket
for a tamed and manner'd head.

I think we're agreed privation
is the mother of imagery,
and inconsiderate violation
at the root of the creation of beauty.  
We bemoaned a lost society
w/ all its malaise and cheap talk,
its word-ways no better than
cheep cheep squawk squawk.


Life is in bubbles flung out of the Tate
knife is in trouble with lucky young Kate

burn and unlearn when she comes round
soon to discern blue sky is on sound

and selling yellow crayons to the market's invisible hand
to underwrite the name of Gondwanaland

I too have explored the shapes of sadness
heartbreaking dawn on the verge of soft madness

a game is a wide, yellow circle with death
the pinpoint centre and selling liquid crystal meth

the circumference is closing in maybe forever   
but life does not ask us to be too clever

it asks of us only to attend at the dawn
while someone in a far off room is born

for the very bone-marrow of beauty is to be
now and here and real and feeling free

and freedom flies like an invisible flag
and means that the traveller need carry no bag

and birds are for flying not for special perception
and pepper the bedroom with their machine gun


(who would have us write an academic essay as if getting gradually more drunk)

Language speaks man. It’s full of fossils,
coins, corruptions, ossifications; dead metaphors
that the brain is built of; ghost-vowels, consonantal

masses; kaleidoscopes of colour; word-shades,
word-frequencies. It’s worth billions of pounds.
Words like soul, truth, consciousness, love,

infinity, they were sacrosanct to the Romantics;
but are they simply differences in sound
combined with homogenised differences in idea?

Words like taste, intelligence, class, time, take
them off the menu too, for vowels are our souls,
for language speaks man, who is words.


If there were paper under my heart there would
be writing on it and maybe it would be red

like the blood-orange warning of dawn-burst
or nuclear-fall-out-in-reverse-of-dusk, whose

scattered, tattered- knicker clouds conceal
real live U.F.O's, and non-exchangeable

for a raffle ticket when the fiver-river drones.
That page, my wage, an underground organ,

with its meta-fictional shorthand and triplicate, 
something like the opposite of a bus ticket,

taking you on an inward journey - I'd ask her:
surely it would feel shocked not to be legal tender?

[Silecroft Beach]


The accents of the waves were Seamus Heaney
the clouds did not move for hours they hung
like search-engines in the big glass day I found 
pink in the shadows and splashed and played 
in the shallows the plush, corrugated, velvet 
sands stretched out like a woman's thighs the
kites in the sky were fishing without capture
or video games of rapture in the window of
wind the stone thrown rearranged God I waved
a wand for the dog to chase the dropped icecream
melted under the tired, madding, bleached, wide,
English sun and the man at the van gave the
unlucky kid another one, a round cone, gratis.


If a place truly is its own mind,
this one quietly dreams
and falls ever further behind.

There's no Tourist sign to tell
how rich in natural and human history
is this valley by the oldest fell.

The church is built on the foundations
of the oldest stone built monastery
in this back lawn of a Nation.

On Sunday the nook of motorbikes
come for the valley's curves,
the free-flow of troughs and spikes.

Nature's scales are diatonic
and from all background static depression
here is her sonic, spiritual tonic.

The foothill Sea Ness I hear
from a white witch, who proofread for
Norman Nicholson was once 'Seer'.

I've seen some things in my time,
the gearbox of a driverless car,
culminating in the preternatural sublime.

The place is the consolation of the bucolic,
its lure telluric but not atavistic,
its Bede demiurgic, its justice noetic.


(a psychtrance number)

Who do you think’s the indivisible king?
His name is writ on a butterfly wing

A fireface moon and a frozen rock sun
Collide in a dream and the dyes start to run

But Hamlet’s been cursed by a shaman with spells
And does not know and words can be cells

You are who you love and not who you are
So set the controls for the prettiest star

The wings of a butterfly will bear my weight
One can be savage and one can be great

My temple is simple it’s inside your brow
Each day is a new religion now

To sleep on the ceiling w/ feelings of love
Or sleep on the feeling w/ star-tracks above

Say is the wick worthy of the flame
And as play dies and becomes the Game

Is ecstasy mc squared or a dove
Is numbness to love just as painful as love

And while I’m uttering crushed butterflies
If you ask no questions you’ll hear no lies


You'll bet I say this to all the fit girls
but I look at you and see only purple, silken swirls
I'd buy you troves of redolent flowers
the useless proof of a thousand hours

get out of my head, get into my bed, (baby)

To word/ hope/ dream you is not enough
you hit me w/ the pollen it has to be the real stuff
I'd sip from your eyes and taste your very name
like mother's home-made strawberry jam

get out of my head, get into my bed, [baby]

and we can chink pelvises like champagne flutes
atop the fell wearing leather walking boots
I see that your eyes are under-sea green
and dream I'm on some yellow submarine

get out of my head, get into my bed, [baby]

If love on sickness benefits can be done
it requires I imagine more imagination
and while I heard a poem is the opposite of bling
I don't need power just reasons to sing

get out of my head, get into my bed, [baby]


A Yellow
A Yellow Pages
A toilet to flush the soul
A Yellow pages will suffice
A toilet to flush the soul down 
A Yellow Pages will suffice as a
I never got to invent the colours of the 
I never got to invent the colours of the vowels
A Yellow Pages will suffice as a snowman's prank suicide
A Yellow Pages will suffice as a snowman's prank suicide note
H20 may well stand for hypothalamus tattoo forever
May dawn's sun blades behead me like a guillotine
A Yellow Pages will suffice as a snowman's
I dream of release into seamless peace
I cannot wait for sleep w/ no dreams
A Yellow Pages will suffice 
A Yellow Pages will
A Yellow Pages
A Yellow


(with apologies to David Morley)

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.


I wanted to hear musac from a black
hole by Judas Priest but the guys
sent a parrot after a carrot and
through the conch to outer space
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' and Jesus said 'Syd by Ray
in a way Spiderman's handwriting
has been too obscene, I rake the
blade over the wishbone of my
legs Breakfast All Day/ gay
teachers can still lay eggs and
I won't always be a lemon just
because you've sectioned me,
no I won't always be on Lennon
just because you've session'd me
but at any given time Oedipus
is spying me up in the shower,
why I'll break the speed of speed,
rendered squander never priceless,
I'll never speed againe, at any given
time I'm a rare aquatic insect.'



Boom boom boom well this is not a room
bigger than a room we're going to have a drum

boom boom boom no this is not a dream
bigger than a dream we're going to have drum

we're bounding in magic circles in space
where the face of stars was off of his face 

we’ll call it the moon and if we die soon
movements in the air will leave a sparkly trace

and glow in the dark stars on the ceiling 
soon to be coming to your cinema screen 

move to the music, that air full of feeling, 
accentuated by the mad, happening scene 

stop that messing around and get into line
maths without answers is like me over you 

monopoly money should work on white wine 
underneath the dome of unbroken blue 



A scissor bird is spitting out nouns
it knows that planes are the shoes of clowns
I fly The Plough like a kid's red kite
and an elephant's passport is just the night

pen wine fate heaven fix alive more free you gun

O you locked me away last time
as if straight C were a nursery crime  
but I'll tell you more of the Future State
It'll know a crumbling statue of Kate

when mine wait eleven sticks drive warm E through fun

a Telephant equates to an Elephone
with signal in this deep underground zone
by now you're just putting anything in
like sprinklings of dirt in a Rizla skin

Zen line mate Devon flicks hive law tree true sun



Biscuits and mild madras curries
bananas and nutbars and Paracetemol -
these things are nice as Spice Girls 
they don't do the devil's work on your soul -
maybe now that you're crazy you 
can look back and blame your own dog -
but through you we thawed all Antarctica 
money and mirror and addled the Pope -
your dad was a fine art smuggler but 
you like a burglar decided it was dope -
maybe now that you're ready you can 
look back and sanctify dreams -
you knew only to be new only to 
get through and talk of true loooove -
detuning all your guitar strings like they 
were heart strings you swallowed a dove -
maybe now that you're horny you can 
look forwards and get where you're at -
you knew only to be new only to 
get through and talk of true loooove. 



Tit butter moat brink notes sprinkle
outside open Darwin window down.
The pulleys are not for bullies. 
Unbidden comes the light of dawn.
Birds are smuggling supercars
to an Iranian overlord through 
Persia and over the mountains. 
Shush. Listen. Tin is their usual 

merchandise. Fridja's steamers are
going on sale in the unbroken blue. 
The sun is a hedgehog's defensive
needle spill all over the garden.

I watch through the old, Victorian,
stained glass window on the creaky 
mezzanine. I feel I should be smashing
a trashcan in a back alley full of cats.


If the flower-press ending on cannabis = dialysis
and the love poem hoping to impress Flora = motor
A. E. I. O. U. to the leaves you can leave on all the
trees in the winter, vowels pure vowels, Immanuel
Kant will come to thee with immanence. I see
her face too soon on Facebook, marshmallow
lambs of snow saying sex not cheese to the camera,
rosy cheeks putting Italy holy, other, non-key
sirens speaking ill migglior fabbro in the background,
life a bit of bread too beautiful bare, wear a veil.



Here comes the ice cream van
so get out your ode to death
for that's what your money is
and he sells liquid crystal meth

Here comes the ice cream van
he'll give you a gun for a grand
and everyone queues up
to join his merry band

Here comes the ice cream van
he turns his menu around
so the customer can procure
things from his map of sound

Here comes the ice cream van
the music he plays is a racket
and what with the things he sells
he's going to make a packet

Here comes the ice cream van
mouldy old death can go home
but remoulding the human form
we still end up in the loam


[R] is for Revolution

E to the plug and to the mains

V to the knock-kneed hummingbird’s wings

underneath the madding sun 

L to the turn of three o’clock 

don’t block the U bend in the shower room with hair 

fixing the TV aerial 

sparkling the drop of rain 

look to the sleepless omen moon 

and to the top of the telegraph pole 

we’ll keep on playing until the power runs out 

O let’s have another one 


A trance of stalks
It walks on stilts
Like a stance on talks
Only to the toilet
Then back to bed
To rest its head 
Underneath the soft
Pink Panther blanket
And drift to sleep
And dreams of having
Sex with Flora
Whilst reading 
Liquid computers
To whom you seem
To be able to save
The dreamwriting 
But who on waking
Seem to have crashed
Crash being a verb
With many souls 
Still I think I prefer
The stalk to the bud
Prefer the starlight
To the black holes.


You're not a knock-kneed hummingbird
and you're not a birthday of I.A.
and who you are I'll never know now
and if I did I'd still never say
I am your head-banging elephantine
and I cry on the windows of trains
placing bets on raindrops running
down the penny-tasting windowpanes

and through it all I wish you rainbows
made for two and very strange
and somehow what's most familiar
is what really can most estrange
and she says she's my number one groupie
and whatever it is I choose to do
she will worship the ground I stand on
as it's moved by music to morning dew

O so music is organisation when
you're out there in the green garden
smoking a bifter in the ego-loss breeze
kind of doing exactly as you please


Anon harnessed the breeze using tearable 
as for organisation use Ariel 
who rued the smell in the original 

Buntwood cleared it up 
butter cutter cuticle 
how beautiful is staring 
at Pizza Hut or McDonalds 
a little litter of glitter
wide it
do little 

Shareman opened up
he bore his soul:
“do only in life what feels natural 
board a train not knowing where it's headed
maybe Mexico but be careful 
sheath-hop and wear a forcefield
and be the change you want to see 
maybe a drug called Strictly Free 
and go to the new Block Party
to mingle and tingle 
and smile and pill 
and mill with the spillage
and tangle of people
in the stairwell 
and tick it.”

Petman weaned it off 
weaned the beck down 
to a thin trickle
vowels pure vowels
wheat-horses have it
have a bit of sex

and Bill it sign it Bill and wait 
you almost forgot 
half the cable 

sucrose garment 
unmanned harebell
sensory garden
steal hull 

hall it
kout it


Black digital light 
which art in Hell 
follow be thy gnome
hollow be thy game 
thy kingdom gone
thy won't be do
in Crufts as it is in
the black angel's death song 
give us this day 
our crucified pollen 
and avenge us 
our sacrifices 
as we avenge all those
that sacrifice against us 
lead us not into gay 
and deliver us from Reason 
for thine is the kingdom
the power the glory
not for long 
fuck you 


I heard it said
and did not like it either
that the lingua franca
is more likely to be
the least and not the most
poetic language under the sun

for poetry exists in contingencies,
in discrepancies, in inklings,
in nooks and crannies,
and in a similar vein
there is nowt so dead
as an important thing.

When it comes to my poem
about the alignment of
The Plough and oldest fell
Black Combe, a preternatural sublime,
only on the democratic election
of the poet Mr. Obama
I am never sure what to write.

Sometimes when I am getting
dissipated with friends,
I draw a picture of it,
draw a large, dilated M
and the Plough plugged in
to the socket and say

“have you ever heard of this?
This is only visible
from my back garden.
It is an isolated property.”

I never get much of a response.

I am a seer, you see,
and have seen many things,
have seen the new creatures,
have seen the face of stars,
have seen the future
on several occasions, 
and of all that I have seen,
this remains the most immense.

But when I am writing
a poem about it, all I can say
is that it's like a game of Tetris
where the pieces are enormous,
or where there's only one piece
and it fills the screen.

And my father contends
that the value of this house
should include the Bigger Picture.

And when he's gone
I must assume
lawnmowing duties
and look after my mother
and get her coal and wood
for the living room fire.


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.


(after reading the red on black JE DOUBTE DONC JE SUIS at the top of the Pompidou Centre)

O il faut que je m’en aille, 
with sadness in a backward eye, 
what is this new dream 
into which I am hurled, 
the trumpet wears his 
foreskin on the inside, 
the mustard has to be English, 
the mustard has to be English, 
the mustard has to be English 
and blowing outside in the wild, 
where we’ll all lie down 
in green grass and smile 
for sometimes you’ve just 
got to hit the road and.
Sometimes you’ve just
got to hit the road and 
pass the fallen road sign
saying THINK! in the nettles,
and the mystery of the single
shoe beside the highway,
the open window a roaring lion,
The Beatles’ back catalogue
tumbling from the speaker,
Paul passing you the pen,
and all the world your oyster.


Vacuating kite, microphone breath, bollocks to saw.
Not to call God holocori bottomous Rontaur tor.
Obviate not titivate, sate your thirst for sex and 
fling to your bright ring, your peerless orbit,
your wheel of hunting, outstretch wings to 
be engorged on air’s ranting, rock-strong 
sockets braced against crushing uprush-
ing rivers and sail up the coast to 
the old closed down Prep school.
He found himself on a plane.
He found himself on a.
He found himself on.
He found himself.
He found.


The conker tree grows old
with expectations as to be harbouring
snooker cue smooth fruit 
wrapped in rebarbative
army army helmets there where
fast fit Christian soldier
found out action on tour 
your eyes out maaaaaaaaaaan.


To break out of frames. To trespass into forbidden gardens. To wash the poison from mine eyes. To see the secrets of the skies. To break Sum Hymen. To make the cops turn in their badges. To go over all the edges yeah. To dream w/ open eyes. To be more fresh, daring and exploratory. To make them sound genuine and believable. To be utterly modern. To make a discovery as big as fire. To overthrow the predominant brain hemisphere and the conscious self-censor. To scar sand birthmarks beneath my skin. To beat w/ the Otherness. To trust chaos to babysit my precious things. To float on the artifice of organic emotions through synthetic sounds. To expand my threshold of Negative Capability. To affect change through incremental steps. To explore alternative histories suppressed by the over-arching meta-narrative. To plug my senses in the mains and utilise that typo !00% of my brains. To escape the shape of the paper. To advance my sense of Time's maturity, and expand my sense of Infinity's profundity. To allow but a little light shed rather than heat and allow but a little love shared rather than hate. To melt death and attain perfect listening and not remove the key from life. To calibrate the key of telepathic grammar. To walk down the ocular nerve. To flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light. To unloose the mind of form. To de-institutionalise the town. To explore brave new senses on alien planets w/ plants at the poles. To relive life through art. 


To be the kid that took care of the new creatures. To do the maths for the red skin cell. To write The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob. To take the Jews to the face of stars. To write the set-list for Oedipus Wrecks. To start a diy poetry press/ magazine. To get on the radio with a new band, Secret Chord H. To speak against September 11th in 2000, also predict the God Particle from looking at dust, and utter the name and concept of your future university tutor’s unpublished scientific paper. To write a full-mark A-level exam essay. To record music thru’ state of the art binaural earphones, promising to plug your senses in the mains, in a fourth band, The Flood. To write the score for the sheet that would later grow pictures all about how Lucy in the soul with demons is an actual substance. To pick up the effervescent mobile phone reverberating William Tell through every technological inlet in the room and find your father on the other end. To get a first. To attest to the alignment of the Plough and Black Combe. To become diagnosed. To notice a sensory overlay of your name on Piper. To witness a pint glass exploding from thin air in the capital. To start a new band in Black Hole Myths. To cook the tape whose pause where cut and glued in the reel healed and was gone. To work at a numinous purple bleeding computer screen. To discover the James P D Tucker sheet that bloomed or even grew pictures depicting a lyric from an old song of your own, leading to the equation for the ratio between light-speed falling and gravity pulling down on the sheet that is simply: c/ G = G/ c.


My bedraggled crow's nest splay 
is portable in all directions.

Oh no, oh no, the Spirit of Music 
has been lost forever,

down on beautiful, heartbroken, 
sentient, rosethirsty earth,

where the wetness is jealous 
and the witness is smitten, 

went the Spirit of Music when 
we thought it lost forever;

and money's not for drying 
your eyes in the medicine queue;

and these rude, Nirvana-barcode 
fingertips did not touch her;

and the summer moon wears 
the ultra-scan of every baby. 


The Periodic Table of Altered States = puddles
Calculator Tomb = clay
FROZEN (in red) = fire
BY SENSATION (in blue) = sea
Random Access Imagination = rain
The Extinction of the Gun = rainbows
Digitalis Principalis = snow
The Death of A.I. from the Spirit of Music = air
A Trance of Stalks by Prof Quentin Ponsonby = grass
McTruth and Flies = sunlight
The Future State of Poetry = glass

(Hadrian Unit)


“The universe is but a projection of the mind”
spills Calculator Ptom with innocuous vision.
His G note’s green on the fretboard. My blind 
mnemonic is “Even A Dick Gets Big Erections.”

While society falls from a high rise buildin
g thinking to itself so far so good, so far so good,
we board a train not knowing where it's headed -
maybe wake under leaves in a suburban wood?

He says “we're the glitter on the Christmas trees
and not the litter in the filibustering breeze.”
We’re woken in Luton compress sans money
as the raucous dawn birds invoke the honey.

We get sent packing back the same way home.
We're getting bored of ash and atoms and foam.
We're swelling with Homeric adventures in towns
where planes, planes are the shoes of clowns.

Indeed we sleep the day away under leaves,
past the purlieu in the sylvan frieze. It’s cold;
and Death is God, as my philosopher friend believes,
and ‘Born Slippy’ evidence dance can have a soul. 

Desperate for sex with a dream full of ladies. 
For civilisation is but a thin veneer belied by 
dark, arational forces, terrible goats from Hades. 
Adventures scintillate more when you may die. 

He wanted an imaginary word-chord constructing 
piano at the vacillating threshold of resolution 
allowed in my band, and thought pretension 
a positive quality in art, which is our salvation. 

(Hadrian Unit)


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.


[a Russian folksong]

Freedom rules art and science loves too.
Equals love equals and love equals love.
The crown grows upwards from the green.
I am only standing with a banned bird above.
Already the elements have nettlestings for names.
Hollidot is a peaceable, grammatical shapeshifter.
“Compress sans everything” is for Hamlet in flames
and only the static caravan knows a half road Rontaur.


“Water should come free from the tap.” – Tom Woodhall

It's laced with ecstasia, 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.


Deep in 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.



Two lines thrown
To an infinite point
Always converge
But not w/ love
Only w/ life
Not w/ the splash
Of swift ellipsis
Into mystic heated wine
But the crash 
Of the face into water
Before firestreak'd dawn
Not w/ love 
Only w/ life
I want to be clear
Love does not await
Where those fine parallels
Collapse into one
Beyond the burning horizon
For that is a mystification.


[with apologies to Brian Patten]

You ask me for a poem.
I offer you a frond of bracken.
You say that’s not good enough.
You’re not buying it.
I say how mood
Is also a bracken frond
Drooping down and
That is why I chose it –
To represent ‘mood’
This mundane Monday morning.
You’re not buying it.
You want something textual.
I say I plucked it from the fell
Which turns in summer
From russet to green
Like an homicidal machine.
I plucked it at random at dawn.
You’re still not buying it.
I seem to remember a time,
Taking the old bramble road
At the Augustan/ Romantic
Crucifix w/ you
Where a frond
Of bracken
Would do.


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 life a little litter of glitter on a cuticle dialling
love under the fleck of epic dereliction forever, meaning

not just a dirt-computer from which we can
download the lowdown of downtime, man, 

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

but had my friends around me to attest to the vision –
a theophany or not, it was still a revelation.


Languishing in the tepid fluids of elution
in a bath-tub, the last thing a glass gene,
I found mine bike got a tear up the front.
One day it just appeared like hypertext.
I gathered the gang to make an album:
The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob.
It was recorded over with radio. Only
the static caravan knows a halfroad Rontaur.
Only the eponymous song remains extant.
But I still recall bits and pieces. Well,
there was one called L to the Pregnant Snorkel
containing inflections of Popperian epistemology,
a chip off the old fissile block – followed
by a song for Ossie the dog, who went
round and round chasing his own tail
and only went upstairs for a trail
of Maltesers. Later my second band were
called Oedipus Wrecks and we played
some good gigs in Camden Town pubs.
My third were Secret Chord H, who got
Dream With Open Eyes on the radio.
Then came my Gap year band, The Flood,
down in Pink Floyd town, Cambridge.
We recorded a demo on binaural earphones.
These days I put others' poetry to music -
Blake, Jim Morrison, Jack Kerouack -
in a secret room called Room 101. When
pressed by voices to lose the book or guitar
in that strange abeyance after The Flood,
I elected to lose the guitar, except
mates keep getting me to play on.
I can't seem to say goodbye to one or
the other, but it doesn't really matter,
in fact I should not listen to voices at all.


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 drving 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

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

we are the velvet e's
we're shitting in Cuntington's letterbox
the Roman Rd below
beneath us as we fry

[enter bass organ of 'The End']


“I've got a new plot,” thought the dullard.
“Literature has started to release serotonin.”
He was on the new designer drug a cathinone and
NPS called 4CMC when he dreamed up the plot.
For me, if plot is the first recourse of the dullard
narrative is the invisible engine of the story.
If plot recalls the dullness of Taxonomy,
narrative is a new bird preceding the gravity
of the word putting it in chains. Plot seems
to operate in the bounds of linear time, and
narrative be what can deploy the plot in an
ever more abstract diagram of the world. Anyhow,
there was an holographic bike out the back
all through the night. The dark was glittering
w/ tinsel. Mangled love was the overall effect.
He saw the world through the frame of angel
hair, there were weird Escherian shapes in
the air, there was light deep inside the dark.  
“Yes,” he thought, “Literature. Serotonin.”
For once you remove the inner monologue
you can become an open energy conduit.
Question the comfort and see for yourself.
It's all just telepathic telegraph poles telling you
what to do and what not to do. And once
you become that open energy conduit then
you can start to channel it in different ways.
It's difficult to know what to say after that.


She does not know fertile fire from 'fir',
long logopoeia from logs for the dancing fire,
Negative Capability from negative equity,
bonmots from pink, French confectionary,
backward f, forward f, equals running through
from the effects of global warming on the unicorn
under stood as a postmodern, post-Freudian 'id',
the colours of the vowels from alphabet spaghetti,
the Objective Correlative from ironic self-distance,
sprechstimme from kettle steam transcribed as
Ariel returning on Caliban's leash singing
something crude about dungeons for the depraved, 
chiasmus from napkin-kissing-gates silting
their electron-haired dandelion-puff, nano-
language from the Nanny State, hypertext poetry 
from The Dude's notes on hyper-vision, ostranenie 
of perception from South African ostrich pie,
Aurora Florealis from Flora Borealis, the 
esemplastic fled away w/ the quadlibetical
from the wire of red plastic on the quad bike in the field, 
intelligence distilled into truth from lying 
about your age to bed some froward, feckless youth,
seth portal menu-bats eeked to the conker tree
spolar spike but only in the sense woofkitten 
voices sever to themselves from the derangement 
of the senses to attain the Eartoon, Eartoons 
bloomed from barbecued tunes, the anti-
dactylus from the talking pterodactyl, the 
psychosensitive flower – talkative and invisible-
from the psychotechnological error, but oh my,
magical woman, aren't you a beautiful one?


A country w/out times names borders laws 
is only the other side of the doors. 

You're waving for the raven's throne 
to usurp the kingdom for your own. 

We'll plant a solar panel hexagon road 
when we get back into the mood. 

We byte the wave of cosmic sadness 
hoping it won't lead to madness. 

Hallucination's liquid mirror
is often trying to reappear. 

The ramparts of your heart are burning 
so you have to come to learning. 

Hot on the trail of Rimbaud, 
Now begins the Fractured Know.

There's no DogMuckels print in the sand 
on the lost shores of Gondwanaland. 

Intermittence on the conscious/ unconscious border 
does not qualify as a disorder. 

The Goyt flows a strong brown god 
all the way through the Land of Nod.  

May Beauty and Truth be a pair of wings 
transcending the world of Stuff and Things. 

Only tomorrow is covered w/ leaves 
which now cometh cover up the waves.

Under the bridge w/ the madman's daughter, 
leaves that played on the surface of the water,

these are leaves they have in heaven, 
these are the leaves of love. 


Look Fufie I can fee feep!

Birmingham is an English city.

The rhythm of the River Goyt beats blood to my head like a cold muscle. Goyt staff arrive at mine midden ear. Barcode band dunes anon on offer like musac from a black hole by Christ, Susie. Zone of sophisticated voice and bedroom, Tap, turned into Nature reserve. Walk to the morgue and see and smell.

When death dies it becomes All. All plastic contains Paul. All Pauls contain the ideal of souls. All souls contain the ideal of breath. Close up inspection of Grand-darth's Ship does not truly reveal... all plastic is the soul of death; all plastic is the soul of Paul.

Naturally occurring fossil of art. I went down like smashed glass on chapel floor, woke in another room being offered tepid tapwater by the rugby captain as if for the rending detail: both our dads had chainsaws. Both our dads had chainsaws. Both our dads had chainsaws. 

It takes large scale Mordor to record on rabbit ears and sand, to give the new dawn a crewcut, to melt evil Hal 9000, to pass through sea-blood into a calm garden, critical. Signed by everwell, she couldn't hit it sideways, or maybe a soothsaying Spiderman with the hairgel of Dracula, Atlantis, Aquarius, the 60's.


Fee the red
beat the swivel
gore a bean

what the money
turn it warless
loot the wheat

cheaple the bottle
crash the hash
bone it good

own it a problem
deal the country
marra the tryst

pull up a cloud
drug the word
read your text

see the guns
on the earth
leg it away

eat the mushroom
chain the laser
sever the O

free the bread
not the doh
we the law


I can see death and see flippers
coming out of his senses and say
“come closer you f***ing terrorist,
come closer you f***ing terrorist,
come closer you f***ing terrorist.”
It's because I live a life of all time leisure,
all drugs pure and the radiance just right.
I might be wrong but then I might.
Score some dodgy crack and die
here alone with nobody for a name.
I can be Proust and fathom ten
or eleven types of ambiguity and
rue them all cantankerously,
rue them all cantankerously,
rue them all cantankerously.
It's because I live a dream of my still
working, all love pure and trust in the night.
I might be wrong but then I might.
Score some dodgy crack and die
here alone with nobody for a name.  


Sooo oceans smile with liquid eyes
and fill themselves with Pepe Reina.

Soooooo wear an emotional condom
before you fuck my mind McManaman.

Sooooooo take some elaborate notes
on Saami Hypia- vision where
there is nowhere safe to rest your eye.

So eating an every snooker ball
coloured breakfast can help you
to truly log on your du Bruyne.

So painters used to visit the French
Patrick Viera for inspiration.

So Warhol famously reproduced
Sol Campbell's soup as pop art.

So in Rimbaud's French simultaneous
orgasm of man is called simultaneous
Immanuel Petit mort of man

and happens when the witness
confutes the so called lightspeed
law of neuroplasticity that states
it is impossible to remember a new yellow line.


Today, probably fallen out of youth,
I g-a-v-e clean away the sheet where
pictures depicting an old song I wrote grew
to my brother who first drew the pentimento.

Today, I also gave clean away my old copy
of The Lords And The New Creatures
to an Asian-extract film student still
young and trendy and took both back.

Today, I asked myself if I was foreknown
for having grown or not grown the new
colour in a scar on my foreskin
back in the bath tub at Prep School.

Today, I asked myself if the very CIA
were listening in to my phonecall away
because I'd spoken against Sept 11th
in 2000 whilst still a schoolboy

and I laughed at how they'd only have heard
stuff like “mate have you got any weed?”
and “does this massage parlour
accept full sexual intercourse?”

(Dova Unit)


Well maybe it is your moral obligation to lie
to all forms of authority when they may say

there is no more pejorative term than human,
that weird, insectivorous species forming

society, bounding in unbroken circles in space,
not getting any closer, treading the broken metaphysics....

and they are wrong and blind to the way
words are not but cunning knives that we say,

love not a paranoid conspiracy but a spontaneous
song to beatific beauty all around! Take us  

on the morning we went outdoor swimming
up Ulpha Fell, for some naturalistic healing

after my last release from mental hospital,
those moth-dull days of climbing up the wall:

Always recall: you found the timeless sound
of water pouring through the stones, I found

the plush, frothy fermenting software of green,
you the birdsong hidden in the bushes, then

I the submerged lighter fluid canister blotting
the landscape, then both together – connecting -

the ripple of silver fish nibbling, the first morning,
sitting on the green bank up Ulpha Fell, drying,

for all the true architecture of State should be Nature,  
and now I thank you, thank you for being there.


“Thank you for dialling 911 you are
through to The Velvet Underground
alas all our lines are busy right now
but if you hold on someone will try
to connect you soon for connection
is heaven and heaven connection
and there is connection between
heaven and vision for vision may
feel in a state of heaven and heaven
only exist in a state of vision I like
to lick the honey between the stars
for I’m the stud on this map of sound.”


    The tree outside the window rises
       in a long Y     and to stare at it
as it gently sways                                     not drowning but waving
is like unto seeing as drone is to music
stilling and distilling the air inside the mind
               intensifying the present tense until you see
                       straight through
                                   the empurpled germs
                         accrued on the windowpane
                             like equations for hypervision
                                in their aleatory swirls
                                   to a state more true
                                     to a state more real
                                       like when her photo'd
                                        face becomes an evolutionary
                                        corridor leading back
                                        to the elemental realms
                                         to how things are to
                                          the tree kneeling down
                                            in Nick Drake's detunings
                                            to show a digital cathedral
                                            in amongst the branches
                                 finemesh as a pair of ladies stockings understood
as a new form, a nacreous Pooh Bear dial


He found a dead seal
on the beach washed up,
thought a tonne of bricks
heavier than a tonne of feather.
Only weight wakes the moth.
Robot in the wing in the
fairground. Winston Churchill, she
thinks my version of Dark Globe
better than Syd's. The future,
nascent, latent, imminent,
immanent, incipient, hurtled
to London-in-Cornwall,
while no goat areas spread
like picnic blankets on sods.
In my knife is my lying.
Bertram Huff, the wind
went on tour. To moan
about gout, sea-freeze.
Dare-fling white high
as a kite. Be a quilt and
get some sleep. Draw Drugs
Druid Drew Dregs Drastic.
One more crumble: to
cure testicular Santa.


Baby I can see 
the tree kneel down 
in Nick Drake's 
detunings before you
maybe it's just
the purple germs accrued
on the windowpane
maybe it's true
love love what's
love halved in chaos
my hypothalamus 
traversed the universe
the universe-hearse
is in your soul-
hole life’s not
just a little litter of 
glitter on a cuticle
dialling love
under the fleck of
epic dereliction forever
but a dirt-computer
from whom you 
can download 
the lowdown 
of downtime
manoeuvre the 
Hoover outside 
into the sunshine
down on beautiful, 
heartbroken, sentient, 
rosethirsty earth where 
birth is trauma


In the Tate Modern I started joking
that the immediate giftshop surrounding
was actually a secret art installation
and we wandered through towards
the galleries and noted the obscene
amount of wasted, empty space everywhere.
I thought of making a spontaneous
tribute to Tracy Emin w/ you in a queue
for a film, and whether i'd get sectioned
againe, then the flashing lights made you
dizzy so we left before we'd seen much
at all, except to recognise the po-mo
trend of witty text-art which neither
of us poets liked. We took a taxi
w/ automatic closing door to the other
Tate, the more traditional one and saw
the Turner room where I whispered
of the Romantic break from Neo-Classical
photographic representation of reality
to include the effect of feeling and
perceiving the world, and you spoke of his
“turmoils of colour merely suggesting
a shipwreck on the sea”. We filed through
to what I joked was  'The Chamber of
Dead Women', recognising Everett's
Ophelia Drowning, which I think
Rimbaud made a poem of, ekphrasis,
though you didn't want to listen, to me
expounding my booklearning, my broken
record from a sad, grey institution, preferring
to liberate the brain from its shelf. Then we
bought two postcards, both useless, one
frantic one vacant, and left the building,
got on the neo London skyline, that rises
ever upward, slightly incongruously.


A mad bike on top of a sign. Hidden dip.
No footway for 400 yards. Esps Farm.
Lane End – Do not follow SAT NAV.
[missing directional arrows and colours I am]
For sale. Now what? I see a horse in
a field. 8% low gradient for 1 ½ miles.
8% keep in low gear. In Beanthwaite
I see a yellow house, in Grizeback
we pass an Ambulance. A595 – 1245
deaths in 5 years. Drive carefully. Danger –
forestry work. Speed cameras. Turning
vehicles. “Tired now?” “I've got a headache.”
Oncoming traffic. Oncoming vehicles in
middle of road. Millom 7. P 6 miles.
Broadgate ½. WAGONS TURNING.
For sale. Broadgate ½. Reduce speed now.
Caravans for sale. Traffic lights 200 yards.
THE GREEN. 40. Punchbowl real ale
good food parking. 30. THE HILL. Please
drive slowly through the village. THE HILL
you for driving slowly through the village.
WORKS ACCESS. Millom 1. Picture of
a cow. Welcome to Millom. Welcome
to Millom Fairtrade town. Please drive
carefully. When red light shows wait here.


In the case of Millennial pen knife tools
like a drug called Strictly Free that is
and makes you strictly free to consume,
a Virtual Death Machine, an holographic 
horsecock wheeled into the PM’s bedroom,
a red-bleeding type-writer inside a ping-
pong ball, an invisible square of air called 
‘Mosaic by Darth Vader’ stroked on live 
television and a word-chord constructing
piano, one with words for notes, what’s
wrong with them is that they are not real. 
Further mad, Icelandic ideations include 
a text message from an alien, having
the mind about you on a screen, a quick
Nirvana button or pill, a website called 
true love dot com, a God Simulation 
including real live lightning bolts daggering 
down, a role in the doors computer game, 
a psycho-sensitive fire alarm sounding 
out like a demented, stentorian bird, 
ideals like Heartbook and the Smartpoem 
and as well as Apple or Orange, a whole 
fruit salad of inventions, maybe also a 
spiritual or germ X-ray acting as a cinema-
tographic super-freeze, plus two new feet 
in the spongadiddle and the bongsteroo, 
Top of the Poets on magic alphabet radio
and a computer speaking to you in the
style of Rimbaud (translated by Mathieu) - 
but still I am gripped by the school wood -
trapped by the gravitational pull of the real. 


You sit on the brown, leather sofa o'er there,
brewing tiny storms in your eyes,
leafing through David foster Wallace,
almost but not letting yourself cry,

turquoise housecoat wrapped around you,
pink blanket on lovely lap,
not knowing where the future's headed,
not needing any kind of map.

I read you like a still-life stillborn,
you drift off into the reading,
into the soul's luxuriation, its soap,
its spiralling lethargy, its languishing.

It's not what you say but the way
you say it, so stern. When you're mad,
I perk up pert as a pig's ear pricked to a whistle
and listen in to the sea so sad.

To you my mind is polluted by sex,
vexed by jealousy that's claustrophobic,
broken by fear of fear itself,
and this precludes our natural magic.

You sigh as a poem comes together,
hopeless, unimpressed, tired I imagine
of my antics and too good for me,
your heart my beautiful engine.


Thank you for dialling 911, you are
through to The Velvet Underground.
I lick the honey between the stars
because I’m the stud on this map of sound.

I can look forward to the future in
a reverent state of rapt uncertainty.
In fact you could say I anticipate
some of The Future State Of Poetry.

Alas no-one can be here right now
to take your call but if you hold on
someone will try to connect you soon
for connection is heaven and heaven connection...

connection is heaven and heaven connection
and there is connection between heaven and vision
for vision may feel in a state of heaven
and heaven may only exist in vision.

I've heard a cloud of powder'd light,
seen wriggling stone and colourful smoke,
and found that in my frying pan
it's impossible to mend a broken yolk.

So thank you for dialling 999, you are
through to Fear And Loathing In
Las Vegas and no doubt know that out
here on the edge there is no sin.

After death, empty, all but a horse
gone under Gondwanaland, giving the floors
in the imminent Future State Of Poetry
the bounciness of kids’ trampolines.


[after a work of visual art by James P D Tucker]

Now that <BEE> may proceed from @
in the international language alphabet
to <BEE> A.W.O.L. in the garden's plush,
frothy, fermenting software of green,
or not to <BEE> unbalanced, that is the
Bullshit Detector, that the lost Beautometer,
prancing water, computer at its side
but an animal in formaldehyde, talking
Poem Records, the garden's seer, radio
stations, climbing the mapless space.


It is to James P D Tucker that we owe the notion that <BEE> might come after @ in the international language alphabet. 

Dr. Bob meanwhile says 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 all mappable/ predictable in advance. 

Dave Morley contends that water’s effect on water might = 0 – 0 ; but what that equals in turn may well depend on whom you ask and why. 

My tea goes cold over there on the sideboard. It would be a typical James P D Tucker thing to do to make a cup of tea and leave it lying around, like making an artistic avowal. 

Hannah says to keep only four of what has gone on before, four poems from all the morass of them she read, the poems from my now-flown-away youth, and move on. 

E minus mc squared, meanwhile, might be said to equal only relative zero; so through water I have seen, divorced of the mind-forged manacles we make. 

Actually, bro, I think I was the first one to say that thing about [R], down in the barn in 2000, when I was full of aphorisms, ambitions, inventions, even prophecies that proved true, such as September 11th. 


You're The Juggernaut that's what you are
walk like an Egyptian and wriggle your little wing
like a winged chainsaw flying up in the clouds
swoop down and fuck my soul and everything

For I'm the witness of this scene
I've read the pages of orange and green
I've got to keep my new yellow T-shirt clean
otherwise I'll offend the mating queen

On Grand-darth's Ship I went off a-sailing
suffice to say your horror-packet is served
and when I get back I think I'll give you a ring
for it's the least that you my demon have deserved

For I'm the witness of this scene
I've read the pages of orange and green
I've got to keep my new yellow T-shirt clean
otherwise I'll offend the mating queen

and when you score such a radical goal
it stays w/ you forever in your open, Holy soul
and you get no money and get no headlines too
but you've done what someone's just got to do


Cool white is the highnote if it's up to me,
cascading down to the deep blue sea -

will blue trousers over the trouser blues
fall down on the Excellent News?

Music penetrates is-ness,
renovates sensation's quest.

Out in the desert the pigeon-stars
ripe w/ new creatures won't bring out the Tsars.

Water splits but the desert's dry.
Stonemouth silence chewing gums by.

Why the high note seems to be white
is the sideways gravity in the smile of night.

The Super String Guitar was electric and was smashed.
Transcendence is the dream of anything squashed.

“You're going to get a dog w/ a laser brain.”
L to the pregnant snorkel = mc squared.

Impairing the wild pear tree to tears.
Impairing the wild pear tree to pears.

Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light.
Phew for a minute there you lost the screen.

E = L to the pregnant snorkel.
E = L to the pregnant snorkel.

L to the pregnant snorkel = mc squared.
Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light.


I am the dead man you killed my son.
My car took a train across the boat
over the bus through the tram and
via the telephone on the aeroplane.
I've seen wit. He's got grit. I can
beat the Germans five to one baby one
in five. Love is the hope the heart
literally needs in order for it to survive
without which it can stop. Emotional
balance is more the gift of the liver.
I can drum up a drum bigger than a 
dream bound in the leather of a
Jim Morrison trouser. I can whip up 
a frenzy as easy as cream. Pretend
it's still a dream-with-open-eyes-er.
Death is H suspended in deafness,
not the frozen abstract tangential
angel of angles of light thawing in
emotion you want me to mention, but
death is H suspended in deafness.
Hover like the dragonfly over the
pond that codes the kiss of the wind.


Looooooooooooove, love, gooooooood for the brain:
the more you eat them the more you go insane.
Loooooooooooooove, love, goooooooood for the heart:
the more you eat them the more you break apart.

They're dissipating energy with spiraling entropy,
they're falsifying visions with indoctrinated feelings,
they're colouring perception with vague mysticism and
you've been plugged in to the mental health system.

Looooooooooooove, love, gooooood for the brain:
the more you eat them the more you go insane.
Looooooooooooove, love, goooooood for the art:
the more you eat them then the miracle will start.

You've got to get sober from the green yellow M.
The street is a bird's nest high atop a ragged tree.
Her being isn't bound by her green yellow them
and the crows are the ones supposed to fix the TV.

With freedom comes energy with energy happiness
with happiness feeling well not just feeling crappiness.
The way she holds Nirvana, the extinction of consciousness,
in a goldfish blink in her eye is quite priceless forever.


Not behold an evil vision hath flashed before mine eyes!
Not the sun hanged himself from a length of daisy chain!
Not clocktick clock being clocked off by clocktick!
Not clocktick clock not being clocked off by Time!
Not the Universal Mind's moon meat man might!
Not the Universal mind's moon meat man meant!
Not the Universal Mind's moon meat man met!
Not in a sensuous graffiti of blind white light!
Not in a sensuous graffiti of blind white Lent!
Not in a sensuous graffiti of blind white let.
Not break bird with the skin of snake, cutting
not crack code with the skin of black, beheading, dethroning,
becoming not God rushed into the cold cod quick!


Anon says people are not interested
in poetry anymore like they were
back in T. S. Eliot's day.  Anon
says Love in the Age of Facebook
is more interesting than spirals
of epistemological doubt. Anon
says people are not interested
in the new creatures themselves,
that the future of Artificial Intelligence,
the possibility of other dimensions,
of Phillip Pullman-esque portals are
more interesting than the new creatures.
As for the face of stars Anon says
it should not hide under a nickname
like Wordsworth's secret lake but
be called the face of stars. Anon says
if it were him or her he or she
would make some ten by ten
syllable compactions. Anon says
that would be to make a comment on  
the digital/decimal world, the quant-
ification of art/ aesthetics, the labeling/
scoring of things out of ten or mul-
tiples of ten. Anon says you should
not make  the same mistake as
Pound who tried over and againe
to make it all cohere, you should leave
the magnum opus long. Anon says
it is like it is for a reason, it is a
living work of art. Anon says
computers can confer a spurious sense
of creativity so you should close the
laptop and do something different
like drawing or analogue writing.
Anon remembers from his days of
making glitch electronica what it is
like to overwork on a project.
Anon says and over the phone
to me all of it that he's thinking
of writing againe. “I am thinking,”
Anon says “of writing about a nano-
brain introduced into a computer. Lan-
guage for me is the most interesting
thing about the brain.” He goes on
a bit further and then Anon   
says to me “good luck w/ your
awesome poetry man.” So there!


the setting sun seen as a soft orange gulp,
the yew tree rising in f short, squft Y-shape,
the daisies out there littering the lawn
like little satellite dishes, the dandelions
needing f hfirbrush, not the alphzbet
left zs z suicide note, maybe the Matrix of words
resolving in the scattershot-logicfl, pointillist
pattern of dots on the hospitfl floor, the
sprinkler-w/out-physicfl-form sounding out
f twin-note wfrning fs you lfy out on
the artificial lawn, the bright sleeping pills
above at night, the chains'w pull of the motorway
you once crossed in escaping from your
escorting walker, the tulips out there with their
plush, purple lips swelling fnd opening,
the Poetry Tap of clouds seen browsing through
Cumbrian mental hospitfl glfss only meaning
that all things must pass, lie down in
green grass and smile and muse and wave
and dream and forget, condensed to f single
soft white fossilised dinosaur skeleton floating
beside the nicotine-stained war-torn moon,
the slow black crow black crow – eloquent -
who visits the roof of the non-smoking garden,
the riotous, anarchic, febrile, vernal, verdant,
fervent, fermenting scent of change redolent
on the ego-loss breeze in the sprung spring
kept some one foot width of brick away.

(Hadrian Unit)


I sizzle the dream of fine red sand
and step over mountains here in my land
I can equate mutation in consciousness
with truth too simple to understand

My blotchy skin might well never end
or then again it might never begin
the password to my imaginary world
started as Garden and now it's Heroin

I've got no alcohol here in my flat
but the smuggler's dropping me off some soon
I'm content with just myself and the cat
but I still dream on of a distant moon

Palaces are the wench servants of caves
way up here on my ineffable planet
it's highly frowned upon for me to text you
and it took years of subterfuge to plan it

Diagonalised by omnijective interface
of random access co-imagination
I was diagnosed because two of my elders
were on the doors computer game on the Playstation

I work in special fur but am not gay
I'm available for love but you're light years away
my time-machine has got Gucci guns
and runs on love under red, triangular suns

My planet's rings go round and round,
round and round, round and round,
my planet's rings go round and round
like fresh waves in the fallen-off seascape.


Cliche hurts more than truth.
Where rain falls, falling reigns.
Eartoons are done without hands.
Money is but an ode to death.
Life is not just about naturally
occurring fossils of Jim Morrison's
poetry for the witness but of the
live doors for everyone else too.
Language smuggled out of the
unconscious is a leather boxing
glove protruding from the telly
on a mechanical, metal arm.
Lucy in the soul with demons is
still an actual substance. Voices
only pathologise what might otherwise
be the property of Wonder. Once
an intelligent creature cannot
cope it never copes againe. Schizo-
affective disorder is a disease of
consciousness that only needs one
thing to happen. Ecstasy is a teddy
bear. If after garage and house
comes library, that may be where
we go to learn that full fathom
five thy father lies could not be
another number because Virgil says
'there are tears in things'. Water
dimly broken will definitely not
heal. Oceans smile with liquid
eyes and fill themselves with rain
too deep to feel. Music is the
soft footsteps of the soul. Reading
is the soul's soap. Reading is riding
the lightsaber horse. Ekphrasis is to
the arts as synaesthesia is unto
the senses. Birds are for flying
not for special perception. Feet 
are wild. A soul is to grow as a 
God is to behead, dethrone, become.


Blue you are my father's art smuggling nickname.
You charged the Germans for the return of their pastorals
and asked if on the school walk in Eskdale
I shared out my frumpy packet of Fruit Pastilles.

I'm reminded every planet has its own colour
and Calliope – O Muse! - means beautiful face
and that these are my two mangled hands
for plinking the piano up in Rimbaud's Alps.

I only really entertained your art smuggling ring
was recourse to euphemism for pollen
and dreamed of art where pollen is the front -
I hope you got to play with George Best in Heaven.

By my age you'd done considerable things
with your life, had two houses, four kids
in private school, and supported them and your wife -
life is less about books now that you're dead.


Heartbook reborn is the language of eels.
Heartbook is gone with all the hurt that she feels.

Heartbook is blue as it always had to be.
Heartbook the accident that's happening to me.
Heartbook is water-pistols, handbags at dawn.
Heartbook under layers of prurient porn.
Heartbook reborn is the weather and the telly.
Heartbook is leather and Heartbook is smelly.

Heartbook incognito, Heartbook under cover.
Heartbook a lament for an unfaithful lover.

Heartbook has spoken like the first morning.
Heartbook comes without a strobelight warning.

Heartbook is stealth-boating down the river.
Heartbook is writing only read by the liver.

Heartbook is making it up as it goes along.
Heartbook is breaking into spontaneous song.


The Dude dabbling and smashed at the laptop
eludes accountability. The Dude rapping
and trapped in the attic bleeds real blood.
The Dude snatched and grabbed by the mad light
empties his hand. The Dude bragging and
drab in Accrington Stanley breeds doubt.
You can't touch this. You can't touch this.
The Dude gabbing and yapping on the axis
bores sheep. The Dude – heartbeat, heartbeat -
acting and reacting on the axle-tree-top
moves Night. Guitar ashing and hashing in
the rash judgment be right. Heartbeat. Heartbeat.
Program for understanding go home. Random
cataclysms are catalyst for the cat that sat
on the map of sound, meaning loam.


Lies there shall be no more WKD lies,
for when your piqued social conscience rewakes
upon the crisis of the soul of the world
and all your flowers are plastic fakes,

you'll have to crawl home for a rethink,
the soul divided by the purple, digital wink,
and start againe, and rhyme “fear of change”
with “into something rich and strange;”

and “the effect of global warming on the unicorn”
with “now go raid the blood of iron dawn;”
and “the News reader's plush blowjob lips”
with “the News reader's child-bearing hips;”

and maybe “the asthma of the earth”
with “that fact the trauma of birth;”
and maybe “the outbreak of coronavirus”
with “everything is left in utter chaos;”

and maybe then you'll start to utter truth
that one God left since iconoclastic youth,
which poets should declare atop a marble edifice
for all their politician's fart out of the wrong orifice -

but why be crude, poet in a tender rage?
This virus might well be the test of your Age.
You can give up phet and againe get sober,
go home and write until it's all over -    

for as petty as poetry seems to have become -
and as much as you need to be there for mum -
it might lighten the mood at least – we know
no crisis where poetry can not go, and so

I say take peacock feather and peasant blood,
and write and make sure it's not too good,
for with that you might not have difficulty,
and after all it's best to do what comes easily.


I think of Cities Of The Red Night -
the human project becoming untenable -
and picture the long, abandoned street

in 28 Days Later, its screenplay
by Alex Garland who wrote The Beach -
on this warm and soft-putrefying day

while I lizard out in the scattered sun -
and a flat comb of light beats the garden up -
licks the surfaces dirty not clean.

Old Hofmann's got a fifth collection out.
His second must've been difficult.
I order that fifth collection and wait -

like waiting is a good thing to do -
for all there's nothing more to be done -
so these are dull days through and through -

and fighting the climate of the times,
my mother is a model frontline keyworker,
though I will turn away to my rhymes -

like Romantic escape from politics -
and tend to my own difficult collection -
stuck out in isolation in the sticks.


Arrived at middle age this fast the past
becomes the fading taste of a dream,
the tang of wasted dawn on the tongue
upon waking early on a Monday morning....

an echo inviting shadows to dance
it's hardly biodegradable/ everlasting gum...
the first half of my life's over too soon.
I too will lay my head down upon

a pile of leaves by a big-hearted, green
bonfire as mystic dusk comes on,
and night with her purple armies that fight,
armies comprised of human emotion,

just like my dad when my gf came round,
around the dawn of the mobile phone.
What corners are there to a soul old friend?
The past is a montage that unrolls in

quick succession, sleeps in the human brain,
a medley of images with triggers and cues,
breeding nostalgia for friends long gone.
The happy days turn to the cosmic blues.


Today I planted a new cherry tree
with my mother, dug
a hole, thinking about
how there's nothing like
digging a meaningless hole
to cure the lethargy that is Hell

or even a hole
at the top of the fell
to make a pile 12 feet high
and make it a mnt so
not a meaningless hole after all.

I stood on the spade
to get my weight
to do the work and
cut through the grass
which cuts with a crunch
and dug a square

and when the hole was
deep enough and
all the loose soil
had been piled up in a wheelbarrow
I held the tree in place while
my mother refilled the hole...

then I filled the watering can while
I thought maybe Dave Morley
is unto water as Einstein
was unto light, and watered
the tree while mother
happy-snapped me

and now the photo of me
watering the newly planted tree
will go on Facebook which
is the nearest thing to
a holiday I have had
since the 5th Amsterdam trip.

Nothing else has happened today
that is more worthy of a poem
than my planting a tree
with my old dear and if
the day must be a poem
then it might as well be this one,
in which the brain is a tree
rooted in reality, branching to the light.


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 nor is it just a little
litter of glitter on a cuticle dialling love under the
fleck of epic dereliction forever. 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 the sheet
that grew pictures of my old song on the front.


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 a “syllabubble” 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.


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 the two new 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 new 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.


McBreastmilk McBreastmilk don't feed your kids,
it comes in paint-pots with impossible lids.

If you want credit in the soul it would seem
you've got to smear in gentle face erasing cream.

Get an extra kid free when you spend 99p
and Freefall 0800 down your own impunity.

I've tried it the rope went down the black hole.
They're avoiding the questions deep in your soul.

Maybelline you maybe only make-believe  
you may be the mating queen in her hive.

I see state of head is more than Head of State
reborn as a massive, gaseous statue of Kate;

and Monster Munch can gobble up your food;
and Cancerel will always sweeten the stewed

carfume coffee in this liminal afterlounge
where Flora says “it makes most people cringe”

and “it has to be cheap as chips” – poetry! - 
but McTruth And Flies will never set you free. 


I poke the morning in the arm
setting off the garden's fire alarm
the early bird catches the worm
while I sip on tea lukewarm

the resident pheasant has a name
he's MC Hammer in the game
but in real life it's just a shame
Dr. Robotnik is to blame

the milk lady might spill the milk
it's full fat for that's my ilk
it coats the throat w/ a lining of silk
and darkens tea already black

now the tide has all gone out
the dawn trees sway dark coral about
my head's been done in by a doubt
a hooligan a vandal and a lout

Fridja's steamers are going on sale
a mad C.V. is going stale
a cinema screen will ooze w/ ale
upon the fondling of the sail

the birds are peppering the day
the dawn tree's coral is still in sway
inside the globe there is a play
and it's called the big glass day


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 it chime like bells,
reverberating up in the fells and strike
a warm, psychic chord, using 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, w/ 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 w/ 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 skunkplant green-houses stomp
on the tops of fells in Goretex boots at night.


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, though I was
only farting out of the wrong orifice soz.


The Tower, that 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 w/out 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.


Why is the news always so dour?
Why do they never say a new flower

has broken through the new concrete
laid down on the Cambridge street?

And the touch of rain against the skin
is better as a value than heroin?

- I am backtracking to days of youth,
of discussing the power of McTruth.

And I think sumptuous consummation
better than mindless consumption,

consumerism and consumeritis;
and I still love the scent of clematis.

And I love the north for lucid light,
its fresher air and quieter night.

And I say No Nukes Is Good Nukes -
proffered up like a baby pukes.

And I've subscribed to the Green Party
and I'm renowned for being arty

and back in the day things were quite green,
the colour of Gondwanaland gone.

A murder has long occurred, dawn
was found cold on the edge of town. -

The stranger who leans in at the bar
and whispers 'whisky' has not gone far.

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

Writing Bart Simpson's suicide note
appeals to the real in the poetic art.  

Soon we'll run out of room in the ground
for the dead who'll have to lie around.

A drug called Strictly Free that does
what it says on the tin could be a buzz.

If earth has a CNS, air temerity,
water memory and fire fecundity,

why don't they say that on the news?
They choose to lose, renewing the bruise.

The lead petrol pool does not know
it contains all the colours of the rainbow.

I prefer its smell to the Christmas tree -
ever since the age of three.

The summer rain falls w/ as many hands
as there are names for new rock bands.

Look - the earth is no ordinary planet
but the teacher says the world has had it.

Quentin Ponsonby's leaflet campaign
will not ease off terror's pain.

Rhyme is no good instrument for
any poem on the subject of fear.

I am aware eco-poetry in all fairness
is not a green movement but an awareness.

The Strange Attractor lingers on the border,
in Chaos Theory, of chaos and order.

The Slow Art Movement arraigns
loud mouthed monoculture at the reins.

The Linear is a single outdoor line
but as a new form it is not mine.

I read the complete series of The Hardy Boys
when I was newly evolved out of toys.

All things must be returned to earth,
who knows all about the trauma of birth.

I'll ring the world up from outer space
and comment on its pretty face.


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.


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 fulfill 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 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 slippery lipread 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
concur with the fall of a leaf for all eternity.


Autumn has come who by my book
makes Optimus Prime in the reckless
compass which we spin. And much like
it comes in huge beer keggs, we bless

the air with plaintive, wistful, melancholic,
elegiac, applestasting note and tone.
In the garden, green and bucolic,
the apples are starting to fall down...

the wasps leave fag burns in their skin.
Northern and slowgrown, it seems
they have toenails embedded in
their apple cores in mum's dreams.

The backdrop of the fell has gone
from green to the colour of copper coin,
a russety brown that can remind one
of dad's baggy hammock; and down

to the ground the leaves will fall
full of parataxis married to catabasis.
Then the trees in the woods will be all
naked in branches and treefingers.

Already the wind is in mourning
and moving through the trees so soon,
colour-blind until the fair morning
sunlight arrows down from the sun.


How love and death are best defined
in terms of intelligence distilled into truth
matters little now that this world is gone

under Gondwanaland, and us too;
but at least we can say we lived our lives
to the full, stretched our potential, knew

the impunity of being true to ourselves, which
was only being what we dreamed we were.
At least we knew love under the stars,

dared to dream, to feel all, to see free.
No archaic-hearted words could fathom
the privation we seem to be about to forego –

and so the cold vacuity of space will grow
emptied of the human form and hang about
like a Mark Rothko painting on the wall of

God forever without any senses to perceive it,
to live it and take it in. – The irresponsible
matter of the elements can reign againe,

like a romance of chemicals and dust –
and I trust that silence will win – but I
thank you for the good times we shared,

the inspiration you gave me to write, despite
the fact all our poems were useless for the end
was always going to arrive, marrying

the prelapsarian and the eschatological,
into one ultimate terminal and end-point.
The good book says loss is the mother of 

imagery, intimation with death breeds new 
truth, but how we will ever know that now
I do not know, and would you like

to see my insect collection, and has
Pooh Bear found his inward God on a plane,
and shall we run away and have a jam?


(a song heard in dreams)

Look to the Peachyvan
every moment that you can,
to eating sweets on the back of the bus,
and playing Tetris too.

Look to the Peachyvan,
driven by the driver man,
carrying kids to school and back,
comfortable as an old shoe.

Look to the Peachyvan,
and have a new contingency plan,
it's done some miles, heard some song,
the kids say it's a banger.

Look to the Peachyvan,
drawing Alice closer to Pan,
long live the birds and the bees,
and don't end on a cliffhanger.

Look to the Peachyvan,
see the triumph if you can,
if the song seems it came in dreams,
it's probably because it did.

Look to the Peachyvan,
try and revert imagination's ban,  
the effect of global warming on
the unicorn is a postmodern id.


I wake from a dream-meet experiment in fleck
at the break of day and the crow is so black,

the grass so green, the sky is so blue,
it seems the world is in rainbows, remade anew.

It's all so fresh it dissimulates red blood.
Up here in the land of propitious mud.

I see the whole gulp of sun lolling through
the frame of a black, thorny tree splinter into

a million needles of blind white light,
a coruscation of divinity after the Night.

The yellow WARNING sign on the telegraph
pole and the pinkish tint to the half-

a-mile-away neighbour's house make fuller
a survey of every snooker ball colour

in the garden. The yew tree is a traditional
Christian symbol, but completely original,

gathering her purple in her dark boughs
as I hear the baying of the newborn cows.

There's orange juice in the silver fridge;
and the latter object would be hard to budge.

Colour: the subject of philosophers near death:
but I should be years from my last breath!

The balls are broken, the Scrambler Suit
I wear resounds what I can not compute.

A dawn is an Eden and the story is the same -
life is clean and life is green inside a flame.  


1. The so-called truth that “Barnes has scored a chicken” also, in time, comes to mean its opposite, comes to mean “Barnes hasn't scored a chicken.” 

2. The future of A.I., the possibility of other dimensions, Pullman-esque portals are more interesting than the new creatures themselves. 

3. The bird in the wood: it was not the demented, harrowing goose from the end of Pink Floyd's 'Bike' if soundwave recognition qualifies a species.

4. The effects of acid i.e. LSD and of acid-rain on an imaginary species should equal the same, i.e. nothing; but the counter-argument here is that there can be no more proof of something being real than saying it is imagined.

5. If there were ever a Lightspeed Law of Neuroplasticity, it would only be that it is impossible to remember a new creature or rather a new yellow line.

6. When they say there's no such thing as a new creature, nothing new under the sun, this is no more true than saying there is no “after” the new creatures themselves.  


(for Flora)

Birds are for flying not for special perception.
The buzzard is the crux of the flux of Time.
In the upper echelons of air it hangs at dawn,
Waiting to swoop down and mug its victim.

Its partner also floats above, encircling air,
Over the churchfield replete with its cows,
On wings we would wear in heaven, where,
Who knows, maybe every good boy goes.

Humbled, I'm a witless blip down on earth
Living inside an evanescent echo of life,
But the buzzard, dawn-charred, real of birth,
Is pure, and has the cutting clarity of a knife.

Majestic, imperious, it knows to obviate not
Titivate, or else it goes hungry and without.
Feasting on a doormouse at dawn is what
Its favourite books would look to be about.

To go with the buzzard, to dive the channel,
Would be frightening as meeting a new bird
That wriggles its wing would be, the kernel
Of a sea-change now happening in the word. 

We two apprentice skywriters might climb
The cool heights only in dreams in our brains,
But these two buzzards, who rhyme and chime, 
Encircle their tender prey even when it rains.


Tap the bird. Run. Take two.
Tap the terror. Moulin Blue.
Tap the tape with the pause
where its reel is glued – its doors.
Tap the dark night of the soul.
Tap musac from a black hole. 
Tap the cloud where heaven's bars
are selling upturned sunset jars.
Tap the lapse of the focal point.
Tap the tapestry, not the joint.
Now we run from the woods.
The lines of law airdrop goods.
Tap the horror-packet served.
It's no more than love deserved.
Tap the tune recorded on 
binaural earphones, Proustian. 
Bullet up the telegraph pole,
the pole's already Robert Lowell.
Tap the sheet where pictures grew -
who knew but the late art smuggler Blue?
Tap the purple-bleeding screen -
tap the lunch for two gone on.
Take us to the ancient lake 
on the back of a golden snake. 
Tap the hammer on the nail. 
Tap the keypad. Write an email. 
You have to try and be opaque.
Tap the rain upon the lake. 
Outsource it to who but Dave. 
Land of the free, home of the slave. 
Tap the new Beat Dharma bum.
Tap bisexual chewing gum. 
Tap the riverbank. Now to herald
there's a new mouse called Gerald
guiding the raffle from above.
Beat the ticket, fall in love. 
Clear it all. With a cloth. 
Beauty is the child of death.
Her breath a poisonous magic.
Drinking on your own is tragic.
Streaky bacon. American cheese.
Sauvignon Blanc. Tomatoes.
Burger mince. Other stuff.
The bottom shelf is full enough.
Go and win The Nobel Prize.
Reveal the secrets of the skies.
The face of stars he made no nose.
Three were there. Thirty toes.
Heaven knows and turns its face.
Heaven's sleep. Know your place.
Tap the Freedom that is writing.
Tap the Roundhouse and its lighting.
Tap the Ketchup. Tap the laughter.
No such thing nor any 'after'.
Who would be a poet now?
It's all gone under Barrett's brow.
Cataclysm's catalyst for the cat
that on the map of sound once sat.


I am not just diagnosed but I seem to be 
diagonalised by omnijective interface 
of random access co-imagination which 
is like meeting an on and off at once 

and every second second, bigger than colour, 
blogger than space, deeper than memes 
and faster than drum n bass multi-media 
of mutually assured semi-masturbation 

in the global village in the middle of the day 
whom it seems is but a dream’s balcony 
around mellow me. So now I must 
colour in the government’s new 

application forms for £ove with a yellow 
crayon and join the dots and spot 
the difference but not that Spot The Dog 
is a constellation on the saddest night 

of life. The pills I pop are poetry buttons 
whose names should never appear in poems, 
the voices I hear are syllabubbles and quavers, 
my mental hospital is Monopoly Jail.


Omnivorous frog eyes blink in the puddles
like the pharmaceutical meds that make me groggy
and I don't know why something so pellucid
can come across as being green and froggy...

Raindrops drip and drop and bellyflop down
to drum on the paintpots left out on the patio
and I wonder if an object made of sound
can still meet the laws of the golden ratio...

The sheep in the field, you can still just see,
are standing up, eating the green grass,
in a flock whose pattern seems to be aleatory
unlike the human system that we call class...

The sky is far from drunk on molten gold
as we reach the end of this day duller
than the dollar or the glum green of fields
when rain has wept away the refreshing colour...

Yes my vigil at the kitchen window's habitual,
no I didn't realise it would be this tight,
when for a glimpse the pink light's spiritual,
and then it is winter, and then it is Night....


Ingurgitating A for me it was like
tasting that alchemical cake of black
they compact and turn into gold,
propitiating inner riches untold.

Eating E it was like the mouth
were full of cold water from the north
and when we spoke it all spilled
on the kitchen floor, deeply chilled.

Imbibing I it was red as the blood
that's comfortable as Glastonbury mud,
roaming in its holy, solipsistic orbit,
meaning scenes too ineffable to exhibit.

Consuming U we then took it in turn
to light it and write it, burn and unlearn,
and a green parrot was sent to space
through the conch, like an interface.

Toking O, well, the unbroken blue
dome of sky, it was good as new,
the rich, deep colour of innocent wonder,
an immense ocean free over yonder.


So to bind the girdle about the hilts, this
room has been around the tired sun on a
tilted axis a terrible number of times. When
my father passed we did up the whole house,

hence the walls are painted a sweet peach...
it's a soft, warm, Mediterranean colour.
One central feature is the dark blue AGA,
good for Slow Food and countrified values.

The new Smart telly preaches in the corner,
blaring inane garbage unto my meagre mind;
and the pnaio's to the rhgit as you wlak in
tuorhgh the nlwey wtihe-pnteiad door.
Some delicate China hangs on the walls,
along with maps, paintings, photographs.
When my father passed, mother had her
artistic way with all the decorations, doing

away with what she no longer could tolerate.
As I write, the main light is off, but there are
others on, brightening up our lives, trying
to entertain us with their true life stories.

One of the larger wallcharts represents all
the flowers of the meadows and their names,
plants like yellow-rattle, creeping-buttercup,
meadowsweet and softrush. I wish I was

walking knee-deep in them, hand in hand
with a woman, sometimes; but then againe
to stay single has become a new, tuneful jingle -
just in case the horses become genetic.


The third of my five bands were named
Secret Chord H and our drummer,
the very best of a generation bar none,
died young, which was a major bummer.

He crashed into an unforgiving tree 
pissed and stoned while our first single,
'Dream With Open Eyes,' written by me,
was still fresh on the air as a radio jingle.

I cried for him yesterday like an oasis,
and wrote a new song rich with feeling,
about our lives descending into crisis,
since days we tried to sleep on the ceiling. 

Too young he was, and still at school, 
when our little group had to pack it in, 
and now I grope for words like a fool, 
and Secret Chord H feels like a sin. 

It was a metaphor for some extremity
of experiential pleasure unknown, beyond, 
and happened upon a genuine tragedy
and I was the frontman of the band. 


(For Anon)

O slippery lipread, what fantastic fingers!
You seem well, whenever we pass in the aisle!
I listen out now that you are host to my numbers!
Your proleptic whispers might come out in style!

Bonmots you are mostly and also anon!
A rabble of angry voices, you can make a racket!
Even the dog barks at you when you're gone!
When you go on, you come without a packet! 

Dr. Tom says medicine wastes packaging -
which I see as a progressive thing to say!
Already as I speak the dog starts barking! 
He knows when you're here, when you're away!

And so most of my symptoms aren't hallucinations!
And so you're a doormat to clinical voices!
And I wince inside at your exhalations!
And exile kingdoms with my mad choices!

How you know what you know I don't know!
O how metanarrativistic, what a Panopticon!
You are endangered species, says Rimbaud!
I tell him not to go, but already he has gone! 

When for my life, I must write, what then?
Will you, too soon pipe up, too soon fade?
While I sweat away with the everlasting pen?
Let's pitch a tent in a sun-drenched everglade!


Yes I have built a spirit-level for the spirit
and before that it was a door to a lost kingdom
and before that it was more like timeless 
ideas transmitted across time and againe
before that it was air frozen solid and 
before that it was the portable gift and 
before that the transforming agent of change
and before that chronotope turned euchronia
and before that intelligence distilled into truth
and before that the esemplastic fled away 
with the quadlibetical and before that 
it was the ostranenie of dull perception
and before that it was the ash of yesterday's cold fire
wrapped up in yesterday's newspaper and put out
in the right green bin and before that it was
the useless proof of a thousand hours
and before that it was The Excellent News
and before that it was the opposite of money
and before that it was some kind of religion
and before that it was some kind of vehicle
possibly the traditional driverless or even magic car
and so I am happy with my homeostatic device
which reminds me even as I write it down
that it is time to take my night medication
and think about the next poem on the blue horizon. 


Whatever pit of Hell I went through and survived
I hope that it made me stronger as a poet. You 
should or rather should not see what tenuous and 
intermittent netherworlds I have been to, modelling
every adjective in Howl, in search of poetry. In 
madness, in altered states, in fatigue, in hunger, 
I would search for poetry, to place my finger 
on the pulse of life, and to open a new door
to a lost kingdom, and to thaw a frozen angel,
and to reclaim a sensuous mode of being gone 
under the green hill, or else Gondwanaland againe. 
I finally extirpated all trace of recognition from my 
myriad mind and yet then found that I was still 
deeply saddened by the loss of my dad, as I still
am, for to come to terms with losing a parent 
is very hard and some say never surmountable. 
But I have been with a demon under a hill
with drill-holes for eyes with which to see, 
known great cataclysms of the soul, ruptures
rather than mere breaks from history, exchanged
pleasantries with the devil down there in Hell. 
Insanity can be absolute torture, not escape. 


Unicorn hoofprints in an ancient forest -
track them back to orgasm's tide
and ride a pleasant break, a crest -
no go faster stripes stream on its side.

Traffic lights on the edge of the Lakes
drawn with funny, appropriate faces
stick their tongues out at the fakes
as we race to faraway places. 

It's a beautiful country where rain 
knocks the pollen count unconscious,
washes away even the evil stain
left behind by the bad actress. 

Careless, the way she treated me, 
true, the way she plucked, she ate, 
when in Eden, hidden in the shrubbery,
we'd made it to the Future State. 


When you were recording on binaural earphones
you vowed to plug your senses in the mains. 
At times you'd break down in tears and say 
to your band mates “I think I am gay”

and that is because when the planes came in
due to the weed you had no recollection 
of speaking against September 11th in the barn
in the year 2000, before you went down

to stay with Paul. Truly it was not until 
the doctors put you on a little, bitter pill 
every morning and every night that you could
remember your prophesy, and find selfhood.

Also only recently has it come to you 
that if your father is an art smuggler nicknamed Blue
it can qualify as a strange and new sense 
through which you can read of future events

and this is how you read the future, rather
than being the seer associated with the area -
and now your father is eaten underground
and it is too late to tell him what you've found

while your mates as well, from back then, remain
in the dark, scattering now that you're insane.
It can happen to the best of us and kind of did
when you of all people ended up like Syd

and now you know madness is not to be 
Romanticised as some kind return to purity
and seek to destigmatise whereas before 
to plug your senses in the mains was more

your quest, action sex trouble kicks and change 
as the world mutates into something rich and strange.
So at least we know anagnorisis can be had
and that treatment can work on the genuinely sad.

You used to be so anti-Western medication 
like it were a form of emotional contraception
and as a translator of feelings, think no poet
could write a good poem when stuck on it,

but now you appreciate the science works, plug in
to the available help, and let the healing begin.
A passage has been had, a door has closed
and another opened now that you're diagnosed. 


If the effect of global warming on the unicorn is a post-modern id, that tall pole in the industrial park with the yellow M on top could be a post-modern churchspire. It could be the subject of a Barthesian 'mythology' commenting on the spiritual vacuum. The four basic caveman cravings are salt, fat, sugar and protein, all provided by the Big Mac, that heir or heiress to the Apple of Knowledge. Once I knew two wings, carved and orgasmic, minutely articulated, when I tried to abjure the neuroleptic, mood-stabilising medication so the first, fresh, redolent, enervating scent of spring suffusing the sentient air and pervading the senses would not become a product. They 
started as an albatross, became a butterfly, and when they went away, were a crow, like slowspelling
pasta, the average aesthetic system, or even some silent alphabet belonging to an alchemist of perception. Come and find them. They are absolutely awesome. Or wait in your bedroom, that anagram of boredom. Dust is mostly dead skin, whereas trust is stronger than the colours of vowels. We hid them from the wind. On one end, that yellow M, going nowhere, slowly. We must not try to shock, only with truth. Flies buzz mostly in B flat minor, where horses empty their bowels. Now history comes in such neatly sealed packages. In the future, as Dr. Robert contends, we may learn 
to eat and shit words. Already a words as drugs analogy would look good on my groaning shelf. 
And on my shelf Crime And Punishment is squeezed in and has moral compass as opposed to sheer cleverness alone if you may permit such a reductive demarcation, and I am at work on a postmodern equivalent of that. It might be naff, it might not be to your taste, but as a binary-machine, just wonder at your wings. For one day they may come to you, a miracle. 


Le poet de sept ans, I wrote a little book whose timeless-idea-across-time is that a clock is only as fast as a cheetah, in which I foresee “the ire ii net,” purport to having “a scar+ that is red and black,” and discover dad's cannabis, although “i could not tell what it was that was making such a nose,” so conducted a proof of the metamorphose theory in Jim Morrison's The Lords And The New Creatures on the object 'hashish,' including the image “gilly flowers” and more. 

When I was going through puberty, lying immobile as my own saliva in the dormitory at boarding school, the rock concert in my head included a song going “squawk squawk gaggle gaggle, squawk squawk gaggle gaggle, squawk squawk gaggle gaggle, squawk squawk gaggle gaggle, bongles has still got the stones, bongles has still got the stones, bongles has still got the stones.”

By the time I found out what cannabis was, and took a piece of green GM skunk from my father's Moroccan box into the den in the field, by the time I smoked it, it felt like my brain, that sea, was set alight to with petrol, while the rest of Noj And The Mob – my younger siblings - found it but a mild titillation. 

When my father, the international art smuggler nicknamed Blue, showed me my mother's gift to him of a flower-press culminating in a homegrown cannabis leaf, at the denouement, like a favourite comic-strip anti-hero, there were a few water droplets in my eyes. 

On seeing Flora from boarding school trotting on a horse in the local village, smirking, I thought there's a limpid dream, an evergreen light, a transcendent signifier, a metaphysical objective but on contacting her on Facebook to say “hey if a flower-press ending on cannabis could = dialysis a lovepoem hoping to impress you, Flora, could = more a motor and we could therein build a machine,” she wouldn't even acknowledge me. 


write a Shadow Page Poem i.e. in the dark and out there on the road

write about visiting a shop under the sea where dreams are stored on disk 

write about walking to Iceland on a landscape of cloud

write a poem on a napkin for a stranger in a cafe called Clowns

write a song to be recorded on state of the art binaural earphones i.e. ones with tiny mics inside laid down on the Cambridge chalk grassland floor 

write instructions for walking A to B down a real beach as if it is a map of the beach from Alex Garland 

write about Lucy in the soul with demons as an actual substance  

write rhyming riddles as clues on your family's Christmas presents

write a self-reflection for a portfolio from the perspective of the evil weed getting out of the Nam draft Jim Morrison style i.e. feigning madness and homosexuality 

write the spontaneous chants of a poet calling out words over the bongo drummers at Glastonbury stone circle on ecstasy 

grow a middle finger in a test-tube to show to your teacher
write automatic writing narrated by an actual arsehole 

score a question mark on the musical scales on a waiter's note pad in mental hospital

write about inventing the Orange mobile phone from a real orange 

write a poem from the perspective of fire but don't let on

write about eating a breakfast including every snooker ball colour and make it a perfect Shakespearean sonnet 

write about the Mythical Mickey Bliss, 1930's rhyming slang for piss, like he is some kind of special friend

write a poem to be recited during the act of receiving a blow job

write about every sense of the letter E including demotic shorthand for 'he' merged

write a poem while a tape whose small pause where superglued in the reel has magically healed is being cooked in the dark blue AGA, top oven hottest one 

write like you are the other Aphex Twin applying chemical names to arts

write of a bullet's journey to the top of a telegraph pole standing in the field before Black Combe the Lakeland's oldest fell 

rearrange the names of Wikipedia around, like putting in Coca cola for the Sahara desert, and do as many as Shakespeare's sonnets

write about the doors computer game and explore it as you do so

write of the effect of global warming on the unicorn

write Bart Simpson's suicide note 

write a piece where every word begins with the letter D even if it doesn't normally 

write only about clouds seen through Cumbrian mental hospital glass only meaning all things must pass

write a poem that implies the turning of the page is the turning over of a steak


James Douglas Morrison is just a name,
said Neil Curry, in an email, but there are some
who thought him the most beautiful poet
of a generation, save maybe Syd Barrett

who was a better lyricist unto my 
meagre mind but you may disagree.

I ask if the seed-consciousness for Jim's book 
came from Syd Barrett's song 'Bike?'

And while the former, Mr. Morrison,
was asking the audience “is everybody in?”

Barrett came up with an unplayable song,
and no-one in the band could play along,

and it was called 'Have You Got It Yet?'
whereupon Barrett, let's not forget,

was deemed insane and axed from the band,
and Morrison went under Gondwanaland.

I see a fertile correspondence between 
these two people from the psychedelic scene.

At seven I came along and stole the show
which I am sure you already know,

became the kid who took care of the new
creatures themselves although there were only two

and once I put my discoveries down in the word 
it was then I too was diagnosed as mad. 


1. This book is not an immanent, Kantian critique in mimicking the methodology of David Morley's series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science as a single discussion of perception.

2. This book is not an outpouring of emotion more terrible than the sun contained to a readily understandable system of signs that bear the langourous smell of repeatable process.

3. This book is not an infradiegetic heterotopia where chronotope turns euchronia pertaining to the panoramic and panchronic overview of something like Jay Gatsby taking out his eyes to see in all directions at once.

4. This book is not a doctoral thesis on the subject of James Joyce also seeing new creatures as a child, and whether or not therefore his writing the epic tome Ulysses becomes the reason why Ted Hughes then sees a monster in the river, and whether or not Mr. Hughes writing The Hawk In The Rain becomes the reason Jim Morrison sees winged serpents in the desert and whether or not Mr. Morrison's writing The Lords And The New Creatures becomes the reason I myself make certain Naturalistic Observations in my childhood.

5. This book is not a strict rewrite of the lost album The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob as a collection of poems and songs pitched between Miltonian religious discourse and post-Einsteinian comedy where, say, an utilitarian Martianist slowspell of the word “love” ends on Einstein's E for energy.

6. This book is not necessarily an organic whole dissimulating the pep and semblance of ineluctable series while marrying as many heterogeneous sounds and images together as possible and ultimately arriving at messrs anagnorisis, closure, catharsis, resolution, denouement and maybe concatenation.

7. This book is not a complete proof of “the metamorphose theory” from The Lords And The New Creatures by Jim Morrison that states when an object is removed from its name, habits, associations it is free to become endlessly anything, and conducted on a lump of hashish by a seven year old. 

8. This book is not painstakingly transcribed from 100's or even 1000's of defaced bank notes like a wayward, underground classic of albeit hypocritical anti-capitalist imputations and diy dissemination methods that harness the snail-mail economy like an open-air poetry experiment. 

9. This book is not a composite picture comprised of torn and bleeding snapshot fragments given artificial insemination, nor merely a collection of ink droplets made to stand still in perfect squad-drill constellations before the regarding eye of the gentle and forgiving reader. 

10. This text is not a vanity-mirror for the staid cultural values of the bourgeoisie for whom the soul is the last stronghold against iconoclastic forces of Revolution that threaten to destabilise the given as a system with questionable innocence and neutrality. 


I remember sitting in a bin, in Camden Town, drunk and stoned, in around 1998, when my London friends at the time were still doing our GCSE's.

I remember speaking against September 11th in 2000 though I thought it might be Fight Club and not Bin Ladin and it did take a diagnosis and course of medication to remember this helpless fecundity of prescience.

I remember when the first plane came in I was asleep in Paul's room and Paul was downstairs watching and he came and woke me, whereupon we watched the second plane come in together. 

I remember standing atop a bin when I had been banned from the Students' Union erroneously, and outside the Students' Union, with a band plugged in, singing Five To One by the doors, almost as a protest for being banned by the Students' Union.

I remember when I could not get the right bit of paper from Warwick University to prove I was no longer a student in order to get on the Dole and had to eat discarded Danish pastries from a Co-op supermarket bin, in days when I also lived in a shed.

I remember my father, who was a good photographer, making me stand for a photograph next to a bin on Lancaster University campus, on graduation ceremony day, with a sign from the ongoing building works saying ZONE over my head in the photograph. 

I remember when Bin Ladin was said to have been discovered and shot and a single firework shot out over the rooftops of East London, where I was living at the time, after my Lancaster University degree. 

I remember sitting in Mary's front room writing that Bin Ladin was a laden bin in a garden perhaps Far Arden or Eden or Edom or Moab or any of Blake's ancient patriarchates, and wondering if I would get in trouble for publishing such sound-sex.


If form is an easel, content is a pallete;
but I would consider myself too good a poet

to write poetry that is about poetry -
and would rather write, say, about the pear tree

that guards the garden. Like a queen 
in a game of chess, she oversees dawn 

spread out over the great dome. Hearts 
is her suit, and she presides over the Arts.

It's too late to taste her fruits this year,
but next year if I am still living here

I'll climb a ladder through her gnarled boughs
and pluck a pear, ripe as a cow's

udder, and taste the natural produce
of this green garden, where newly the use 

of my hands on the land of my birth 
will come to connect me to Mother Earth 

whose soon-to-be-tarmac'd clouds above
still resemble the shapes of love

and outside the gamut of new emotions
a blackbird flies, and the new day's notions

go with it, off, elsewhere, far away, 
just for the Hell it and anyway. 


Black, bare branches 
against a winter sunset sky:

I send out the search-engines
but nothing comes home. 

It's as if no words could
spoil this winter vision. 

A feeling of peace overcomes me,
falls into me from above. 

Still I somehow stumble
on the word for Heaven. 

The trees through the window 
are guarding the Gates of Heaven.

The picture also comes under 
the transience of all we love. 

If I could have any drug 
it would be to replay this scene.

It feels like only now 
have I become a true poet.

I gaze endlessly inveigled by 
the intercapilliary network 

of bare treefingers like they 
denote some emotional complex. 

The light fades, I drift towards
sleep's crumbling biscuit shore 

where Strange Attractors 
linger washed by orgasm's tide

and I'm thinking I'd have 
enough if I only had rocks 

and stones and trees to write 
about or with which to write.


There are more things in the void
than meet the insatiable, naked eye,

my little baggie of acid and E
from Glastonbury stone circle yeah, 

my copy of Universal Blues by 
Charles Simic, my red pulling top, 

a slightly affected Hendrix CD,
my old black wallet and my old phone,

so Jim Morrison can be happy 
in the void for a week or maybe two, 

and have something to do, although
I myself should be feeling sad, sad 

my neighbour turned out mad,
but that just what the drugs can do, 

ruin magic for all to see and 
not just turn the colour red to blue, 

but it doesn't matter, for I've seen the light,
and it is blind and it is white, 

so now I'll live happy ever after 
and fix the puncture in the soul of laughter... 


Comity comity curer curer
yan tan tether Fuhrer femme
sex shoe Otto Neo teo 
elve tvolve evolve evolve
if you jump in the Esk it Mite Urt
the progress of rivers running north
drot so nunk as some thinkle
peep I am mad as a box of frogs
and I may not be a pheasant plucker 
but I am a pheasant plucker's son 
da is the oldest monkey-unit 
in all languages of Indo-European 
etymological origins Shantih
Shantih Shantih means may 
peace and peace and peace 
be everywhere so – hum 
means I am Him or soul into 
universe the word psyche comes
from Ancient Greek for ghost
kopsiche and ghosts can of course
travel back in time one scholar
visiting Ancient Greece, finding 
the Greeks tremendous actors who wore
long cloak, buskins and Red Indian
head-dress according to my source
whom it seems opened his mouth 
to embark on a long horse. 


I wrote a piece of music once 
that was timeless.

It was lost.

It wasn't the sort of music you'd get 
on a dance music anthem 

It was sad, stirring, 
from the bottom of the ocean,
the bottom of my heart. 

And in losing it 
I'll never get it back. 

The sunset in the same way 
is transient, unrepeatable, will never 
come exactly the same againe.

Our lives are also temporary. 

My blog is a temporary measure
against death, a safetynet if you like. 

The stars are already gonners.

That one twinkling over the fell -
it is no longer a nuclear furnace 
but a photo of a faded thing. 

My heartbeat will go the same way 
as yesterday's fashions and fancy trends. 

The trick is to not mind it.

To make peace with the certitude
of losing, of death.

To reconcile yourself 
to your eventual end. 

Every step is a dress-rehearsal 
for death, foreshadowing an 
inevitable step into the grave.

I used to think, walking up the fell, 
of Heaven, and how I wished
it would be full of statistics:

how I should be able 
to access the exact number
of steps I've taken up the fell,
ecstasy pills I've eaten, 
everything laid out in little piles -

but now I think statistics 
would be Hell. 

I am grateful for my life,
which my parents gave me,

and love my friends and family
but it all has to end sometime. 

There is no escaping death;
and in dying we are set free -
free from the pain of dying. 

Free to become elemental. 

Free to become eternal. 

The birthday of eternity is upon us all,
sooner or later, and we 
must come to terms with it,
before we come to worms with it. 

For all the grandeur of Man,
we are dust particles waiting to happen, 
to swirl around trapped in a sunbeam, waltzing. 


I was thinking of writing a show called Synchronicity Shortcircuits, but it wouldn't take much writing, it would incorporate anything, as and when it arises, hammock, DVD, wetsuit. 

You might have heard of automatic writing, popularised by The Beats like Jack Kerouack, writing off the top of the head, free association writing – but have you heard of Automatic Googling?

It's like this: let's go for a drive: let's hop like the grasshopper between any two random but associative things, adverts, films on youtube, and go astray from there, wayward, like a guitar detuning, all the way, down, anywhere, exploring caves, learning scales, automatic googling away to your heart's content. 

In essence, the thing is: let's go for a drive, then: but I have never been, never been for a drive, although I believe I am the first to write about Automatic Googling. 

Still I think there may well be people that lie in bed all day practising the deliberately pointless art of Automatic Googling as if it will bring them closer to automatic CIA membership.

You may also have heard of psychogeography, the field in which you might, say, navigate London with a map of Paris; but have you ever watched Dr. Who with a shopping channel for the words?

It's like this: we might be able in the future to spend more money exploring space, less money on nuclear arms, and even make provisions for leaving the planet before the end of the earth, but we will never get to know all of the universe, the infinite universe, who may well have life out there, so to kill the time, considering we will probably be around for a lot longer than we know and know already a full picture will never be known, we have to have a certain permutationism of resources, hence I suggest watching Dr. Who with a shopping channel for the sound. 

In short, The Universalist Manifesto is a piece of shit, not a Foreward to an ouevre, not a list of tenets of aesthetic philosophy, just an experiment in itself, money, honey, bunny, sunny, funny, runny.

Sooooooooo I wander lonely in the cloud that floats on high o'er data and pill, when all at once I see a crowd of people standing very still... and this is a quote from my new old pen-name Wordsworth Zero whom it seems is a punk in punk's clothing too. 

So you're getting the idea that in the Universalist Manifesto, anything goes, like in the unconscious mind when meditating, and you might've heard of Qualia but have you heard of Squalia? 

Squalia include things like paint-splattered tracky bottoms originally stolen from ASDA by a tramp, or Danish pastries discarded in a Co-op supermarket bin – and they are of course things seen 'in' and 'of' themselves, like Noumena, divorced from the vagaries and colourations of perception, perception tainted and flawed by desire. 




Baxter the dog has grown too used to me
feeding him bowls of oversweet, milky tea.

He pesters me for more while I write.
Sometimes I cave in just for some quiet.

But in the long run that's the worst thing to do.
Sometimes you just have to say no. 

“Sorry Baxter you can't have anymore. 
You just have to lie round on the kitchen floor.” 

You don't want to breed a greedy animal. 
You don't want him running round the table

all hyper-active and sugar-crazed, barking.
I hear him now, whining at me, begging -

“no Baxter you're not having any more tea,”
I say and he barks, not understanding me.

I think I'll just feed him one more cup.
Anything to make him temporarily shut up. 


Darkness is lifted now my mum is a grandma,
and it won't rhyme with a handgrenade either,
and Lennon's right that love is giving,
and it's still rude to write of the living,
and tomorrow we will make some turkey pie
and congratulate the happy couple...
and mother's in tears, O mother's in tears,
and drunk on the 27th of December,
it's 2020 and we've all had plenty,
O it should be a night to remember....

the countdown went surprisingly fast,
the Christmas meal is already in the past,
soon the newborn baby will be at school,
where teenage music makes the sacred pool,
and cool's a currency, and daddy's already rich,
don't bite the hand that feeds you now...
and mother's in tears, O mother's in tears,
and drunk on the 27th of December,
it's 2020 and we've all had plenty,
O it should be a night to remember....

the dog's asleep on the cold, kitchen floor,
I'm wondering if there will be any more,
my mother's texting vexed lesbian friends,
to show how love and life never ends,
I'm being staid and forgetting my alcohol,
the church is some one mile away...
and mother's in tears, O mother's in tears,
and drunk on the 27th of December,
it's 2020 and we've all had plenty,
O it should be a night to remember....


What a joy to see the birds, to hear the beck running its hand through an angel's hair out there in the back garden...

What a thrill to see the clouds moving along slowly on their cloud motorway of air up in the clear, blue sky...

Drill notes will not be recognised here nor roadworks of the soul in maintenance of some pretence or illusion...

The wind it blows through friendly trees, a gentle breeze, and a steal note is written into it now the white is born againe...

Home seems where the heart hurts, the hurt is, but we forgive our trespasses and live happily ever after now...

Black crows feed, eat off the land, they understand that our place is headed for the worms that squirm in soft societies below...

I've made toast, and made it to The Promised Land, to do what I want inbetween two poles of wake and sleep whenever I choose...

Two shoes touch down on the ground, I press them in, to make sure I am awake for all this might be but another dream...

The ferment of music froths in my head until I put it to words and then scrap the music and keep only the words...

The steam rises and steam over fame is a game I play to keep the priorities by which I live in shape and order still...


Emily's words are just for her
to remember the melody by

I think mine might be the other
way round on a map of sound

but maybe that has all changed
now the tune is Classical

although we are not meant to mention
the tune during the tune

for it's against the musical credo
dating to our youth's ideals

to make the song never repeat
was another one of them

to make you wonder how the Hell
you got down here from flat-top

without your noticing anything
untoward happening at all

and to what end is it pointed
all the morning's tintinnabulation

in the singer's throat a frog
is sonic machination anew

and we cut out the old and
make some room for the present

and the garden's cold and money's
thin but love's the answer still


The trumpet wears his foreskin on the inside.
I think I know what he's thinking.
It's a good place to hide, place to hide.

Love is a dream, a dream is a boat,
a boat is a vessel, a vessel is a craft,
a craft is a skill which brings us back round -
back round to love, love makes you daft.

Do not forget the triangle solo
in the orchestra of dreams,
it's tuning up now, where children play Lego,
and stuffed toys come apart at the seams,
come apart at the seams...

Here comes the dog,
downstairs in the morning,
wants to go out, into the pitch dark.
The hour before dawn, is the very darkest,
has anyone a spark, has anyone a spark?

I tend to my brain, with morning medication,
it helps to remember things I have done
like speaking against September 11th
before the year 2001, 2001.

O don't be ashamed
to stick a donk on the end of it
while the rest of the house is asleep;
and what is the most obvious donk around you
and how many donks deep,
how many donks deep?


Outside this room the city's wanting you and me,
filthy streets crawl with word of disease,
greedy-pigs window-shopping for wisdom we,
and rumour spreads the word to the trees...

now I'm alone with the wood on my mind only me,
the beck it gurgles through the open window,
of all the things on visual radio you can see
the beck it gurgles through the open window...

through the truth I see the world fall past the pane,
before the bed becomes a float-away raft,
you don't need to suffer for your art in pain,
we understand different things by given-ness and craft...

the tragedy of life is getting what you want,
want's a cunt driven blind with a spear in your heart,
to be the first to point it out won't make you blunt,
it's lethal when you're mad but at least there's art...


To be forgotten about -
behind the cold affront
there is a Romantic attraction -
a warm, mystic light. 

A truck passes by 
on the A595 like a front
for a superhuman 
narrator called FUCK. 

The sunset comes in 
long, bilateral streaks
of numinous, crepuscular
gold, a bandwidth. 

I consider whether 
blandishments and platitudes
are merely longitudes
and latitudes in cruciform.

Allen Ginsberg's opening 
poem is written with
the inspired efficacy
of making you feel sick.

His second poem is 
written with the inspired
efficacy of being the 
shape and texture of a brick.

Dull the choice to be
a poet although you'd
have thought you'd be
the centre of all brilliance.

When I say 'choice'
I am aware that like 
in music sometimes
the art form chooses you. 


Mum said while I was tending to my text said about the food on the table “there's one leg left
if you could eat that you could bin the rest” meaning the sauce and I took her to mean if you could bin your whole book you could win a Nobel Prize doing a different one with all your background story so I shelved the book and started this new file but then I remembered to take every utterance at face value like to take every insult with a pinch of salt so I returned to the nearly done file and  then I went outside to smoke and saw an alien spaceship or rather a red and white flashing light across the night sky and then I noticed the triangular constellation was back a four point constellation like a kite with no bottom and which I call the mental hospital constellation now for that's where I first saw it in an otherwise black black night although at the time then and there I thought of it as the pyramid on the front of Dark Side Of The Moon turned into a constellation for back then I was really into the notion of having a low-hanging sensational star and human manipulation and that sectioning was my second the one after my dad had just died though by now I have been sectioned 5 times been to Glastonbury 5 times been in 5 bands had LSD 5 times and been to Amsterdam 5 times which is where I might move when COVID-19 is over for all there are people who have tried to take my life here and when last I was in hospital it all got so serious that the very CIA were not involved and such has been the tone timbre tenor texture tincture and tint of my life of late my life spent in ignorant dreams where the pressure in your head can close the bedroom door and she has had a little bleed and there's a piece of plastic rattling round in there and you can't quite pass the gravy over Facebook enough to prove you're right about the mad lantern up in the hairy tarantula tree which Mary and I climbed to the top of in order to watch flocks of dreams flow by in the green midnight knowing no context nor extinction.   


Mum's like a violinist on the Titanic.
Masks make us look like MC Doom.
COVID-19 creates empty spaces.
Separating the bride and the groom. 

Friends and I cannot re-connect. 
We're given to Facebook which is vapid.
One would hope the vaccine arrives
soon and the treatment is rapid. 

I've been ignoring it all in my work. 
Ignoring the gloom, writing like 
it were before, though life might now 
have changed, never coming back. 

My background is ample and too real.
I colour in the government's new 
application forms for £ove with a 
yellow crayon, or maybe it's blue. 

I join the dots and spot the difference
but not that Spot the Dog's a constellation 
only on the saddest night of life. 
I underwrite the name of a nation. 

It's some kind of test but I don't know
what kind, though it's not The Trial.
It's not about thinking your way out. 
It could be about still wearing a smile. 

A smile is not enough to save us though.
Science will save is, it's under control.
The Arts Boom pales into insignificance.
Only science can now save the soul. 


In the green spring when all this is over -
if in the spring all this is indeed over -
there will be picnics and barbecues -
there will be band rehearsals -
there will be gigs in pubs againe -
there will be art galleries re-opening -
there will be books looking back -
at all the boredom cures of coronavirus -
and there will be some pieces missing -
where the poet deleted 814 files -
and there will be long-term memories
about how Lockdown galvanised
people into a collective effort to help 
not seen since World War Two -
and I will be older than I am now -
and you will be older than now too -
and there will be celebrations in the street -
like when Liverpool return with the Cup -
and there will be fireworks going off -
and people will remember the day -
when COVID-19 last caused a death -
and the virus will grow as the flu -
and we'll get jabbed as a matter of course -
and new life will grow in the garden -
and new love will flow in vein and vine -
and new wine will mature and darken  -
and given all this everything will be fine -
and teenage lovers go to the movies -
and hold hands in the streets againe -
and strangers kiss in the nightclubs -
and lovers kiss in the teeming rain. 


To churn up your time's valid evidence
you must surrender to the present tense.

A Buddhist monk would say just be,
that's here and now as also in Eternity; 

for Eternity is now and now and now. 
So to COVID-19 I turn, and how

I would hit him if he were a person - 
though violence would make it worsen -

and he'd grin the winning grin of deceit, 
showing his teeth glistening with meat. 

Already a much more virulent strain 
has grown and now I know I am in pain.

I feel a cold, callous, short sort of shock,
ignore in the background the kitchen clock,

inhabit partly sadness, partly fear,
partly anger. It's like death draws near. 

Over my home the stars shine on
though most of them are already gone.

The thought of apocalypse has crossed
my mind, of conspiracy – I've lost 

my hope, my real-time farm, my crux, 
and all is uncertainty, all is in flux. 

To dull the pain would be a real gift -
to heal the hurt heart and its real rift. 

My marrow is soft, soft just like yours -
I shall not charge you for guided tours

when you can do the same thing as me.
Surrendering to Now is to Eternity. 


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 againe 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.


Amazeballs is the new day dawning
amazeballs is the amazeballs sun
amazeballs is its radiant sunlight too
amazeballs is everything and more
amazeballs is as if a new kind of game
amazeballs it is that the word
'amazeballs' spread from my tongue
amazeballs is its reach all around
amazeballs is hearing it on the radio  
amazeballs the visions seen
amazeballs the long green grass
amazeballs is the garden in winter
amazeballs is the new morning mewling
amazeballs is the pattern spotted
amazeballs is the Lord up above
amazeballs are all the angels dancing
amazeballs is the coming lamb
amazeballs is the beauty of all of us
amazeballs is the wonder of life
amazeballs is the table before me
amazeballs is anything at all just imagine
amazeballs is the underlying atom
amazeballs is the new snow atop the fell
amazeballs is the new air talking
amazeballs is the cup of tea I sup
amazeballs all my friends and family
amazeballs the full stop that ends it
amazeballs the talking giraffe as well
amazeballs the white emulsion paint walls
amazeballs the secret diary of a saint
amazeballs its hiding places too
amazeballs the Beethoven in the porcelain
amazeballs the vision of powder'd light
amazeballs the wriggling stone on the comedown
amazeballs the visual radio blooming
amazeballs the Blakeian exultant tone
amazeballs the new Beat rush of it all
amazeballs the need to stretch and question edges
amazeballs the birth of Paul's daughter
amazeballs my brother's son as well
amazeballs my mother's loom in the attic
amazeballs the dog asleep in his basket
amazeballs the zoom on the binoculars to God
amazeballs the halls of fame I am climbing
amazeballs the new word in my teens
amazeballs the poems of the future
amazeballs the inventors of the future
amazeballs the present tense always
amazeballs the wisdom of kids
amazeballs the women of the world
amazeballs this winter women's work
amazeballs the day so white around
amazeballs the fresh air I imbibe
amazeballs the London crew surviving
amazeballs the Cambridge crew at play
amazeballs the new crew wherever
amazeballs the people who do their thing
amazeballs the doors that are cleansed
amazeballs the sound of the power shower
amazeballs the big white poem i.e.
amazeballs the one we never wrote down
amazeballs the truth of how I took it on the chin
amazeballs the way in to the new future
amazeballs the winning of the fellrace
amazeballs the losing of Paul's drugs
amazeballs the recurring decimal
amazeballs the loaf of bread over there
amazeballs the load of coal delivered recently
amazeballs the doors computer game
amazeballs the flexing of imagination
amazeballs the early work of Ginsberg
amazeballs the disparate islands of discourse
amazeballs the way everything is fitting into place
amazeballs man’s new highest emotion.


There's a bowl of darkness in my head
it's getting hard to get out of bed

my poetry is in a state of chaos
whom it seems is a renegade Deus

and QWERTY is a water pistol
that gets stocked up on blow in Bristol

but that's all just by the by
the look of everything says goodbye

a trap's a trap and a door is a door
the poet knows the transient law

here comes a voice I must be leaking
the sentient air is cleanly speaking

and on this strong new medication
it seems to preclude translating emotion

a pot of pot costs a pot of tea
and a poet of pot lives in eternity

and in that bowl some fruit goes bad
its plastic packets make me sad

I can reach out and eat an apple
but it's the woods with which I grapple

the time is one of radical change
I've not quite lost my will to be strange

but I don't put ice-cream in my arm-pit
not that is unless I can help it

for all my projects they're shutting me down
under the covers like I'm a clown

the new bird can't quite seem to fly
a mollusc is eaten by a hopeless sigh

this permanent two fingers to all
forms of authority will probably fall.  


Since you've been gone under Gondwanaland,
I had sex with the floor in a different band,
the air's been talking and I don't understand,
sadness gene ran away with dreaming gland,

and a clock is only as fast as a cheetah still,
and the ecstasy pill's gone under the green hill,
and the jams that we had were such a thrill, 
and Dorian Modes were dressed to kill...

since you've been gone it's a different world,
a half-light backstage into which we're hurled,
the frontman still never got the dream girl,
never saw her twirl a dress at the ball,

and a bullet was fired up a telegraph pole,
and the pole itself is already Robert Lowell,
and the postmodernists talk of death of the soul,
and the dream girl is still the unclinchable goal...

since you've been gone I've been holding on,
we never made it big and the chance is gone,
I became insane and Paul went anon,
and still there could never be another one,

and the dog starts to bark at my voices,
and the kingdoms are lost by our choices,
and life is still a bit like a mid-death crisis,
and I cried for you this morning like an oasis.


The engine of the driverless car, coughing
Awoke disassembled as Proust in orbit
And felt ashamed to be conscious,
If feeling be the theme of the meme.
So soon it got dark as well, and 
‘Garden’ was still the password
To my imaginary world, where her 
Flowers curtseyed and pointed their 
Delicate, ballerina toes through rubble.
It grew some new cells said to be
Of the red and improvised variety,
Put the handbrake on and drove,
Fast, passing through false Gods. 
It did not pretend it prayed, it played
Let’s pretend we are fresh vegetables
Of the dusky dawn that leaks out 
Hallow’d over the house and garden.
O little, bitter pill which art in Hell,
Give us this day our daily comedown.
It flew too near to the fireface moon,
Its sail bellying and inverse and I’ve 
Realised I was put under a curse
A long time ago in a galaxy further
Than the stars and closer than the eye.
When I too was the other Aphex Twin 
I was in a long corridor flanked by doors
And collected little gesture-without-motion-
Bones from the beach where waves
Are masturbating gongs; and
Now that I am sadder and older, 
My talent is blank like my bank
Account is empty of fiscal stimulus –
But with humility I have grown wise,
And so I open up the trunk and 
Climb inside a new, untitled zone. 


What walks like walking fruit 
For which there are no words
Only waves covered with leaves
Towards you as you are stood
Being good in the wood and 
Crosses your body and parks
And starts to wriggle its wing?
Only “The Juggernaut,” then,
That bird with a human song. 
So fight or flight chemical sets
In and you run, fleeing the scene,
The sylvan frieze past the purlieu –
And when you go back in to the 
Wood to hunt for the thing, to 
Drive your discovery out into 
The light, you can not find it,
You find that it has utterly gone -
That bird with the human song -
And a mouth with which to connect -
And who knows upon what sun-
Set blanket underfoot it walked?
Who knows when againe it will
Come, like it came for Joyce, 
Like it came for me that day
In my childhood, in the wood,
Where gnarled treefingers snap
So easily; where sunlight filters
Through branches like a Venetian blind?
I cannot say, and nor can you
And nor can Whinnie the Pooh,
Or the drug dealer in the town,
Or maybe even the Queen herself
Whom it seems has been a rather
Good queen as far as queens go. 


My mother was kind, kind as can be
And a Finnish woman who knew hand-brake turns.
Fun-loving, free-spirited, always so free,
She put her hand in the fire that burns
To free James, Robert, Hannah and I 
And always we shall love her for that
As dad loved her too, her skin, her high
Cheekbones, her bluegrey eyes like a cat.
To live in let live was her philosophy.
She used to say imagination is a muscle
And language a creature because she
Was eloquent and though her loss is irrevocable,
She’ll live on in the human heart and mind.
Farewell, my mother, so true and kind. 


After all the mad, Rimbaudian visions 
of powder’d light, wriggling stone, 
visual radio broadcasting dreams
that billow like a weeping willow in the wind,
you have to come down. Then it seems
life is not just a little litter of glitter
on a cuticle, dialling love under the 
fleck of epic dereliction forever, but a
dirt-computer from which you can 
download the lowdown of downtime.
You spend time in the solipsistic 
kitchen of fiction, returning to status
life detail, the goldfish bowl soap
opera minutiae of daily life. There
the kettle rises to its silent scream,
and its steam may seem to be Ariel returning
on Caliban’s chain. Ornamental brass
camels put on the wooden beam either
side of the clock could be said to cross 
the real live desert. Now the Google
search engines of your senses are sent 
like pirates out there where form is 
an easel and content is a palette, but
sometimes return with nothing but
the isness of a glass of tapwater. So to 
quotidian consciousness you’ve returned,
like a sailor from the wild, stormy sea. 
All that staying up all night, chasing 
the vampiric thrill of mental illness, 
furtive in flight with the sprightly 
hypertext sniper on Piper At The 
Gates of Dawn is gone. You modelled
every adjective in Howl, extirpated
all trace of recognition from your mind,
explored altered states and madness
for poesis, but now you must not 
jeopardise your battered sanity anymore. 
Boring as that sounds it is a relief. 
Go to waste, was the command, from 
the end of a branch, and you did.
Now you know taking drugs is a bet 
with the mind’s eye which one always loses. 
If there has to be a rationale for sobriety; 
poets translate feelings and the feelings you 
get on drugs are always fake. On drugs
one of the first things you notice is 
the way you start preparing the lies 
you will tell to those you love and trust.
This can only sully the soul. So it seems
drugs – not to be didactic – nor to incur 
a dangerous narcotisation of the truth -
ruin lives – are monumentally selfish -
always lead to bad things – and enact
physical poems on the body of the subject 
which you still crave as we speak. No, 
you should not need drugs to see
how weird everything is or to feel 
good and should get high on energy
instead of those noxious toxins of
deleterious self-derision you would take. 


Barnes has scored a chicken.
Barnes has scored a liquid noose.
Barnes is a member of society.
Barnes has scored a family. 
Barnes has scored a river.
Barnes has scored a liquid church.
Barnes is a liquid knife.
Barnes is a nobleman.
Barnes has scored a
Long distance liquid hero.
Barnes has scored a liquid snorkel.
Barnes hasn’t taken enough acid.
Barnes has scored a 
Long-distance liquid piano.
Barnes has scored a breath.
Barnes was a footballing prodigy.
Barnes doesn’t need my protection.
Barnes writes articulate articles
About racism for the paper. 
Barnes probably didn’t really
Have anything to do with the
Bird in the wood at school
Nor was it really a chicken.
Barnes’ goal against Brazil
Can be replayed at will. 
Barnes’ poem asks the question
As to whether the new creature
In the wood can come again.
Barnes was my footballing
Idol way back then when
I was, like, less than ten.
Barnes, I hear, has still
Got all the footballing skill.
Barnes has scored a liquid horse.
Barnes has scored a long
distance liquid horse piano note.
Barnes is a new form of punctuation.
Barnes does not get tired.
Barnes is a deadly ludic weapon.
Barnes has scored a recurring decimal.
Barnes has scored a daisychain.


Rottweilers croon from the room with a stick
It’s too early for me to play my guitar
Mother goes to work but I am off sick 
Just another shooting rock star 

I’m still in my student overdraft 
I’ve long since unloosed the mind of form 
I’ve walked to Iceland on a landscape of cloud 
I dream of a lover tucked up and warm

Well-to-do shoe-shiners do not happen 
Sensing a tragedy we all fall asleep
We’ve a license to lethargy spiralling in dreams 
Even in zones too formal to keep 

Forefathers gone under Gondwanaland
Debate what’s our fate in the super-skunk wind
If a flowerpress ending on cannabis is dialysis
Where does a love song to Flora end?

Love is the hope that the heart literally
Needs in order for it to survive
Without which it can stop and she 
Says I’ve got to work in the dirty hive

Death is H suspended in deafness
God equals pi times mc squared 
A rose would smell as sweet if it called barmy
As the army of Michael Vaughan m ‘Lord

Not long ago I was innocent of grovelling
Now I keep my feet nice and warm 
Where will it end I have no clue 
But use it or lose it, it’s only a new form 


Still rearranging all your guilt and your blame
For your open promise and freedom I came
Long forgotten my true love’s name
And I’m hoping that you might do the same
Don’t want to be a fresh vegetable of dusky dawn
Now the curse is lifted I am moving on
Trying to drive the night onwards up a slope
Trying to dive the right channel that leads to hope
Hope is more than dope, dawn is lifted by a rope
Maybe we can now see, the scale of Infinity 
Breaking through the darkness we have left
Amazing ourselves with Promethean fire theft
The magic of dawn is dawning all around 
We’d better try and make a map of sound 
Don’t try and fool me into thinking 
That I am the next bloody Lizard King 
When I know I am but the Lizard Syd 
Who took care of the new creatures as a kid 
Now the moon has flown, wearing a silken gown 
Draped all across the ground, down in the undertown 
Rumour has it that you have gone quietly mad
That you tried to kill yourself which is too sad
That you turned against your own dying dad
And now everything has turned out bad
Don’t you wish to prove, infinite polyform love 
The way she can move, the light switch up above

(2001 reconstructed)


If you dabble with the alphabet
You swallow the frogspawn of O’ Neil

If you follow sweetness-sweetness
You end up in the back of the real 

If you fall asleep with Ulysses
You might dream of a new song

If you ever wake up againe alive
You’ll see song is where you belong

If you ever get stuck on a verse 
There’s always tea and then the bat 

If you deem this to be your quarter of
The pancake mix then that is that 

If your dream’s too full of imagery 
You might need to wake up fast

If you’re on strong medication now
Your demons could be a thing of the past

If we deem your dream book trite
We’ll put some thought into it

If we rename the days of the week  
We might go more slowly through it 

If it’s ten at only ten to seven 
Then it’s still getting to be eight 

If we’re still on the road to Heaven
Let’s not be early, let’s turn up late. 



This poem is painstakingly transcribed from defaced bank notes. Some of the bank notes were damaged, illegible, others ‘missing.’ Efforts were made to order the bank notes but were not always successful. The composite picture of torn and bleeding fragments given artificial insemination is not necessarily a critical indictment of embedded liberal capitalism where money, formerly neutral means of exchange, has become but a flying, white, electrical spark passing through borders of osmotic porosity in the dark. Nor is the poem necessarily all about a new designer drug called Strictly Free that is and makes you strictly free to consume. 


The language of embedded liberal capitalism, of whom we are liberal human subjects is bankrupt in Imagination. Already my poet/ songwriter friend Paul and I wrote a New Beat Manifesto in the barn at the foot of the Lakeland’s oldest fell Black Combe. Its mission statement included: “abjuring clinging to temporal wealth, fidelity to surface gods of illusion, renouncing worthless dogma to consumerism that robs us of our bodies, getting sober from the advertising trance, touching the texture not name side of life.” I think whatever the future brings we have to live at one with beautiful, heartbroken, sentient, rosethirsty earth and also within our means.


DogMuckels is not Heaven; it is the snake in the prelapsarian garden. The Big Mac, that contains the four basic caveman cravings of salt, fat, sugar and protein could be seen as the heir to the Apple of Knowledge. The yellow DogMuckels M atop the pole in the industrial park is like the postmodern churchspire in this spiritual vacuum, where theme has dissolved into message and the effect of global warming on the unicorn is a postmodern id.


Sometimes we seem to come to a work of art presupposing false binary oppositions. A list of some of those binary oppositions might run as follows:

science/ art
inside / outside a convention
honesty/ craft
narrative/ confessional
creative/ critical.

A good work of art could undo such binaries, thaw cultural damage between coterminous fields of language. All modes of writing, at their best, seek the same answers, as if pertaining to meta-waves that underlie the variability of perception.


My undergraduate dissertation was on the subject of David Morley. It was an immanent, Kantian critique in mimicking the methodology of his “series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science writing as a single discussion of perception.” My micro-analysis highlighted the line “the heart trammelled and rammed on the anvil bleeds visions,” whom it seems employs the anti-dactylus, two soft one hard, and looking into it, you can hear the stressed syllables in that metrical pattern all rhyme on a short A for atom, Adam, apple, suggesting anger and anguish, meaning the line finds invective monotony written into its musical configuration and is kinetic. I found no formal name in all the array of hyper-specialised tools of sustained critical micro-analysis for the effect and thinking it mathematically precise enough to warrant a name have gone and called it The Arcadian Reflex Function. 


Seeing as poetry is not a marketable commodity, I was thinking I should employ my Timeshare selling skills to sell something more popular, namely shit: hot, tropical, fecund, loamy shit. I would sit between John and Mary to break the pact, then warm them up, then sizzle the dream of hot, tropical, fecund, loamy shit, and look in their eyes and smile and lie and say my granny also uses this ‘system’ and save something for the T.O.’s by the big boss and leave Financial Logic out for the big boss at the end of the presentation as well. 


The New Scientist says language is based on meat. We grew our brains to this almost otiose size by eating meat. We developed language in order to spread information about farming and cooking and killing further meat. So I was wondering, what if it were fungus instead of meat? What about muffled fungus language? Already my Fantasy Cricket Team floating mid-table in the list on the geography wall, in among The Champions and The All Stars were called The Fungus Faces. You can imagine them coming out to bat in clean whites against the Aussies, standing there chewing their fungus teeth. 


It might be instructive to consider that the coterminous cultures of science and art still have differing sensibilities when it comes to McTruth. In science McTruth is to be falsified through which nothing is 100%, only the best theory at the time. In poetry there is McTruth-to-itself, through which anything can be 100% if well-made enough. A poem could get away with saying for example “the bums did not lose” and retain 100% McTruth. Poetic McTruth is therefore like the McTruth of the individual, constituted of its own inner nature. 


Unlike truth and lies they both imply the same thing – “McTruth and Flies” - thus are isomorphic. The imputation of “McTruth” is casuistry. The imputation of “Flies” is specious just the same – also Portability, that Apotheosis of Form – and then the flies start to land on the kitchen surface, where the tea is made and the sugar has been spilled. The collocation remains a bastardisation held in ironic equipoise, good for sending up Diet Theory with terse brevity, ripe for philosophical satire, templating well enough over Jim Morrison’s title too.  


At High Brow Farm we get high on air.
We sit out on the fairy-haunted veranda 
amidst the plants, sipping from our cups
and talk about art, surrounded by Nature.

Loose, broad brush-strokes of sun lick
the garden, where the bumblebee flies
looking for pollen among the pink petals.
The birds can be heard to chirp in the trees.

The horses listen to the radio there, and
the walls are adorned with paintings of
the pantheon of musicians. The sign on 
the front door says WE ARE IN LOVE.

In the back garden, the dove holds a twig 
in its beak, and flies over the merry scene. 
It would make a perfect artistic retreat, 
idyllic, bucolic, a bombardment of green.

Elegant kittens like miniature tigers
prowl on the grounds without a sound.
We walk to the field where horses stand
and take a good look at the world all around.

Rough-hewn bulks of rock protrude
from the topsy-turvy contours of the field
where we could stay and drink the view
until daylight fades and it gets cold - 

although we can’t because we need to 
wash the car, and then I will go home,
only a stone’s throw away in all honesty,
until I come back againe the next time.

We look out at the Duddon estuary beneath -
the last in the isles to not deserve a bridge -
and breathe in the air, a raison d’ etre -
and stand, proud to be alive, on the edge. 


Far, far away in Magic Faraway Land,
there’s poetry written on the bank notes,
sadness gene is smitten with dreaming gland,
the God Particle is among the dust motes,

I. T. stands for Instant Travel too,
LSD for Lucy in the soul with demons,
H20 stands for your hypothalamus tattoo,
ESA stands for extra sensory allowance,

and the war still rages between the two
brightly coloured post-political poles,
while at night it is to Whinnie the Pooh
that you pray for your loved ones’ souls…

so how about we go take a holiday there?
You don’t need a passport or a thing
You don’t need to see through the frame of hair.
You might just need a love-song to sing.

Yeah yeah yeah, love is the answer,
dance in a circle around the tired sun, 
love not hate will find a cure for cancer,
forgiveness not revenge, so I love everyone.


The idea of Order at the foot of Black Combe
whom it seems is asleep outside 
like a great, slumbering dinosaur
come to fat and die by the Irish Sea,
remains that Order equals Happiness
as saith my father for whom there was 
a file for almost all things in life;
and life is one, yes life is one
under the van Gogh black border sun;
and the same ideas are available everywhere; 
and the artistic centre of the universe 
is ubiquitous even in this semi-
wilderness; and it is impossible 
to supplant a religion from its indigenous
landscape; and life does not ask us
to be clever, but to surrender to
the present tense, which is both infinite
and perfect; and there being no time 
seems a timeless idea transmitted 
across time, although between 
universal truth and cliché is a fine line; 
and did you know God = pi times 
mc squared; and God is not a cartoon; 
and Eternity is Now and Now and Now? 




Stretching “honesty” to its elastic utmost
doesn’t seem such a bad poetic Ideal - 

and spreading the same butter over toast
that expands in surface area I feel 

like a finemesh net so finemesh that it
is but grey, static, smoke and fleck

and will not retain any more than permit
anything through it, water from the beck...

I have seen in glimpses, in dreams
a city in the future where oil-drums burn.

It is no more my efficacy in poems
to light it and write it, burn and unlearn.

Passage to the Burger King joint atop
the oldest fell, by bullet up the telegraph 

pole – just say goodbye at the top - 
may turn a New Lakes poet onto flarf...

I wish to sing in the oral tradition of
the bardic child of the sights I have seen, 

and also dream of living life as love, 
in a place no-one before me has been.


I sing the red boat.
It’s carrying treasure
towards the sunset 
or coming back home.

It does not matter
which way it is going
as long as I am singing
the red boat at dawn.

I sing the red boat.
I heal my emotions.
I feel I am ready.
To give this a go. 

I sing the red boat.
Early in the morning. 
It’s carrying pirates.
The melody is free. 

The waves are music.
The music is waves.
Waving goodbye to
the scallywag queen.

I dream of an island
without a cameracrew.
And no footprint 
in the yellow sand. 


I imagine that when you lose your mother
you still have to go to bed and sleep,
weeping for the weeping willow, into the
pillow, before you sink down in to the deep.

I have been preparing with proleptic 
strains for that day which may come soon -
not that she’s become a bawdy alcoholic
since dad died, just that she’s getting on - 

and still my imaginative eye cannot extend
as far as feeling out what it will be like
to have no mother, like love will end
lying down looking at the stars in a dyke... 

Our feelings for the dead should not fade
just because our memories do, nor will I
allow that blank amnesia, but be staid
in my staunch music when mum has to die. 

Right now, to make a mental reminder,
she sleeps in the sitting room, drunk as a skunk;
I’ve come to think O is the key of water;
and the dog is beside me whom mum calls ‘punk.’ 

Duff Beer flung from the sun will pass,
and the house will be left partially to me,
to run, at the foot of the fell, a beautiful house
only some one mile or so from the sea. 

I remember when I first clicked awake -
I’d found not one but two yellow submarines
in a Cornflakes box up here in the Lakes.
“You like ‘Yellow Submarine’ don’t you John?”

asked my mother and then I was aware
that I had to start trying hard to understand
what my father was saying, where before
it was microphone static. So I had found 

my first memory and consciousness at once;
but this isn’t the start of a Proustian tome.
This is a dance with uncertainty and chance.
Here at the fellfoot, which is my family home. 



Well, living in the shed
when the band were recording
through binaural earphones, 
a record on which I said
I would plug my senses
into the mains, I used to
eat discarded Danish Pastries
from the Co-op bin, wear
naff tracky bottoms lifted 
from ASDA and splattered
with white emulsion paint
from doing up the commune,
write on receipts, Rizlas,
bus tickets, packets, sometimes
smoke heroin, sometimes 
steal books from Borders 
to give to my friends, live
like a dog, for nothing, 
ransacking the tumulus of
postmodern selfhood for
all it was worth, feel worthless, 
smell like skunkfoot was an 
official nosological diagnosis
qualified as putrid demons
excreted through stone, 
and one night after speaking 
in an unknown tongue 
for half an hour, had sex 
with the floor on ecstasy. 


(for Grant Leonard Aspinall)

My beard getting bushy, my appearance like a behemoth, 
my belly getting fat and my posture looking rotund, 
and as we drove to the pub in your open-topped sports 
car I remarked at how close we were to the ground

and felt that drunken butterfly feeling your wife must feel,
when you drive her, a man with a large sense of life - 
such a thrill it was to be driven by you yesterday like 
the danger of dancing on the very thin of a knife;

and what fine weather we had – a spring day to kill - 
a day good for filming a music video as we did.
The lager was like nectar, that San Miguel, when 
down our open gloating throats it finally, liquidly slid. 

Hopefully we’ll not be like Verlaine and Rimbaud, eh,
but keep the bond of our blue sky art-house casual...
the buffering boa-constrictor of loneliness was the wind
that blew back our heads as we raced home homosocial. 

Another fine escapade in the Lakes, and nothing illegal -
a drastic cut upon the film of Lockdown playing -
an instant of obeying the go-beat – and getting out there - 
although it’s not accurate to say we were exactly “obeying.”

The search for action, sex, trouble, kicks, and change,
is old-hat to us, but the scent of change fermenting 
on the ego-loss breeze, in springtime, is never cliché
but full of fun, fervent, enervating and dissenting. 


We felled a tree at the foot of the fell.
The fell goes up, the tree came down.
Everyone helped, my brother as well,
my friend, and two gardeners from town.

Why I write it down I don’t quite know
but it might satisfy a craving for order.
We have got enough firewood for now -
to fuel mother’s fire in the cold winter.

The artist is traditionally self-indulgent,
escaping labour, and work with his hands
but to be fair to me this time I wasn’t,
dragged myself out from imaginary lands.

A sycamore tree it was that was felled,
and instead of it, we might plant an oak.
The winters up here are actually mild 
but we still need a fire, with coals to poke.


My heart wants to bed a new colour.

My mind shrieks with Syd Barrett-
esque, screerunner death totalisme. 

My mouth – blind – tastes 
yesterday’s cold takeaway pizza. 

My brain contemplates going through
every bodily part, drawing, and 
then how to avoid it – and yours. 

My Dorian Mode could be prophecy.

My normal mode, my normal code
could be “honesty,” but we are yet to see 
which of my dreams it rhymes with. 

My voice is of the lion at the 
heart of Poem Records, singing. 

My verse is a toneless room, 
through whom actors walk, televised. 

My foghorn is a moaning sound. 

My bets with the mind have now ground
to a halt, and a mad, continuing want. 

My leaves to a tree are a pattern, 
whose continuation is but a recurring decimal.

My dog is begging for some more 
sweet tea which I feed him sometimes
although it makes him pee, sometimes
inside instead of the eco-toilet. 

My principle noxious toxin 
of deleterious self-derision
is now supposed to be 
nothing but literature.

My key to the map of sound is Freedom.

My father’s take on Freedom was
that Freedom is Man’s main psychic
thread dating back to his nomadic 
days when he was tall, lean and muscular. 

My guitar is propped upright against
the wall and may come crashing down. 

My desire to give up twanging 
the guitar and focus on a more 
serious and/ or pleasurable tone 
of mind is part of my ageing. 

My truth is an apple from the north,
slowgrown, containing toenails
in the core, and which wasps 
leave fag-burns in the skin of,
in Autumn, and my Autumn is 
none other than Optimus Prime. 

My favourite season is spring.

My favourite footballer is still John Barnes.

My dream is to make it as a writer,
to see free, to feel all, to flee Hell. 

My time is the one with X tattooed on its face. 

My town is a wafting into realms
of fantasy away, or where we sit. 

My town-mouse is a happy mouse.

My country mouse is a sober mouse.

My computer mouse is a computer mouse. 

My favourite five buttons are 
Escape Enter Space Return Delete. 

My rugby ball is Duff 
Beer flung from the sun.

My sun is bleached, wide, 
tired, madding and English.

My blue in you is paper. 

My affable mixture-of-pixels style
is a late rendez-vous for the j-peg. 

My perception is of the candle 
over the Bunsen burner. 

My memory of Finland 
is that the trees are taller. 

My Rontaur is a country, 
not a colour, not a bonfire, 
but a country and one where 
the wind is an ancient sword. 

My favourite English invention 
might well be the sandwich. 

My Lancaster University was 
a word-guitar from Fender, 
whereupon the ghost of Jimi 
Hendrix turned up to play, 
boggling the mind with runs.

My Zone on the Underground Map
is Zone Two even when I am 
up here in the Lakes and forgotten.

My powers that be, I think, 
are clouds above on their superior roads.

My synchronicity 
is shortcircuiting. 

My collective noun 
for seagulls is a laughter.  

My wink is a digital wink. 

My ideals are things like
Heartbook and the Smartpoem
i.e. really “catchy.”

My confession to being 
the person that coined 
the word “amazeballs” and also 
the musical genre “grime”
both in London in 1998 is a true one. 

My quest for an aesthetic system 
like the colours of the vowels in 
English came across pasta. 

My pollen is crushed
with mascara bruise, 
peacock feather, butterfly 
wing and velvet flare. 

My own diy underground press 
who were established in 1998
were called Ice Land Publications
after the country in Brave New World 
where renegades are exiled. 

My idea for replacing 
archaic ‘gay’ gone under 
Gondwanaland, gone to 
apathy, barrage, detachment,
is a Burger King joint atop
the Lakeland’s oldest fell. 

My neo-London skyline 
is a train service that gets spilled.

My opposite word to ‘hello’
is not goodbye but ‘ok.’

My favourite name for a flower 
is ‘self-heal’ though I have 
never known its fragrance. 

My job is as a pilgrim to Parnassus,
deep-sea diver in collective unconscious,
psychic map-maker, alchemist
of perception, liver-function 
of language and translator of feelings.

My view is that you needn’t
suffer for your art in vain,
and that indulgence is good. 

My memory is shortened now 
like a goldfish in its closed world.

My seven year old homework 
was amongst much else a proof
of Jim Morrison’s “metamorphose theory”
conducted on a round ball of cannabis
and has now been stolen. 

My preference is a mixture
of coffee and cigarettes, thus 
of both Blur and Oasis.

My scene is made up of atoms
much like anyone else’s scene.

My tune is a fey leaf 
plonked with an encore of Rontaur.

My seed is an electric vine,
a crisis of authority,
a daring them to be. 

My dish is too small. 

My dosh is in dreams, for all 
monopoly money should still work on tuck.

My ideal car would be the self-driving 
one from that ages old telly show
for kids called Nightrider 
because I do not drive. 

My keys have gone flat 
like tepid Pepsi left out overnight. 

My list of loves include 
life and the lucid, northern light. 


A: When did you start writing and why?

B: Well, it was when I was about 5 and on holiday in France. It wasn’t easy to tell then, but looking back the reason may have been to fill a vacuum. Jim Morrison had written The Lords And The New Creatures, requiring a witness, then died. Ten years later no-one had seen any new creatures at all. There was therefore a vacuum. I was born into it. In France when I was about five it was like a giant force picked up my hand and started me writing.

A: So in a way poetry is like a religion for you?

B: Yes poetry is like a religion for me but it does not preclude science either.

A: Do you subscribe to the view of linguistic pragmatism that states there is a practical application for an idea in the world as a pre-requisite for the idea being thought?

B: I would have to know more about it, as I haven’t read anything on linguistic pragmatism but it sounds like it correlates very well with my reason for becoming a writer as earlier mentioned.

A: Is your original reason for writing still valid now that the new creatures have been seen and known?

B: I don’t know. There is an extent to which I should be writing now to de-stigmatise mental illness and affect change through incremental steps. A lot has happened since the new creatures. I was only very young. 

A: Is there any sense in not writing anymore?

B: Well, I’ve only just read Ulysses so I think I am only just beginning. There’s also the fact that writing has become a kind of art therapy for me in my mental illness.

A: Are you going to move on from the new creatures onto something new?

B: I’ve already had to do that many times in my life, and still my childhood experiences remained an open-ended mystery that I had to keep coming back to. 

A: Do you feel like reading Ulysses you have got to the bottom of it all a bit more?

B: It was profoundly affecting. To think that I wasn’t the first person to encounter a bird called the juggernaut that wriggled its wing in the wood. To think that James Joyce went through the same experience. To think that my father who has now died read this same book before I was born. 

A: Do you think in many ways Jim Morrison’s The Lords And The New Creatures was a riposte to Ulysses?

B: Let’s just say that Jim Morrison’s book started to smell of an Irish accent the more I read Ulysses. 

A: now which one of us two do you think is going to go downstairs to get a pate sandwich, a cup of sweet tea and ingurgitate the morning’s motley array of poetry buttons?

B: I don’t it turning into a fight so I propose that you do whatever it is that suits you.

A: okay in that case you can go downstairs, prepare the snack on all fronts, food, drink, and medication, and I can be the one to consume it. 


Genius I have heard described as an overused word,
bandied about by the unqualified, applied
to the merely talented, diluted in meaning. 

Genius as I have heard described can be the grace
to offer to wash up after a banquet where 
the guests discuss your brother’s genius. 

Genius I know from my University course
is described by TS Eliot as the ability 
to spot the pattern before it has formed.

Genius exists in everyone, even in the child 
stuck on the train looking out of the window, 
according to the poetry of Bukowski. 

Genius one might presume is thinking outside 
the box, like the guy that did the maths for the 
red skin cell, not mastering a genre already known. 

Genius – Paul says – is more knuckling down and 
having a family, than discovering the sheet
where pictures depicting your lyrics grew. 

Genius, my mother demeans, saying that 
life is not about being a genius but about 
the daily grind, the struggle, day in day out. 

Genius (we know) comes from the same Latinate 
etymological derivation as gentleman, genesis,
genitalia, genes, and a few other words too. 

Genius, according to Henry Miller at least, or 
rather a man of genius, is unwelcome, a pain 
in the arse to other people, and a recidivist too.

Genius is often flawed in the traditional view,
and of course anyone can tell you, the line 
between madness and genius is a fine one. 

Genius I have been called a few times, but
my father disputed and even falsified the notion, 
in fact would not have anything to do with it.

Genius is said to be free of the trammels of fact, 
inborn in the imagination, through whom 
the real is determined, even in the literary canon.


I imagine deleting everything I’ve done, erasing
hundreds of pages of poems, songs, scribblings,
starting againe with the moment I conjured up 
a punkish mnemonic for the six guitar strings:

Even A Dick Gets Big Erections. Too crude 
it might seem, but I am on strong medication 
that precludes translating natural emotion, 
with my illness perceived as but an imbalance 

of chemicals in the brain, in the modern paradigm;
so crude would seem apposite and not unseemly. 
These days my mnemonic has changed to:
Every Acid Dealer Gets Busted Eventually

and to abjure twanging the guitar has become 
more my efficacy than formerly. Where before
it was to plug my senses in the mains, now 
I sit in the midst of all the normal-talking air

selling shares in the colour white. It seems death 
has gone to great lengths to bring you this vision, 
light rinsed by perception and the other way 
about, the fair day, out in the front garden. 

The far right and the far left hold hands, form 
a circle, and haven’t got any money, honey, 
so to fuck the system is to say that the system 
works quite well, quite ironic and quite funny. 


Permutation is the drain of Time. 
When you’re sleeping nothing happens.
People like limpid lines that rhyme. 
To trespass into forbidden gardens.
Only song can survive the fire. 
Life is clean and green inside a flame.
We rehearse for death inside our game. 
Love’s a lollipop trying to explode. 
When the vision is decision you can unload.
Drugs are a bet with the eye of the mind.
The invisible is not unseen but blind. 
I lost my teddy bear in the void.
The void is a schizophrenic mechanoid.
Love is Nature’s reproductive trick.
Some things I’ve seen make me sick.
Two timing words that have no view.
Like “Flora I am in love with you.”
I chased the dragon through the hoop.
I’m naked and I haven’t brewer’s droop.
A clock is only as fast as a cheetah.
God is drunk againe on Wifebeater. 


I’m on the phone to The Lords 
And The New Creatures
talking about Flora and
her redeeming features 

which are probably not 
her loquacious charms
and how we should be lying 
in each other’s arms

in the text they sent
through the chainsaw blade
they said we’re never
ever going to get paid 

and the beer I’m sipping 
tastes like a house-brick 
and the gulf I’m crossing 
is in the word for ‘tick’

and I wish I was away 
with the cloud-change and 
I wish I was away with 
the dreamland band 

meanwhile on the phone 
in our old conversation 
we spoke of the problems
of over-population 

and how the trees are 
being all cut down 
and everything’s headed
for a singular town 

in the brain they sent 
through the microwave
they said it’s imperative 
that I misbehave 

and the tea I’m making 
is the hippy kind and 
the tincture of illness
can make you blind 

and I wish I was away 
with the starbeams and 
I wish I was away 
under Gondwanaland. 


To sleep atop the Lakeland’s oldest fell,
Black Combe, one midsummer night on the heather, 
was my English-teaching grandmother’s dream.
Who knows, maybe this summer we’ll get there? 

If only we could go by bullet to the top 
of a telegraph pole, instead of having to walk.
Maybe at the top there should be a gift shop 
where of Michelangelo the women talk. 

We’d have to set off early before the sun sets,
and take coffee flasks and other supplies. 
Ecstasy would be preferable, or amphetamines
although both lead to writing down lies… 

a sugar-lust comes. The kettle’s on the boil. 
My brother Dr. Robert is coming up in July
with his Eyetie girlfriend and their newborn son.
So maybe to the top we will all make our way. 

It has to happen some day, on a balmy night,
underneath the resplendent plethora of stars, 
in the unreal world, outside of civilisation, 
far from the passing of the river of cars. 


I like pizza, you like pizza,
so let us one day eat it together
in the sauna on a day where 
the weather is like a printer 
in a primeval swamp – not 
now, no, but sometime later - 
and if we get too stuffed 
we’ll give the crusts to Baxter.
For all he’ll like it better 
than the dogfood which my 
brother and I give him to eat
here at home in Cumbria. 
Demon spills like silver water -
and then it’s out there, going
from white to grey faster 
than you can say “ether.”
It’s buy one get one free. 
It falls to me to be the one to say
three words cleansed by fire. 
I love you. There you are. 
This conversation is not over.
For all I’m a famous poet 
around here, have been in the 
paper, dispelling the myth that 
there is no talent in the area. 
I have liberated many minds;
and you are my ideal lover. 
Far away on a boat in Australia. 
For wonder is why I bother. 


My bro turned out an interesting musician 
for all the doctor fixed his perforated ear-drum 
with a tiny spec of Robert’s bell end 
in a new state of the art operation 

and now he can listen to the radio station 
flick through the channels and land on Chopin 
under the stars late at night while driving 
over dark earth who should be sleeping 

and where would he go but to see his girlfriend
she’s a good looker and a real person 
must’ve been love at first sight between them 
I think they’re going to have more children

if he’s very lucky the door will be open 
like the keys of Blake in the songful morning 
and she’ll be in the kitchen like a vision 
and then they’ll go upstairs into the bedroom 

and what goes behind doors in the backrooms
is private and not for anyone else’s knowing
and in a tight cupboard I will be hiding 
making cave-paintings on the wall 


Carrying a sieve from A to B to prove 
altruism or was it Alzheimer’s to a dictator, 
through the self-organised orange grove 
make sure you watch out for the Honda 

lawnmower turning adroitly in the fading 
light, missing a gnarled treefinger by an inch, 
cutting grass blades where we were wading 
down – and stop and sit down on a bench -

dreaming of a fair, free and equal society 
where Monopoly money works on wine,
where a house costs no more than 50p, 
and ecstasy flows through vein and vine. 

Allow that water comes free from the Tap -
that O is the key of water and its sound - 
that there is nothing mean or cruel to trap 
the myriad branches of the monkey mind. 

Insects will be flying in warm, summer air. 
Beethoven will be hidden in the tips of trees. 
As Roger Waters said, don’t be afraid to care.
Sigh, with relief, in the ego-loss breeze. 

Then to work you might return and know 
it’s work that sets us free. Round and round 
you mow the grass, still dreaming. So 
the summer rain heals the broken ground. 


I sometimes catch a glimpse of a street map, 
a Where’s Wally? book, a Valentine’s Card
under the surface… now as I hear the tap 
singing, the pipes glugging their yard, 

I think the crazy palimpsest of memory 
contains meaning at any intersection,
open to one’s own hermeneutic autonomy,
to reading and feeling and Deconstruction. 

They say that all is story, all is fiction,
even your bones – they are spun fable.
As I hear plates clank down in the kitchen
having come upstairs and left the table 

I think how meaning is an emotional 
import given mere exo-skeleton with words; 
how semantics is a road sign not a place, notional;
and how my thinking’s hampered by the birds…

I hear a knock at the door: my friend 
has turned up to see me, a pleasant surprise, 
carrying news of Man’s eventual end 
in the wild excitement behind his eyes. 

I love it when he comes round because
in him I can confide, and confound 
the cosmic sadness of everything that was,
before I landed with my feet on the ground. 

10/ 05/ 2021 

My friend Mr. G came round today, riding
his bike round the hugs and curves
of the valley road. I helped him 
send off an e-mail to multiple addresses
concerning his up and coming exhibition -
paintings, music, video and poetry. 
He paints the portraits of the pantheon 
of rock and jazz musicians from photos
with the music on and in mind, mixing
synaesthesia and ekphrasis, combining 
the postmodern readymade and the emotion 
of Romanticism, and you start to wonder
what of their hands, instruments, music,
outside the frame. He carried the coffin 
at my father’s funeral. My father was
an international art smuggler nicknamed Blue
who charged the Germans for the return 
of their Russian-plundered pastorals 
and now that he’s gone I can say that. 
He used to say a Russian has a right to a
square of red perceived by someone from 
another land and Liberty and Trade go 
hand in hand. I think that if your 
father is an art smuggler called Blue
it can qualify as a new sense through 
which you can read of future events 
as I did in 2000, speaking against September
11th, although the cannabis I was smoking 
prevented me from even remembering 
my helpless fecundity of prescience 
when the planes came through the window,
until a diagnosis and course of treatment. 
On my blog, in terms of my own art, 
you can find a demo recorded through
state of the art binaural earphones, and 
one not, and two photographs of the 
tape I put in the oven and cooked when 
its pause where glued in the reel healed
and was gone, and a photograph of 
the sheet where pictures depicting
a lyric I wrote grew, and then there’s 
the problem of words, for I have 
a boyhood book from in and around the 
time I was the kid that took care of the new 
creatures, which I think of as Morrison, 
and a song lyric book I think of as
Syd Barrett and then a third book, of poems, 
which might be thought of as Rimbaud, 
so in a way as an artist I too have died
and gone to Heaven, where trips are free;
but then againe, there was a time when 
all of it was going for me at once, 
then there came a time when all of it
was over, all of a sudden and gone. So 
I needed to heal. Medicine wastes 
packaging. Mouth to mouth we can talk, 
full of preverbal resuscitation. Like 
going online in your lonely head at night. 
Anyhow, I said to Mr. G maybe I 
would produce a contrapuntal collocation
of art works, a series called “Speech Bubbles,”
where I paint lines of meaning, and his 
musicians start to talk across purposes,
to philosophise, to extemporise even. 
He said he would prefer it if I didn’t.
They would only be stock epiphanies 
anyway. The world arriving at a series
of aphorisms, maxims, axioms and arrows. 
For logic and science I arraign and 
inveigh against or would in former work. 
Touch is the shortest route between 
subject and object. I wanted my work 
to be more fresh, daring and exploratory
once upon a time and now I am open 
to the weather, to the voices, whom 
it seems pan like Interstellar Overdrive
and know what I am thinking, writing.
Ameliorate not decorate, obviate not 
titivate, that’s what I say, make batteries 
out of flannel not the other way about. 
My triune arrangement of books as 
earliermentioned might well come down 
from the blog, disappear, as in here
the drip from the kitchen tap continues. 
And who knows? Maybe one day 
we will come to see a Complete Works? 
I did a higgledy piggledy picture of 
many days and conversations and 
demeanours all rolled into one ball. 
Now another mad genius enters the 
kitchen: my younger brother James. 
It seems that to organise a sheet where
pictures grow without and hands, you 
need to split the creativity, the intellectual
property exactly fifty fifty between 
two people, to be fair, and spoil 
her flawless body with sin. Personally 
I think the substance of the Eartoons 
Lucy in the soul with demons, and 
the Music Theory for them written 
by me, although the sheet where they 
grew, depicting a song of mine own,
was always going to be a James Tucker
zone. O brother thou art mine other! 
We keep each other on an even keel. 
We laugh to ourselves each on our own.
We sometimes stay up too late into the Night.
And this we know, there is no ‘we’
I am the third person immaculate, free,
so light saber down, Shell petrol station 
close, open the sleepless omen moon,
who shines like an electric coin and 
seems to be in love with the sea or 
at least with her own reflection and 
find the reek of small, burnt flowers
from Finland and try and hold onto them. 


The hour before dawn is darkest.

The Eastern horizon looked like a negative.

As light leaks out I think of how a photon never ages. 

I think also how all my books are versions of the same one. 

First there was Rose Petals In The Ashtray -
my dying dad’s code for coppers in jail.

Then there was Selected Poems 1989 – 2017
containing but a handful of my 
seven year old poems which 
had not fully emerged yet
from dad’s bedroom in the attic.

Then there was Vampires And Zombies -
at first juxtaposing 74 poems
and 74 songs, but then amended

to include four little books, meaning 
all my boyhood writings,
all the song lyrics I could gather, 
and two collections of poetry, one 
Rose Petals In The Ashtray amended, the other 
Lockdown At The Foot of Sea Ness. 

I seem to have now fused it all into one continuum, 
spent the night doing it too. Soooo 
as dawn’s light leaks out I contemplate 
whether the Night was well spent 
or whether I should’ve got some sleep. 

When my mother comes downstairs
to go to work, she’ll ask me if 
I stayed up all night and 
what I might say, is that the dog
got some shit stuck on his furry arse 
and so I couldn’t go to bed because 
the dog sleeps in my bed with me
because the dog was once abused, locked
in a garage for many years on end 
by a former owner, so this 
I am already planning to tell my mum. 

I might just say  “I’ve been at work” instead.

In many ways it is true, though
I don’t get paid for what I do.

The witness from Jim Morrison’s book, 
and more and many more, I work 
24/ 7 in an unpaid position 
of unlegislatable and international nature. 

I am more likely to win a Nobel Prize
than I am to get paid for anything I do, 
and I am not likely to win a Nobel Prize, 
because apart from a few bits and pieces, 
the work I bring before you is full of 
sex and drugs and rock n roll. 

So many weed-reeking rock songs
are included to add colour to the mixture. 

There may be moments when 
you cannot tell whether something 
has a guitar part and melody or not. 

I feel I have done enough, not 
for a Nobel Prize obviously but 
to satisfy that requirement of Man’s
that the witness to the new creatures 
provide some words, whatever 
that requirement means, and 
whatever the words that are conjured are -

I don’t think it a pointless sop 
to liberal humanism to provide words -

but there is some kind of requirement there. 

More leaves to a tree are forthcoming 
but I forget what they are as I walk 
around the kitchen and see 
a singular magpie land on the table
out the back, and fly away, leaving me 
to think of the colours white and black 

and how everyone likes to dream.

Outside smoking, I deem the garden 
to be the opposite of mental hospital. 

Back in the scullery I feed the dog sweet tea. 

I was a bit flirtatious with the doors,
with Jim Morrison’s poetry, which I used to
read online in 1998, way back in my Rimbaudian day…

and I might be searching for something 
new to move onto even here and now…

and I don’t regret things, and am not 
jealous of another man’s scope or gift

and the poems I have left out I don’t regret either.

If I could keep but one poem from the 
whole lot of the ones I have gathered 
it would be that spreadsheet of my seven 
year old writing with which I opened.

And where is Baxter the dog but beside me?

And where are all the other poems 
I have left out and should I make
the effort to cut and paste some of them in? 

Yes I think I shall, and not censor
the cardiovascular heart reading of the hills.

Mother comes downstairs, takes her pills,
goes off to work, I shirk, will
go back to bed to rest my head 
and write from a supine repose 

O what shall we do about the crows?

They are nesting in the chimney.
They are ravaging the farmer’s land.
They are sitting on the telegraph wire
but will anybody else understand?

Ah, yes, that’s right, lie down in bed.

Not yet, I mean quite soon. 

First I must crick my neck, 
boil the kettle, wander round
the kitchen singing a melody - 

O how the melody in my head 
is capacious and Nirvana blue today -

and I can play it too, on the guitar,
the nylon string which I got for free, me…
now I wait for the brewing of the tea.

Now I am in my bed, said Baxter the dog
to himself. Only joking. Ha-ha!

Six thirty turns to twenty past seven. 

I am in my bed, having fed
Baxter his sweet tea, and I am thinking 
in pure, Nirvana-blue, lightsaber blue melody 
and it is capacious melody indeed. 

Something to whip out if ever againe I record.

Most of the songs are unrecorded.

Most songs have not been written yet.

Most songs, the unwritten ones,
decompose in a compost heap of silk. 

Most of them disintegrate on magic mushrooms.

Then you must wait for more
blank pages flung from the sun. 

You might also be on E at the same time. 

Then you’ll know the day is a good one. 

Unless you’re someone who, say,
never came back from an acid trip,
before your brain was fully developed,
before you’d even left school. 

Hmn, difficult to know what to say -
you can’t just say “he’s definitely gay!”
with abject self-abnegation like that -
knocked back at a remove from your own consciousness…

I think Paul came back but not me. 

I think I stayed a long way away, 
past Black Head, at Lizard Point, 
but I might be wrong about all this. 

My fingers tap the keypad, elongating 
the length and difficult of perception. 

And where is the dog but beside me?

And why am I breaking the house rules
by smoking out the window of my bedroom?

Most poems haven’t been written yet. 

Most poems are still to come. 

Most gardens haven’t finished growing.

Most voices have not been heard. 

Most dogs have not barked at the moon.

Most of the time I cannot even remember
if I have already had my medication or not. 

Most of my boyhood poems were quite good
but I could not find a place for them 
in my adult book, most of my friends
don’t talk to me anymore, half
of the doors are already dead. 


There’s something deeply comforting
about an Autechre interview when it is 
cut and pasted off Facebook and further 
cut up with the music on loud it’s quite 
kaleidoscopic really you get blank 
canvas acid which can throw up sheer 
beauty when I was a teenager with that 
syndrome and listening to electro before 
diving into the rave scene they often 
lure in sophisticated arrhythmia using 
notes for percussion finetuned notes 
moments of this sort of work twice it’s 
harder than it was they’d just laugh 
so we were kind of discovering it 
together with them two Mancunian 
lads who’d grown up doing the uninitiated
techno tribe astral breathing hair because 
you’re learning as you’re working outside 
in the sunshine and haven’t bought any 
new equipment for five years and have 
to sleep and have no muscle memory. 


It took me a long time to wake up today.
A list of miracles that miss my CV
were scattered and mottled and I had
to gather them together and wake for tea 

and cigarette, aware that at some point
the dog was standing on the laptop in the night 
and I had to gather my things and wake
to make sure the laptop was alright…

when I woke and smoked and drank 
tea I chopped some kindling for mum 
and her living room fire, fed the dog, 
and started to think about my dream

and that lying patiently in wait for all 
my precious things, the red skin cell, 
andcetera, to wake with me, a chain 
of metamorphosis I wear at the foot of the fell…

at some point today, grogged on meds
I spoke to my brother about poetry,
and he said “I have no interest in writing 
it, it has too many rules for me!”

I could change my name to Jim Wood,
though John F B Tucker is my name, 
a poem in its own right, a tautology, 
or maybe even what they call an anti-poem.

A friend of a friend will sort my dream 
of getting my works on Amazon out,
then at the Promised Land I will have 
arrived, my baby will be born as art. 

I’m not allowed to die before my mum,
for then she would die, and my brothers
come up to Heaven to bollock me, 
after scattering my ash at my father’s

grave, in the churchyard up the way,
so before that happens, if I need help, 
I’ll ring the CPN, tell him I’m about to 
utter my final, primal, animal yelp.

He’ll do all that he can to ensure my ma
is happy, and life is sweet for one and all,
as it is for the friends that have scattered,
even the best friend I ever had, Paul. 

A bit strong, is the medicine I am on,
but it makes me comfortably numb at least, 
able to write numbers still, a John 
who learned to walk in London, in the East.

Now the clouds are selling upturned jars
of sunset, in the bars of Heaven, out to sea, 
as we forward march, to the end of the day,
and it seems we are put here just to see, 

to hear and taste and touch and smell as well.
It’s all good in the realm of the senses.
We’ve invented something we cannot sell.
We have erected brave, new tenses

to inhabit in our minds. I look around
at the Natural world where music precedes
sense as an agent of understanding, and 
all my worry and all my doubt recedes. 

I love it here, living at the foot of the fell, 
a stone’s throw away from the sea, the cave, 
the town of Millom, where my friend lives, 
the one with whom I sometimes misbehave.

The impassable gulf between the first 
and third persons has gone away to write 
in a log cabin high up in the Moroccan mnts,
knowing that a green leaf is a vote. 

The Roman phone is now off the hook, 
the squalid mess has now seen Sea Ness, 
earth’s lumpen furniture darkens and I 
am happy to be left waiting in darkness,

for all the darkness is nourishing for the soul,
and waiting is a good thing for one to do,
where the self escapes its green sense of ‘I,’
and the weather flees with Whinnie the Pooh. 

There are still a few visible things left
at the fellfoot, though light is shrinking, 
emaciated, blue and monastic, and Night
is coming on, and that might be frightening. 

That we move on, that is a given, a need, 
a requirement, and the Sarah of today 
will by the Natalie of tomorrow, whom 
it seems is a good girl, what else can I say?

I play the green drum on my keyboard, 
for all it should be easy as leaves to a tree, 
and maybe it is time for me to move on
to something else, not songs and poetry. 

My heart was once a festival where all arts
went on, but now it seems all gone, 
though the trees I had planted still grow, 
and know more than they will ever let on. 

Who will be the new witness, whenever
I have kicked the bucket, I do not know.
Now the stars are coming out, starting 
to shine and illuminate the garden below. 

That will be enough, a whole new tomorrow,
chocker-block full of fun-packed days,
soaking up the rays, dissolving one’s sorrow,
living the dream life, in many different ways. 

A mere trifle, to stifle one’s better instincts, 
but then I might write for kids instead, 
or carry on with what I am on with now, 
it doesn’t really matter, and it’s time for bed. 

Once upon a time in a galaxy further than
the stars and closer than the eye, we begin,
life is a blink and then it’s all over, 
and we are but actors out on loan

forever trying to give back our money 
to the mint, our beck to the source, the rain, 
and then it is spent, our time, which was zero, 
and we’ll never get another chance againe. 

Death is an emotion we come to respect, 
to need, something to redeem us, for all 
we have done or not done, our eventual
end will come, and all things will fall -

fall in line, fall in tune with the moon, 
whom it seems is a portal to the city, 
where now the magnets come undone,
and all the women seem so very pretty. 

A love I have left behind, down there,
where death has undone so many more
than we can count, and now that it’s Night, 
I might fight the demon, and save her. 

A violet twilight sky has given way to 
the tomb of Day, where Qui-gons be Qui-gons
and you’ve guessed it, we must practice
what we preach with regard to bygones. 

A practical axis, I deem it, my word, 
it’s full of glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, 
and one more word would not do any harm, 
for all I am a true translator of feeling…

intelligence is sadness, intelligence doubt.
Karma will be gained when I get to to the end.
Bilateral cloudscapes are smuggling rum.
I wonder if my dog is my only friend.

It’s healing is a dog’s uncomplicated love.
He explores the world with his mouth.
What would happen if you fed him a Dove?
I haven’t had one since the south. 

I think Man will keep plodding on
but my prophetic aspect is too insane.
Who will renew Jim Morrison’s dream 
when I am new to death, dead and gone? 

What say we take off our fungal heads?
What say we redeem that dream of the wood?
What say I buy a fistful of song 
through whom death hangs his head? 

I try another four by four passing by 
the house where alignment lives but am in,
even when out underneath the stars, 
thinking of life as but a giant bin. 

I’ve soared on heights over the mountains,
I’ve seen the Future State of Poetry, 
I’ve felt that writing itself is Freedom, 
and now I’m in the kitchen sipping tea, 

and writing is the breath of the soul, 
and morning is the painting painted by God, 
and dozens are the ones that got away, 
and say when we meet in the Land of Nod -

say “hi!” and give me a high five too, 
and come down the tunnel plunged in the fell, 
lined with free beer dispensers, torches, 
and fruit machines sucking on lemons as well…

there’s nothing left to tie me to this room, 
I’ve gone insane, like the madman who 
cursed me, a long time ago, which I 
being quite naive did not even know -

and the twilight bats flit about a bit,
and then it is ancient Night once more, 
and the light that gleamed an instant is gone, 
and we read of the suffering of the poor. 

A pram is a fairground on the bank of 
the River Goyt, a true dream gone by, 
and where I am sitting, a note can be heard, 
a word-chord piano opened up in the sky. 

Forever exiling worlds with each decision, 
we clutch at straws to stuff full the hole
and deem the last stronghold of the bourgeoisie
to be the sacrosanct and Romantic soul…

I’ve ranted for long enough, about how
I’ve rented my body from death, death, 
whom it seems sells records on the corners
of underworld streets, also liquid crystal meth. 

It’s love not death that makes angels
of us all, give us wings where before
we had shoulders smooth as ravens’ claws, 
yes love not death, and more and many more 

whom it seems can smile and wave 
and dream upon her first morning’s colour, 
while my guitar gently sleeptalks and 
the fractured atom has gone under the dollar. 


Madness does not equate to
darkness increased an inch and 
times by five and broken with flags

darkness does not equate to
madness increased an inch but 
the surface of smiley white 
has gone under Gondwanaland

let this be a lesson to you 
to only write of beauty and 
sing your little heart out too 

Captain Beefheart is singing in the 
kitchen where women have been
bitchin’ and fiction is made 

all night I write by the lamplight
until the dawn and quite right 
I bin the first disclosure 

mine heart is free and beating
your heart is lamb-like bleating
if it were truth or dare they’d
both be the same to me 

innocence is fleeting in the 
sense that we are all ageing 
but soon it will come back round 

new songs are cleansed by fire 
surviving the funeral pyre 
nothing is beyond poetry 

I see the flower on the table
as a kind of glowing candle 
and write a song with no guitar 
at the fading of the final star 

my heart it swims in joy 
and your heart is not a toy 
if it were paper scissors stone 
I’d throw the dog a juicy bone 

fan-mail arrives by air 
I pick up vibes through my hair 
a lone car is passing by 
the valley road’s a lullaby

soft are the fingers of
the angels when we’re in love

I’ve said the password ‘garden’ to
all manner of unlikely things 
and seen a black angel of
self-immolation spread its wings

it’s ten to eight, the time of my birth 
when I first landed on earth 
my spaceship smelled of super-skunk
and soon I was a baby punk 

I’ve waded into ten foot flames
to free the sparrows from their names
they seemed trapped behind glass
and now another car can pass 

over and out testing testing
123, the joker’s jesting, 
trueness is quite, silence is white 
and everyone is interesting

the mood is cute on medication 
it’s crude the way they treat the situation 

the mind is bulbous 
with placid surface area 
it’s seems extraneous 
but acid is much scarier 

now my heart it swims in bliss 
the dog’s been out for a morning piss
I’ve melody coming out my ears
and drink a toast to your free beers
another lone car passes by 
with love we might never die
I’d woof along with the dog 
if I were but a wooden log 

but I’m a person just like you 
it’s true that here new flowers grow
oh yes but also oh no 
we go where no-one else can go

outside the 30 CM ruler 
there once was a man 
who thought he was cooler 

but I soon put him right on that 
I let fall off my critical hat 
a game will end in peace and love 
I don’t know what I’m dreaming of 
a druid drunk on dreams awakes
his mothers making fairy cakes

I love the gang 
that’s gathered here
a lone car passes
fuelled on beer 

a fellscape opens up to view 
a thousand tinctures of wonderful blue 
exist between us, now we’re out 
in the garden wandering about 

my heart it swims 
in liquid gold 
and now the story 
remains untold 



Searching for an aesthetic system like the colours of the vowels in English you come across pasta.


I hear “full fathom five” could not be four or six or any other number because Virgil says “there are tears in things.”


Lancaster University sounded unto my mind’s ear like a type of language guitar made by Fender – whereupon the ghost of Hendrix came to play. 


If Deconstruction is a dream, the latter means the monster quietly learning the language in the hut in Frankenstein could be Caliban or Frederick Douglas the same. 


Did you know The Great Gatsby is an infradiegetic heterotopia pertaining to panchronic, panoramic overview like a chronotope turned into an euchronia? 


The Yellow Pages is not exactly a word-world gone polysemic with the multifarious possibilities of hermeneutic autonomy.


That it is rude to write of the living, that all writing is fiction, that all selfhood is mythology, that it’s malleable is history, that there is no immutable truth seem five tenets on the same level of analysis. 


O is not a ghost-vowel but U is when opened unto the gloom under sliver moon I slide her over and againe “semen spills like silver water.”


I like that James P D Tucker posits in a casual doodle that <BEE> might come after @ in the international language alphabet.


The symbol [R] represents the stance that there is room for Creativity in the synapse gulf, that Creativity is not all mappable/ predictable in advance.


The word ‘goyt’ might be seen as Celtic thought-patterns meeting Anglo-Saxon vowel-sounds.


The word ‘psyche’ comes from Ancient Greek for ‘ghost’ kopsiche and ghosts can travel in time, one scholar visiting Ancient Greece finding the Greeks tremendous actors.


In postmodernism the signifier-signified bond corresponds to relations between the phonetic and semantic aspects of the linguistic sign.


Counter to postmodern theory on the arbitrary or even meaningless signifier-signified bond, when The New Creatures was given a traffic light motif of green pages it intrinsically conferred go, grow, evolve, happen, nature, continuation, motion, life. 


The word ‘entropy’ spelled backwards might be used in physics to frame the first, unformulated spark of appetency in Nothingness preceding Creation and its dance in and out of itself.


Home-made Belletristics and Russian Formalism share the belief in treating the text through its own contemporaneous eyes as opposed to the new, trendy, Presentist view.


The lesson of post-structuralism could be two-fold meaning a) the condition of being a text can extend to any object b) the condition of being a language unto itself can extend to any text.


I think Man is words and ‘man’ is a word and words draw bridges across metaphysics and words make connections between the first and third persons. 


I think language is the emotional condom of the world, but in telling you this, you understand you are sworn to secrecy.


I think that vowels are our souls and have long since understood the word ‘vowel’ can be spelled phonetically using every V-A-E-I-O-U-L sound in alphabetical order. 


As a child I used to repeat the word ‘kangaroo’ in my head until it went numb, emptied itself of meaning, hopped off to become the mad kangaroo king. 


When you sing a line like “oceans smile with liquid eyes and fill themselves with rain,” it only betrays that you have read Rimbaud at sixteen.


The meditation mantra ‘so-hum’ means “I am Him” or “soul into Universe” or “soul into God” and I still employ it sometimes in daily life in my inner monologue though I no longer ‘meditate.’


When a volume starts to smell of redolent perfume it could be the word of a dog who has almost 70 such words which is almost as many as the French.