For all the noise

It is bloated indifference

That is most ravenous.

Our horror in realising

The relative closeness

Of its smile wrapped

Around our face

Smothered in silence

Complicit snake.


Rose garden

This rose garden is an aberration of nature,

So much beauty for one acre,

But there are spaces where we come and go and make repair.

Some people fear revolution,

They forget or never felt the hunger that came before,

Here we remember what blooms when everything’s blunt and bare.

What’s a poem?

Reaching out from itself it sits square

In the brisk dusk of a bus station

Waiting for a number 44 or a 45.

The Demise of the English Language: from Geoffrey Chaucer to Donald Trump

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,
The drochte of March hath perced to the roote,
I’m gonna grab her pussy
Cos she’s a piece of ass.

King Lear Dropped By

King Lear dropped by last night.
Brought his whole ensemble out:
Daughters, court, Gloucester’s eyes,
Shakespeare learnt en route,
Out of one kingdom, an evasion,
Straight into this fools’ paradise.

Thud thud thud.  Let’s to our prison!
Old man, I see that recognition
In your eyes.  What desire!  Still?
After all these years?  The audience
So nice in its comprehension.
Young flesh is long since dead.

The poetry transcends time and beats
Its cacophonous drum. A soliloquy
Out of the ecstasy of kingdom’s cum.
Earth covered son and blood
Splattered everyone until we knew
It was on our own hands too.

I wonder how many felt your agony?
Exhaustion, shame?  I wonder how
Many conspire in the reign
Of those who let a whim determine
Who’s in, who’s out?  Who played
which part?  Who’s left outside
the theatre again, alone in the rain
and dark?

Just one bite

It isn’t hidden in bold type
Curious fonts or muted prints
Suggestive eyes
Asking you to examine your soul.

Heigh-ho!  Doc cycles to work
Through the jungle and drama
Of DIY and organic palaces
A sugarless plot to hide upon time.

And where’s the magician?
The old romantic? The satirist?
The poet-singer still entreating?
I’m wishing.

I don’t know how to be seduced
or make the truth bite.
It just gently gnaws.


What does town do?
With its ashes dug well–
conscience-burning rot
Clocked its cutout tongues

Sucked off the years
And fluked into fate
With grit and shovel
Anthem’s flamed holler.

Don’t mouth concern, star.
You pushed them over
The edge of the drum
Into red and blue despair

Stoked your rafters lined
With acres of pink bluff-
So thick the snow won’t melt.
And see, dusk’s turned its last eye.

These are the leaders we’ll regret

These are the leaders who sneak
And crawl, who hide and recoil
From the light, who wear masks
And lie.  These are the leaders who gamble and steal and throw bombs to throw our gaze off course.  These are the leaders who inhabit another world, for whom this realm is only a means to their own end.

A new nursery rhyme

This song can be used to help children learn about neo-liberal economics.  You will need a cake (cut into thirds), a farmer, a banker, an oilman, dice, and lots of hungry children!


The farmer wants a slice

The farmer wants a slice

We’re gambling with the economy

We’ll give him a slice in a trice.


The banker wants a slice

The banker wants a slice

We’re gambling with the economy

We’ll give him a slice in a trice.


The oilman wants a slice

The oilman wants a slice

We’re gambling with the economy

We’ll give him a slice in a trice.


The children want a slice

The children want a slice

But they’ve gone and gambled it all away

So we’ll give them a roll of the dice.




I preempt
How they’re
To bounce
And then?

I pitch
And feel
Of it,

Softly strung