stef

Stef is on a call,I’m left thinking of her. Her pink dress,ginger Japanese hair,big Brazilian smile– those dimples – She’s so special,she makes me better. I’ll wait for the call’s endthen scoop up my wife– hold her tight.

break from reality

Crystal through the skullfire that builds, stultifiedpunch the wall, this time calloh what fun – reckless aboveflow my tears, flow my ragedown onto that bandaged pagegive it up, go again, let it downhere meaning, there, it’s gonesee? share a hole, live in the wellshouting echos, head scrapingbanging against the wallgive it all, give it allhave […]

joining the elite

I fire for London’s so-showy zenith,to join what you’d term the Elite,veiled in their drapery of otherness.Bad men, beautiful Marilyns alike. Why so? Call it a chip of stature,To do better than any silver spoon,Middle class boys against breeding– what a shit fan club that’d be. But you know, I work like a dog,Stiff sheepdog – […]

the tiger

Great big clods of knobbly mudmarch a path across soaked fields squarish ponds of poppling stalksgyrating madly with the clouds above exhaling as they’re forced to dancea hundred thousand soft sighs I quicken in a place so watchfulbraced for the tiger’s leap, its claws pulling me into Cotswold wheat.

the argument

My wife’s breasts bounce a littleas we heave accusations to and froacross the kitchen floor, frustrationsfired in salvos between keen tennis playerspanting, clawing for the breakpoint. Such pain staying rooted in this fightpinch an arm – please keep control,no use, slides in a familiar feelingMy shame deadened heartimmovable, uncomforted. Here, once again, is the real […]

letters

The throes of an aching neck,digitally hunched window dressing.One look – 12 hours gone. And the undulating day –measured in mailbox pings.Marching orders. Troops afire. What if they were letters instead?Real paper, for God’s sake.Spare the back but spoil the wrist. Letters rammed into mailbags,bundled onto steamships. Puttering,slow puffs across mute oceans. Letters that got wet, […]

memories

I’m in a curious place, standing beneath a church treeThe wind whipping and whippling dead leaves at my feet,although why they’re here I don’t quite understand,Summer’s begun and all else is wet, ripe and green. I ask myself the same question as the leaves had hadMy flat’s just along the road, on the left – […]

dad

Friday night on the living room’s floorThe wife’s in Paris. I’m at my own devices, but there’s a new vinyl player to tinker withLet’s put on a record and hear the music. The needle drops; classical tunes fill the air It reminds me of Dad’s house, up on the hillNot the vinyl of course, but […]