I Am Why Your Ghost No Longer Speaks
from Gebo, 2021
 
Your ghost walks by my side
chills iron bars to keep me waking
 
we navigate the paving slab’s follicles
where trees protrude
and clutter The Gray Man’s face with green
 
wise to the woes of Orpheus
the pallid words of his poem
 
we do not turn; will not turn
 
cut a finger off to make a compass
whittle down the failed flesh
let it spin, let it spin
 
This is the street where bombs fell
in perfect iambic pentameter
da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM
 
I am coarse like shrapnel
lodged in the sod
 
I am why the trees wish to escape
abnormal invading presence
 
I am why your ghost no longer speaks
 
staves of an unfinished song tied in knots
syncopated rhythms and a cosmic reunion
 
Take comfort in faith 
as a companion
not in an unmade godhead
but in the all-seeing eye
holy ward — I am waiting
 
until swallowed by the sallow tears
of the heavens
hand in hand with a deadened dream

Do You Look at the Moon When I Look at the Moon?
from Gebo, 2021
 
A slave to the incandescent eye of fate
cast over my body
examining each line to draw conclusions 
that the grandeur of a gilded heart
can be dwarfed by existential silence
 
penetrates every droplet of the soaked clouds
star-walking choirs pool and chorus
their hymn books written in Hebrew
when none of them read Hebrew
 
Every page stuck to the one before it
turning a corner in the story
forces the slab of words
to crush and press weak fingers
 
error is, error is marginal
intent unknown
a country waiting to be discovered 
when nobody wants it discovered
 
Remain distant, let your mewling echo
into a stiff chamber of rib bones
wrapping around a diamond 
rought, cut from the flesh of a grounded angel
 
fallen from the side of the divine, fallen
 
Do you look at The Moon when I look at The Moon?

Apocalypse
from Gebo, 2021
 
Drawn curtains
fasten their threads together
never to open again
 
the pattern does not complete
if not aligned
 
each chink or fold leaning into the other
 
Sun’s eyes flutter
to brighten the roads
  better than a lick of paint
  better than licking a battery
these jolts will restart the traffic
if only they can navigate 
the pot holes and speed bumps
via alternate routes
 
This must be what summer feels like
 
And great star, named and unnamed
capturing gaze
yet the cornea do not burn
like they told every froglet
instilled in the pond
 
distilled in the factories
 
live it — eat it — pray it — believe it
(you better not believe it)
 
this scorching sun
sitting in the sky’s thoughts
staring down, near enough
to give life to a clump of rock
 
this sun, inventing time
by parking its arse-cheeks
on the ground
split pantyhose
generate a shadow
around revealed flesh
 
Seasons of comfort are in session
 
Goldilocks declares
on the street corners of
The Republic of Poetry — how
it is just right
The shy trees are no more — they
yell jokes from a cannibalistic book
made of their skin
each punchline lands an honest mark
on the face
 
Somewhere, a statue of a lion whimpers
with its thorn-laced paw
soothed by the tender talons
of a bird of prey — pluck the stick
fuck the splinters
pluck the crone from the maiden’s head
as winds
tighten, and tease your throat
 
Twin bridges
slumped on the River Tamar
filled with silent excuses
to bolt their cables 
into a patch of concrete
suspend disbelief
that the inanimate can pass for being human
tread with caution
for a high volume of gendered vehicles
pass this way
 
hands from the river
claw onto the bank
with Mother Tenacity’s affirming grip
 
the body of Babylon
scooped up in a length of ribbon
dried in a bath towel
kissed on the forehead and sung to sleep
 
‘my bonny lies over a notion…’
 
where fresh bed sheets
touch static against spines
a taste of seasonal freedom
cruel as the taste of Midsummer Day’s goodnight
 
sleep tight, for now until the turning
 
Distant suns
replace the glow of proximity
blinking messages through the blackness
into Morpheus’s shorthand
typed into dark wanderings
which countdown
to a wake that breaks the mourning
 
seductive dreams coloured in crayon
until heat melts the wax
sends a hard vibration
through mortal pages
punctuated by prophecy — the end of all days
 
sat apart
blurry are the smiles
this is the mask
that hides the face
of the spectre of things to be sung
 
O GREAT REVELATION!
John the Apostle
John the Beatle
Yer Blues blasts loud into the ear
 
a meeting is scheduled
in the living rooms 
of each depredated domicile
dissemination
will dictate the insemination of The Saviour
or the dragon that fell from a city in the clouds
 
and then silence
 



And then more silence








The voiceless assemble
in under an hour — rapid response
this is it folks
the moment
 
THE END OF ALL DAYS HAS COME!
 
Bled realities flatline — leylines narrow
every channel dried-up and void
 
The freaks shall inherit the Sun
 
Demand it ends its exercise routine
 no-more will it rise to offer high-fives 
 to drifting angelic forms
 no-more will it be eaten by the groves 
 in their grooves as they spin
 
The Sun pricks its finger
and sleeps one thousand years
cries a thousand more tears 
which
evaporate every millisecond
on the burning surface of corruption
 
Floods eventually consume soils
a sphere sits on the shoulder of a giant
as it trudges through 
fresh formed swamps
 
the pebble stones of the pavement
beat
with a time-signature of 4/4
with lots of ghost notes scattered
 
Hovering on the edge of their seats
the gods look down
chortle and choke
 
it is hard to swallow
 
what remains is a wasteland

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
And the only hope of ascension
lies in the footnotes of an unwritten poem
 
a poem worth dying for.

Looking For Jeremy Corbyn On The
18.26 Great Western Railway Train From
Penzance to London Paddington.
from Prima Materia, 2018
 
Looking for Jeremy Corbyn
on the 18.26 Great Western Railway train
from Penzance to London Paddington
calling at
St Austell, Par, Bodmin Parkway
Liskeard, Plymouth, Newton Abbot
Exeter St Davids, Taunton, Bristol Temple Meads
Bath Spa
Reading
and London Paddington
 
Eyes right
to see
conductor’s buttocks
framed in a green coat
 
he’s asking for tickets
he’s asking a man for his ticket
 
“Excuse me.”
 
The man has lids shut
and is resting his chin
loosely on his collar
 
“Old fella!”
“Excuse me.”
 
Shit, he’s dead
Shit, he’s fucking dead
 
“Excuse me mate!”
 
A stir, a gasp
fish on a frying pan
 
he stares at me
 
with my pupils I
communicate
 
“I’m not Jeremy Corbyn.
Have you seen him?
I know he likes trains.”
 
But the man just stares
then fumbles for his ticket
 
I now set regular vibrating alarms
using my wrist watch
I set them to stop me from falling asleep dead
 
Eyes forward
to see
two pink bobbles
atop another bobble
who is taking photos
 
she snaps
snap — snap — snap
she snaps a picture
of not a pout or pose
but a porous expression
leaking out how grim life is
 
she texts the picture
asking the soon to be recipient
 
‘Will you be my boyfriend?’
 
She is not Jeremy Corbyn
(the girl taking serious selfies)
her soon to be boyfriend
isn’t Jeremy Corbyn either
 
Eyes down
to see
a pair of swirly, whirly
red patterned boots
having a conversation
with two scraps
of tangerine peel
 
Their owner is holding
Tony Blair’s face in her lap
stroking his
thin, page-boy hair
typing love letters to him
on her Macbook, making
an eHarmony profile to
cleverly seduce Tony Blair
 
She has his face in her lap
but she wants more
New Labour to be Nude Labour
 
saucy Tony Blair and his kinky wink
he’s got those winky eyes
 
even on matted paper
even after photoshop
 
He looks at me through the gap in the chairs
and he uses his winky eyes to ask me
 
“Have you seen Jeremy Corbyn?
He
uses trains
and I thought, maybe
he might
be on here
using
this train, it’s just
he won’t return my calls...”
 
I blink back
“No, I haven’t seen him
but if I do I’ll point him
in the direction of your face.”
 
After watching the vacant seats
fail to manifest Jeremy Corbyn
I decide to give up my search
 
Who am I anyway?
 
Just a lowly pagan in a black tie
coming back from a funeral
 
What would I do if I actually saw him on the train?
The same thing I did with Phil Jupitus at Jersey Zoo?
 
Point and say his name
 
“You’re Phil Jupitus.”
“You’re Jeremy Corbyn.”
 
I imagine he would say
more than Phil Jupitus
 
maybe he’d point back
and say
“Hey, aren’t you that pagan
wearing a black tie, coming back from a funeral?”
 
I’d probably stare
a fish in a frying pan
and somehow tumble out
 
“Tony Blair’s face is over there and
he wants a word with you.”

Fleeting
from Prima Materia, 2018
 
These pasty arms made of plaster
hold the imprint of your tiny body
 
shrivelled little thing
 
The hands remember the feel of rubber
— a ball of elastic bands folding into lumps
 
Your vernix coat, moisturiser
with a water-base, it washes away
but my mind refuses to
clean the memory with a towel
 
Could I make buds of it, scented
and stuff them up my nose
to block out the dreaded aroma of roses?
 
Gazing into pools of dribble
cobalt cries
that scratch the marrowbone clear out
 
Hollow bones for rattles
shredded nerves
in place of peas or dried rice
 
There is a nagging feeling
that soon, crow’s feet
will not be the only pattering, and
learning to fly will shortly follow
 
I’ll watch you float amongst the stars
Selene in orbit
with Leo stalking close behind

Naked
from Prima Materia, 2018
 
When I strip my clothes off
they become possessed — not air
a figure forms, the buttons
eye me and pass judgment
 
Milky blues squint to decide fate
 
Could my hair be unravelled
as a cotton wheel, loose from my
mother’s wicker basket?
 
The sleeves go flat to break my back
slams, orders community service
 
They made a teacher out of me
by dyeing pound coins red
and slapping me in the face
with a fake, rolled up degree
 
Congratulations Mrs Boulton, it’s a civil servant
 
The stitching in the shin of my jeans
reads through my CV
makes suggestions and labels
my measurements with bullet points
— sharp as poppers on a fly
 
I try, but the wigs and whips lacerate flesh
until steam escapes and fades my body
 
Hard times breaking rocks with your skull
— repeating the same questions with only doubt
ever bothering to reply
 
If God were real, I imagine him to be sat on the toilet
crushing silverfish under his shoes
 
As I strip bare I see marks on my arms
old scars and contours
I am unfamiliar with them
 
For the first time I know how many chest hairs I have
I know their names; meet all of their kids
 
I scold the material, now I am judge
 
Being naked, you feel the cold more
squirm at heat
 
you know what pigment is hiding beneath
how different it is
to the colouring and freckles others see