Sunday, 5 July 2009

captured and converted

not by blind witnesses'
uninvited knocks;
with a lens
brought back to light
from a darked cupboard,
winter's gloom refracted
through retinal disorder
yearning for expression

Tuesday, 30 June 2009

willed to work

-with a
----warm smile
----with her
-------where you are
--------when you've
----------wistfully a
-wishing you'd
--write again and
----what it takes

to break that block /


Wednesday, 24 June 2009

1969 Dodge

My dad once pulled a promise
from me. He said
But you'll still speak
at my funeral, won't you?

What can you say to that
kind of question? I mean,
it's not even one you can dodge
at all. Not at all. No way.

Tuesday, 23 June 2009


CNN reports from Tehran:
Parents of those killed
in protest
made to pay
$3,000 "bullet fee"

Opine, opine, opine

the blogging day -
sick-bag full of it

sycophantic slop
bilious barf
atrocious tripe
piss-poor poet-puke

flush fucking wanky words
down, down, down

Monday, 22 June 2009

Bringing it home

Three Fiesta doors pressed muffled shut

Like punches wrapped in towelled fist

The dent of gravelly footsteps crunch

Inside boundaries of rhododendron missed

3am provokes each flicked switch

To trail live curses in bleary wake

Not until the bolt rasps back

Does patterned pyjama armour take

- and grasp -

the third of five dull thuds

The Police Service of Northern Ireland say

they are investigating the shooting of

an unarmed man at his home in Shantallow

in the early hours of this morning.

They say his wife witnessed the attack.

In other news...

Mere words,



they mourn the voice of Iran
but I heard only silence broken
by anguished screams embracing you
as final pumps pushed red horror
from nose and mouth

Neda, unrushed and acquiescing
you seemed to accept your fate
until your eyes revolting
shot upwards to stare
in terminal complaint

You were courageous and beautiful to the end.

Neda Soltani ( Persian: ندا سلطانی ; born 1982, died 20 June 2009; age 26–27)

This is it

The day has come
grab the bull by the horns
or else
your life is gone
seeping away
drip by bloody lethargic drip
till you find yourself stretched thin
in one of Heysham's stoney graves

critical naiveté

critical naiveté

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Tokyo Station: Maronouchi Exit '03

I watch him trickling along
side Mr Self-Important
a balding junior
babbling in sycophantic hops

and jerky

all toothy smiles and sweaty scrapes
bowing low
as he's casually dismissed without a break in


your mind races and you write a poem
not understanding the compulsion or caring what others think
not that you are beyond caring more that you are moved to do it in a way you think or feel is real without commas

you know what I mean?
do you care?

like that poem Raymond Carver penned about the dying dog anyway it died and he buried it with his cares

that word again oh dear cropping up like a badly-scripted poem