I tore out the agapanthas
Leaves sawn, thrown in a heap,
Butchered the roots with a pickaxe
And stuffed the brainy clumps into bags.

The wormy soil left steaming in the sun.

The bumble bees return to find the ruin where their tunnel entrance must be.

The compost, the horseshit, trowels and seedlings abandoned in the shade.

We shall forgive these trespasses.  The chaos and confusion.  The blame and retribution and look not upon the sap plastered pickaxe, but, in horror, still disbelief, at the bees trying to make sense of it all.


I have enough fuel to travel 511 kilometres;
535, if I stay on the flat.
I have enough food to spare
And an opportunity to get more supplies.

Don’t worry if your tarpaulin disappears,
Or if you pass out before I reach you.
If you’re close to death, I’ll stretch out my hands to greet you,
By which time you’ll be conscious
And safely entwined in orange ribbons.

Perhaps the world will watch:
Perhaps it won’t.

Either way, we’ll lift you to the safety
Of the mother ship. 

Currently, I’m travelling uphill
Hang on, I beseech you
I can see in the eyes of those I pass,
That should I fail, they’ll reach you.

Bring you aboard, finally able to stop wondering aimlessly
On this treadmill,
Staring out into space, asking
Who are you?  A green light signals my next move. 

Yesterday’s problem was manoeuvrability: today’s is a knuckle sandwich (how to get the message across without drawing blood).

There are no dogs in this city,
I can’t see any dogs,
But there is plenty of air and water
And then we’ll listen.
Learn how you survived. 


Stay inside the lines
Don’t go over the edge
Keep up with the times
Trim the hedge.


Don’t invade
Allow for flow
A spade’s a spade


Preachy circles
Tion for shun
The centre ground
Relay and ships that pass.


Roaring font bright
Black on white
Lips red all night.

And shadows

Shapes grounded
Painted grey flung
Tongue flattened
Yin and yang sung


The edges the guilt
The memories framed
The art encased
The body named.

The Crew

And they looked out
From their little flotilla
A strange collection
At those who floundered
Failed to float
Flailed about
Floated lifelessly
The beating drums
Almost silenced
And they thought
Of the dying words
All this talk of help
They never would
Get their heads around
Anchored as they were
The effort taken
To wade
Through tears
So many tears
Just to get here
They should have
hailed us
We built an ark
Financed it
Powered it
Insured it
Entertained it
Lucky we insured it
And still they demanded more
Too many bodies aboard
Too too many expectations
Too much too much
And so to land
The few and their crew
Some of whom looked back
And wondered what they had done.


Finally we have you
Signed off and ratified

Your tongues cut out
All you can do is spit

Your bodies paralysed
All you can do is baulk

Your cities gentrified
All you can do is trespass

Your sleep disturbed
All you can do is stare

Your world possessed
All you can do is gone.

Your poems written
All you can do is done.


The place where I married
Now 87,000 people gather

Amongst the clatter of statues
And fountains and trees

13 years later photographers
Capture the mood and the colour

Of freedom and life for me
Industrious bees and white shoes

A union of speakers and symphony
Christmas trees, markets and bows.

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