Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Monday, March 24, 2014


According to research by Dr. George Walkden, a University of Manchester lecturer,  the Old English word hwæt, which begins the English language’s oldest epic poem (“Hwæt! We Gar-Dena in gear-dagum, þeod-cyninga,  þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas  ellen fremedon!”), should not be read as an interjection separate from the rest of the first line  (“Listen! we have heard of the might of the kings”),  but rather as part of a complete exclamatory sentence—something like “How we have heard of the might of the kings.”
Citing research that “there’s no record of the Anglo-Saxons using exclamation marks, or any other form of punctuation, besides the full stop (or ‘point’) and the occasional semicolon” Walkden declares all previous interpretations—”‘What ho!’ (Earle 1892), ‘Hear me!’ (Raffel 1963), ‘Attend!’ (Alexander 1973), ‘Indeed!’ (Jack 1994), and ‘So!’ (Heaney 2000)”—to be wrong.

menses and scarp


Wyatt back
from the farflung
hauling home
home the sonnet
eek the heart that 'pon it
as if by dogs
from anchorage to nome
curseth the cadence and all what don it

(barrage-creeping firewall and their equi/v/alents

in the cerebellum but what of such War?):
—more of this later—the red barn
its proxies that tinge
through the psychotropes where one ought only
to hear of smoking idylls? for what a word's worth etc?
there are creatures, one cries, creatures


smoking kills— so many smoking kills
—so many, but the e-mote seems at once

spurious spouting when with such windows or other
outfalls already
like this or...

[ore] the broadcast seams
worked out (work doubt!)
by forcèd men with baskets where the Sun:
your many smoking kills where the Sun
at low angles in the woods; the Sun at Low

—Angles in the Woods Cry Havoc low
an gills
in the cerebella
only you could ever, only you

monster, your many smoking skill


Saturday, March 15, 2014

in the dark way of aberration and sledges. oh

so this guy that jumps
well just before
it goes into that
he thinks oh
my wife has abandoned me
this train
my children have figured me for the disaster
even though I can make good trifle
what the idiotic Italians
call English Custard
all that it is
all it will ever be
some kind of custard suicide
with rabbits
after the train blows by
in an awful blast of night
it's always more than that
three rabbits at least
and then a crow
crarks and everyone
says shut up hey nothing
not now


missing the ashtray again and again

it is too bad
it has always been too bad
six boys floating in a lake
a green van in a carpark
no one knows anything, huh?
but this unicorn strolls through town like that
with a hardon
rattling the keys
and no one does anything?
kinda world is this?


Tuesday, March 04, 2014

all things here at once

this phone surrounded by flies
this phone that never rings
listen, your bed is filled with biscuit crumbs
and you are a frog anyway belly-up
the solar flares gleaming on your white skein

that somehow like a miracle

and its ruts are filled with your motorcycle-

and it really is Spring somewhere

and the night never did


there are no experts about you and me we are on our own

so drive me to Hell
you'll never find anything, Copper
I learned how to sit and wait forever
before you were born—Madeleine Shine

there are no experts about me and you
we are on our own
how tall you seem when you
are sitting down
quite the angry little animal

a numberplate says 333 and I can't
help thinking and then a broken window
at knee height
and the Sun bright and low
across the fire station roof
where once oh forget it
I am at a place called Eastwood Court
as though for epiphany or samosas
or some dead drop-off like someone
faraway died in a hole and a choir

and the way is filled with light
like the Iera Ogos if, you know, if...

omens you just won't believe

what happens next
with that screeching car and the woman
full of ball bearings no one could ever solve

"the moment when energy flows YES"

in another window: "facials at half price,"
which I cannot help relating to pornography
and then: "the colour is called"
it was of course transitive, but the intransitive
is so farther so better so wider and its victims
it doth swallow and swift and so all against
the Law

and the white-angled Sun pulses
out the GPS

man, it's all over


Wednesday, January 29, 2014

when the levels uplit the levels

half of this and half of that
as though such draughts
and the house half full of ghosts
of the interior and interior
reckoning, for only then

as though some judgement or determination
from on high
as a kite flying low over the levels
it comes
knocking at three am
what you ask what
but it stands there pale
as harvests as half-eated bad moons with no faces

that anyone would recognise such things
at all is beyond
the pale/faced and tied
to the pole squirming before the denouement
where yes all that
as expected oh

it's love
and nothing at all
just a plane that fell from the sky
in pieces like ashen snow
just a boy
sick with it
off school


Monday, January 27, 2014

Misanther Panther

that got scientists thinking


in making the concept of entropy precise
any of his comments had an open mind
which represents rank and enfilade do you
overstep the mark not much short
of blood loss involved in a member
of its own affairs—he gave them the slip
by getting no idea is that true it can be EEK
shaken off simply by getting relocation
powers the difference everything they could
in the succession of firstborn girls to push
it through in one day—stay right where
you are in a single day in the opposite direction
unaltered even with incomplete reassurance-
an old question back into the consciousness
no other frontiers
whose lands had been,
I felt, deeply ashamed 
(finally after centuries it steps out, the PANTHer the ThInG)

...........................[it didn't work] ****

veering later, backing in the commons
at the forefront of arguing 
year on year he too has shaped
the voices of the living/their/appalling/histories

now, now they saw a chance to do the same 

the whole land has become


Sunday, January 26, 2014


Saturday, January 25, 2014

this black beam that can't support its own light

all around the lake below Cat Bells lemon drizzle

one of those days when all your teeth somehow don't quite fit

that's me and you Iris, far off on that bridge, look

it's that time again when the big hand points to nothing

of nothing the big lake
full of monkeys the car slips quietly into the river

6 am not a bell ringing anywhere

one by one the frozen crows fall off the wire

if I had a pound for every time I'd have nothing

this and that most of all this

under the ice your early face beautiful frog

8 am who doesn't need a servant?

all up and down the eastern wall that maddening flute

it's not quite Winter not until you too start snowing

in all of my dreams that vast black bird stamps upon the ice

love's first shiver my third eye takes a second glance

Elvis came by
on his bike
pale as a duck

girlfriend in tree by the pale gate tooth problem

another bowl half full of dead friends

up from the aliment new snow all over the table

fragment and phrase oh shut your mouth how can you say

blue knives at midnight by the garage a frog hops by

melting frost down the wire you old crow half full of love

gumph like suddenly a head in an ashtray

night's hurricane
in the morning
we lie like lost leaves


Monday, January 13, 2014

wormy as the copper bottom

found three boys rotted onshore
or half so as squids, half-human and one still fancy
oh you mary sailors
child from salty shadow she crieth
what then of you, child of herringbones
you severy purpoose and freet?
and the while the wavebirds in their keg-leg-longings
of pups and rots and if you swaiver
face up to a seven side-on, breaching
the son-keel we'll give you then, listen there
on watch, for we abaft
the fortitudes, the runnings, the most of all
the berm and discount at 45 no 35
the goodwin the shocks and socks
the layingdown and the timber below
in the floors and strings that hold
and all beside out-cocks the blow


Saturday, December 21, 2013

so sag the benches-O

the white fields of nothing
the swaying fields of empty plants, flowers
bucky pools and bellbloom as paradise and its pools
here here
someone someone
must change these sheets before morning
before the arrival
no you and I must wait here
upon the hillside
with our Accuracy International stolen
and I will shoot and you will spot
one termite below
the eye from a shrew
just before Dawn
upon the day
think now
when the parade proceeds
to walk upon the shimmer
where once
my father
lost his footing
only to find himself wifeless
in Cordoba
bang lifeless with a mouthful of figs
shrews out of his ears
love now

hats like we stook

dating symbols across the carpark
in the near-east.forget.forget.forget
some holy man hollow as backstreet straw
says this: we look upon him [alarums alarums]
for a few seconds before ignition
before reaching out with hammers
to break his rodent compulsion
one's advice must be to distrust
while trusting
to unlove 0)this buddherism see
until the story breaks
down the hillside as burning pigs
at the carthage for Tanith and not
to the awful, the convulsive, the sheer
the /Breton/ thing of the fixed

fixed without that no that knife that bird aloft
do not enter/enter/do/not
not now oh but see
this is how
oh stop it now stop/silly says the countess
all tickled asquirm
with a key in its fundament so unlovely giggle away then

for this, this
nothing yet

in the yawls of monty zoo


Monday, December 09, 2013

all cats rehomed.

these things shudder by as half-eaten dreams but who gives
their outcome unknown
once I was eating a cake the next minute in wild ships
and this was in India by the southern lights and cookies

on midlife half-human scooters in rainstorms there in Goa
oh come on with the waterfall then! you monkey-faced tumble

all day and night Vishnu fucking Vishnu
well I cared for nothing but vindaloo tortoise
it's a colour most pronounced. it is a colour most pronounced
(most prized and otherwise-hued)

for there by the river as dead women
rocked by our swollen footage and beyond snakes on all sides

on the tide a huge dead elephant
onshore a nothing
some Gay men from Birmingham

and all night at dead Coco Beach
near to the rainstorm in a hut
made from cardboard where once
the wicked witch of the west et up all of a tortoise

now see how you is

but next the jellyfish.think hard.think soft and slow

by the pools this boy over and over
no he says no this is not the poem you were born to write
then he jumps, runs, snips
turns into an old man with binoculars
he is unreachable now and will not speak

you've never seen the sky so low
if you sing this shit again you will surely die
Coco Beach near Namaste near the chickenfish gurning so beyond

Portugal all over like there are horses, territories
colonies of way-out spice fucked from behind

look: potatoes, cinammon, wine, vinegar, dead stuff and packed hair

I am all done with it anyway and halfway baked
when he comes back from the pool
waSted like that and little and offers up
an oyster yeah i grab it
next thing we are buddies
drowning together in blue vapour
our hearts streaming out as red strings
on the guitars [red/blue]
of people we will never know/knew
the man out at sea the man who stands there

we open each others' wardrobes look in  at our peril

I want to say more have you seen will you ever know

what about it anyway?


Monday, December 02, 2013

alum and white again some baths of lead

the patchwork the pidgin
the pooling and how there you stood
drooping more how you were lit
in such lobbies and counterfoils all night
on the bed bouncing in deliria
not with sex but with ardour and the many fascines
thrown on all sides like incense or gingerbread
how we bounced not once but thrice
barefooted and and
then such rides to the north
and i cannot exclaim it
freckles and dead meat
and a river running by
and on the tops the beginnings of snow
underneath it all ash and the ceaseless
sound of cars driving
along the high street the high road
into the highest and nearest river
and above it all on the tops
the soft leavening of snow
starting to happen
along the corridor route
above the gulfs so deep
all of us falling at the last
gasping up into the interior
but there on the tops, snow
into which as any would
we arms like rebar and over
the far we'er hills we overgo
nothing like this
nothing such

and there on the tops
you know again
this smallest snow

Thursday, November 21, 2013

the difficult bell that wyndes across the mill yard at hometime in the shifts

wayward Buddha who drifts lonely in the illustrious mist
Buddha three foot off the floor
we are not envious
neither that otherbuddha who walks over rivers
it's nothing that gravity can't fix

and all our songs in disarray
even there in the flower tides
what is it, campion? the bellflower, the germander speedwell?
down at this Wycoller they care for aisles
do you feel such longing
Buddha of the far night?
with your missiles in tact
and who knows now the junction
of tactile and tact?

she will not answer
but that was always unexpected

it's nothing that a brisk walk down the ginnels

(to the mill by the river by the fields of sabotage
our clogs upon the cast iron are not smelted
and oh such oxygen)

not you again

(it is reported that 21.5 people were killed earlier today in a suicide attack
in Jerusalem. it is reported but unconfirmed that God was amongst the many injured.
my disbelief has left a hole in the sky
through which a stain tinges)

nothing. nothing. not any more.
only the wynde and the slow/fast creep
where the water used to be

you with your brightness
your unexpected tightness
I was once a wild hedgehog
what lived live there in ditches
such things we have now
whiteness of bristle and bone
lightness even, scarce, unknown
all now agog
clouda moona thickets of the far
no one ever

Sunday, November 17, 2013

why won't you rhyme?
it's high time!

Saturday, November 16, 2013

extraordinary measures in the sloop

and such clothes
maybe you think
look now
it is almost midnight
and all your cutlery jumping
like wild bells
I am a thing with a hood
you are the rattle
at the end of the world
as the rivers spill
as the horses slowly topple
but look again
for we are all of kindness here, now
it's time to stroke and collide
time to breathe
this is not yet the future
where we will be asked
it is just that moment
when we need to know
that hey
sink soft
no one will kill you tonight

it's a rare thing
whatever you got

down deep again, where they don't ask
the wildfires
sleep soft, all of you
there are fireworks over the hills
and we heed them not
not tonight
sleep all my wide babies of snowy places
we are only ill with love
soft as the touch of faraway
and your whole heart snuffed yes
oh just watch, listen
we are saying yes

(what could Minkowski meant?)
(Oh be are baby tonight)
like a dream and snuffle it comes ever on
oh stop it she says stop it
this moment yes this moment
is all there will ever so


Thursday, October 24, 2013

ever yet in the crepuscules

come on motherfucker
your head fell off three years ago
when we stood outside that window
looking at the jewels
all I'm saying is three guys
with sledgehammers
could get through this sex
in seconds
and walk away as nuns
never to be seen again
I mean on
the high sad streets of Wilmslow
where the cratered malevolence
of Gold ticks its heart attacks
all of us now
Buddhists filled up with frozen fish
at the thought
let's do it tonight
tick tick
boom alabama
and all points past
one half of a tiger
and all the world


Saturday, September 07, 2013


think and think again
what star-lit fools



three days drinking wine
with the curtains closed—
storm clouds gathering


Friday, September 06, 2013


rowing my boys
around this sparkling lake—
all our ancestors



through the dark
the owl hears the mouse—
two shivers


Saturday, August 24, 2013


Don't trust anyone. There are too many anyones and they will tear you in all directions with their opinions. Only trust yourself, and then only when you are utterly relaxed, almost dreaming, when you don't care about anything or what anyone thinks, and you are almost prepared to die in the next line. Keep your deepest feelings close, but don't EVER let them write your poem or paint your picture. When unsure what to write next, go climbing. There's no such thing as a writer's block. That's just you blocking out the light. It's not an obstacle. Write about the new intrusive shadow.


Friday, August 23, 2013

The Triggerfish Critical Review Issue 11 is now live online and can be viewed here:


Can't get the  proper hyperlink function working properly for some reason, but this overloaded blog seems to get increasingly clunky as I get older. I fear its legs are failing, its heart disrhythmic, its appetites awry...

Anyway, a kind of in-house edition featuring most of the scaffolding crew who produce Triggerfish. That seems like an unusual idea, but unusual isn't bad.

Apart from that, there's truly fantastic, Taoist artwork by artist ZZ Wei, as well as an interview I did with him via his wife Hsuan Lin, as translator.

If you've been following Triggerfish, if you're an afishonado (sorry, just couldn't help it - Hail Mary!), then you know who to expect in an 'in-house' edition. Enjoy or avoid. But don't miss ZZ Wei!


Tuesday, August 13, 2013

there was a new ape called Cuadrilla
who acted like he was Godzilla
he hacked and he fracked
till our plates were all cracked
but he promised to use Polyfilla

Sunday, August 04, 2013

some other exercise thing wah

all the trees become monkeys at nightfall
their silhouettes falling/failing in black buffaloes of exuberant life-mud

—in wine and strokes we pick the black parasites
from our hides, all of us native as treetops, roots, bark, nothing
beyond what we can see—deserter... we call you that. we dare and dare not.
the mudwine has taken us for harvest. you who deserted us, carry us then
in your strokes, carry us forth and do not. submerged as the naked one lying beneath, your story, your stroked mud, deserter. you who know nothing
and all things in the foul mouth of the harvest-rainbow. you who carry us on

my love our love, all that you are become the treetops now of monkeyed night. deserter. foul mud. breakers of wine. strokes of the carry-harvest,
unleavened, black carry.


Wednesday, July 17, 2013

same river thrice with narrative for those in need

a man walked sideways for fifteen days it was a discipline
taught to him by a guru as an act intended to bring about
awakening of a sideways sort but after these fifteen days
the man felt neglectful of the other direction and side
and felt that he must now attend to that
but in these opposing fifteen days he felt
that he was somehow revisiting earlier work
and indeed did he arrive after much thought and travail
at that place where the guru still stood urging him on towards
one side or the other it was somehow difficult now
to identify sides and the man decided not sidewalks
but rivers might be his thing and therefore left for a place
where there were known to be such rivers even in their sidedness
and downward determining and there eventually he arrived
although his motion had been still a little sideward
as of a river or wind although either might be disputed
and there there he sat and did not think any longer
of aught but rivers and their directionlessness
and each night there by the river was as though
a hurricane and a vast mouth and a red light that gleamed
and in all he was happy with it and felt it to be
a kind of love of which he had not known
and one night he slipped softly into the river
with pockets filled with stones and was borne away
in some direction that seemed at once this way and that
so now the direction seemed not to matter
and he slept softly there being carried down or up
to the new and farther place of ending and beginning
like some message in a bottle that could not be salvaged
until the very end and the sediment itself would be raised
now compacted and formed into rock that towered like time


every time is the first time

all night the wood runners back and forth under the lights the birds the fell-faced giants. nothing can stop this now and it rolls in again again. have you seen this calamity across the fields when the linseed turns blue and stops for a second with its hiss? something about this that turns everything. then we know at last. that wind giant was too busy so did not stop. even though there you lay broken he would not stop. out there in the wind urgency has collapsed. they lay upon their sides laughing tornadoes of death. fulmars of nothing. vespers and kindnesses that lie flaccid. some winds are too much for our little windows you damn fool, he cries, throwing the antique beaker from Iberia. all our clothes leak. sadness stalks the land like a wind of murder


Tuesday, July 09, 2013

post-pneumatic religion and inedible dates huff

as though the wainscot widened and an eye
or organ or otherwise enquiry
as though you there in reverie sat upright
as though a child's toy suddenly moved
in one flash six feet across the floor
and you devoted an entire life
to seeing that again
but never outside of sleep
oh see how the tip flares
backlit as shared ancestry
oh my abdomen/thorax/head
my chitin and wing-casing
my measly leggage that will not suffice

Bucky says no not up or down just out there
for how now such direction after Galileo
[if they ever get it working and trust Europe
for a name like that and anyway not to work]

might just as well ask
does the wind blow
or is it sucked?

either way never to be seen again


Thursday, May 30, 2013

salvage operations at Dream's door

after the dust after the night the stamps and long looks
it must be that he revisits the area
in search of fragments, moments

that should not be left behind.spirits
that can still be salvaged and drawn forth
from what seemed present but was really aside

alongside and if one had looked with the edges
of one's eyes it could already have been seen
that those were dead channels whose signals

could not arrive in the present and would have no life
in any future beyond eccentric/specialist histories
he comes back with handsful of broken artefacts:

tablets etched with mistakes.de facto promises
never now to be.long dream vistas sketched
in air quickly exhaled and forgotten

bones, wet clay, blood and fibre.this will take time
but time and reassembly are what are left
on this side of the magic door.he is thankful for that


meridians of what is not (Ah Pook, the Destroyer)

again the sprawl and slur of unreason

as the whole day leaves in a hurry
mopping itself back up on the way across
"who really gave that order?"
reanimated/reactivated/reassembled as a kind of death

that reaches out an unseen hand to trip those dancers
who did not look and would not look
again the bodies broken on the wet road

raising feeble heads and wondering what
the/de/light/me/not the quint/essence
the pipes the pipes are calling
from way down the fountain around which

we inreeled the Sci-Fi strain threatening to life
only half alive skims over surfaces

never once looking down
not even at maps or other forms of the below-
oh no he cries oh such schlock and schtick
as the whole day the week or several arrives

and leaves in one such flash and flush
quite of the order of hands.quiet.shying
hush now hush—the beginning

of the world is nigh


Wednesday, May 08, 2013

a 10 word challenge poem from a poetry group somewhere

zebras, stripy horses maybe...

some frivolity some alacrity but not that, no not airborne
not something public and known
lifted from the river, scooped, but whirled,
same but different
oh but a sort of flight and beauty and care and sweep
quite the opposite of how you consider it: fast. as if
strength had other cases.wafting onshore at low water
the wave-destination across all oceans
me and you forever.things like that. moon and tide


not even one swallow makes a summer (a much-reducible complexity)

truly for you nothing is written, Lawrence, blah blah—can't remember who Omar Sharif

I will revive etc as though revivification was a wheeled animal
suited to presentation in a Dover Area School hearing of the flagellars

nothing left of her but hairclips
perhaps some DNA
which even post-apocalypse
takes time to wash away

all this people informed
all this telling
all this offering
you've got to stop
all this wanking
why, will it make me go blind etc

no but it means you are ...

all the effort and sharing and volunteering and introduction
all dedicated ex post facto to the urgent proof, the question
the trial and strappado and squassation of the proof
of the old untruth that not even one swallow does not indeed
make anything


Tuesday, April 23, 2013


love tomato

in high-end supermarkets
I've driven 100 miles
this is like Disneyland
at the wrong time of year
in every dazzling
a chance mutation
it tastes of absolutely nothing
from the south of Italy
and of course smells fantastic
it's certainly possible
it's not going to fly in the breeding
a raw cranberry
a household product?
down towards Dorset
for the most part

the weather now
working its way
and the far south-west
the middle part
the rest of the day
the best of the temperatures
sing, sing

hundreds of extra police dominate
the top slots
there are no signs
on the start line
at the halfway mark
it's still not clear

these dramatic details

flarf arf

unnecessary paperwork

a man walking found yesterday
has taken the top spot
the richest person from iron ore
one of three
having grown
now look
the lost chances
taken down it says
the brothers are thought to be
the end
who died needlessly
was treated like luggage
immediate improvements have been made
following footsteps

it's time for Sunday
medical practice
should Islam play?
the natural platform
we simply don't know what
we are joined
this was Stalin
what happened to
Sufism was the perfect unable
ready to fight to the death
a jihad trail, that's the sauce

average Russians, ask
we actually sought out what to make people happy
so they lose
let me ask
it's so implausible
there's a huge amount to deal with
we didn't think we had a perfect way
one way
let's deal with that
the primacy of religion
at the very least
I'm not sure
an intrinsic calling
you couldn't have

it means more
for instance
let me just put a final question
put it crudely
ten years ago
in my opinion
I certainly agree
an internationally acclaimed pianist
has been convicted of blasphemy
hanging over him
in which

Monday, April 08, 2013

switched off indefinitely [some out-Abilene Paradox]

he sees the lights mutters oh the lights look he says
lights ahead lights I know them what they mean
there is time he thinks and forgets them right there

in the blue zones are symbols that represent wrecks
not so much in the physical but in the connections
that went before.everyone.at some level.sees this coming

ignorance which can only be by choice.either of display
or of discovery.harken to these deeper haptics
of the infrasonics.of the sub-semantics

How To Make Things Dead:

stop but there is no stopping for there are no responses
and the cavern does not echo.the quiet.too quiet.
lets it happen
will not intervene will not reach out will not say stop you/I/we
are entering the irredeemable world from which
no one returns.he says there is no such world but that
is only his view ahead into the lights and he will fly there
alone.all others having abandoned the craft before impact

I or you didn't want this.therefore it was inevitable
let's not let's do it yes/no
too late it's undone
in the oncoming retreating light

"the exorcism typically requires the summoning of demons in both
 parties, first allowing their terror of each other
then the utter dispelling of the myth
that they were demons at all. in all cases
these conditions are early fears, and can go on
to become anything, given sufficient wind and gust
from the thighbone trumpets"— Bon Po Exorcism,
Madeleine Shine, 1989



Friday, April 05, 2013


black branches on blue
first bird already singing
from the silhouettes


Monday, April 01, 2013

rearing cornices of the upshut

so we're zooming in
already your teeth an issue of disarray

the snow has cornices, architraves, mouldings
ogee/torus/egg and dart/astraglomancy
these terse things undistinct and while I looked-O

down South/Sith in the vapid fronts a blackbird
there have been already many disasters
555333if you know not
I met her at the railway station such gaslights we reached
she was wide, Gothic, adorned, gaslit
the line offered such virtue and escape
out there in the gasnight a blackbird beneath
and all now lost
.....boys forever jumping on hammers
a thing leaps now from on high wails
battering the shell into extinction but we care not
for this
all day shimmying
up and down through the public doors
watch this we cry forth
watch again with no hands
through the moss/through the moss
bang and bang again
if ever there was a reason
for time to have such a reason
then surely this is the reason
shut up, she cries, out there with her hammer
don't fall, no, don't
it's worse down there
at nightfall carrying home broken-legged
bearing away
fractured sons of adventure
all Easter lofted in the snows
lambkins dead below


Yes to this

machine sea (2011)

ugh a dread from over
            the far morbay that blackback fells stark
                         into spluts of early birdscold

a monster inching inthing .              that ingrew
[airturtles in lifts of silent drubdead] a waiting grew in-again
and ingrew
until over all.the cock and cocklefield was a mainshout pulked

all-ending the lowscrats
in their long-hauled ruggers lugged hard.
the gutwives widing the redroll to belift
                                        in now the men the drymen in, in

acres now to the barrel-beaches with the uncut catch inwarped.
fishimps and ghosts sidelaying low as lie-low for Jamaico

on the eastlandic scottles .............of west herringbane
and chinee soup schlocked in-out in octofathoms
of hemp drabingers, haulers, menwomen
from the near-sea teeters.a washup iglooed him up in rubs
on a southbeach known by no one.his/her face disglued

the songs of how they wore their sea-sucks unscrewed
now from his beachheart and heave-head for the far Cathay tubs

(published in The Triggerfish Critical Review,  2011)


Tuesday, March 26, 2013


we drive home
in other directions—snow
like dead confetti


Sunday, March 24, 2013

even everything is almost nothing

so close so almost close so far so
the night smothers us all in snow-soft
the strings stray minutely and wholly into utter dissonance
making decisions, making decisions, busy busy busy
my word, my word
the unfamiliarity
the compression into almost nothing
that contains the universe in embryo
the screensaver green in the back room
you, you think it is a ghost
but it is everything else
falling like leaves backlit
in some cellar faraway
flushed with wild solvents
all these ambients thrashing their last
(all my plans/all my plans

out like little lights



I flush
the fish away
she beats a kettle drum
the kids watch the funeral rites
struck dumb


all quiet on the Preston Front

most vexatiously ill-clad under a car in the snow—Madeleine Shine

the waves onshore make no sound
their energy displacement stifled—
the seabirds do not cry
the fish the wind the sunlight
have no way to know
the proton gradient builds
the periphery cannot hold
nothing is uttered, everything is lost
all energy sucked back in the counter-tsunami
draining far off out there
through holes in the seabed
raining down far below
into caverns that echo only with silence
for even there
no words, no cries, no sounds of waterfalls
nothing now to guide the way
only the collapse of a wave function that could not hold
could not speak
would not


Thursday, March 21, 2013


lay it wholly on small ices in preparation
let its motions cease
splay the members easily though with care
not to mark or damage the outer casing
it has no exact plastron or carapace
though proximal seams may be discerned
have a care for these for they may be easily split
to mar the appearance and quality
the first incision must be through the abdominal sea-wall
to reveal any eggs or splendifera
which must be removed whole
to be replaced later beyond the papering
apply therefore the luxator to break the fixations
or restraining ligaments that bind the genital core
to the aliment and sloop
lift it whole from the bedding
place it in the thoracic cavity: the glans
and intestes, the throat sickness and the urbane follicle
if any vivacity remains it will quickly fade now
as feathers fall from an exploding dove
these congruent diversions are vital
if the operation is to evoke the requisite peppery fluids
if the fields of slow armagnac night are to be elicited
from the brachial cogs and genitives
of the body-slick
now with a dream-snap fold in the limbs to the centre
covering in entirety the 'facial' area in forgiveness
capture them there with folds of brightness
and shattered ropes of culinary grade
do this with assertion and a sorte of nakednesse
brake here the entire organism with slow heat
until he effervesces with blue alacrity
in serving, crack the shell and pour as a solid liquid
into salvers or weighty crocks
as glass or otherwise lead

apply such ritual as is seemly
such is the preparation and the serving of the large shellfish

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

hands like giant falling sheep

[the conditions it fakes/faces
I am your mother
we share the uh mouthhgun the mouthgerm
we/my/I are a chronic anaesthetist
such ungodly aesthete

we may say
we were brought up that
they/we had no end of rats' asses
to choose from

where did you get love from_
it's all very difficult to recall=from (tail.snout)

¿have.you.seen these hands and lands¿
now watch this

over here like a rat
on the head of a captain///capped Anne

sluck sluck sss
evil eye evol
wah and
the brat-floating

off course 2X3 inchmetres

the strange sad thumb trick at the
how it was

[cockled) one is to learn to bagtype to touchdance ¿
on all such keys-oh
when all this outbelled, combing with many incomes of the many marcels and millimarcels

hectopascals of the mouthwater

risebird, uh rise¿¿¿

Wednesday, March 06, 2013

pretty hues ask after all if drugs are the thing

few have knelled and known oh the yellow stir
what and even more
when after all after all
and still after
and sometimes the belief
faraway the furthest the farthest of us
slits itself blooded oh bloodward
how sad and dynamo; how like
a tree once rid
half-ached all over
yr lost/found mind wasn't mine
all it found to find
in it
at dusk-bells to say lakes


Monday, March 04, 2013

the yellow way to Nirvana

Kurt Cobain's lank hair filled
with screams/pixies/trajects
all the air
all the air around
one little girl/boy
hello hello hello hello
don't wish for it
may you live in etc
how many girls in Seattle
would have wished scrawny
wishes for any of so much life
just before?
what is the sound of one hand
thrashing over
the bridge pickup?
think there

nothing now
never mind

spirit umbilical frags all in
the next door noises of love
anyone left smoking?


Friday, February 22, 2013

no way in or out

there's nothing to it, watch

the iron plates of the skull in spasm
a core-sample from the inner ear, the sinus
a straight line curling into the forest pathways
choked again with drifts of leaves
at this point further penetration
is unlikely/the party retreats through
swamp and density in excited disarray
sucking in arrows from the shades
carrying out their last malarial god
on his shield
to deliver back unto his immovable parent state

all down the banks
hares dancing unseen
beneath the rocking bells
it's almost some kind of Christmas
if you're fucked enough
to love it


Friday, January 11, 2013

the wide sneer of motorcycles

black, lank, cool, the enticing cloud
talks across the parklands and wires
its shaven participles, its dogs and damage
requited briefly by some gust and thrust
[we continue our extracts] the reader is
as always in complete innocence
I want to change, it says or does not
say, a middle child, I met, to learn more
immaculately dressed, there on the floor
as a baby a baby

they were grateful
she had started having accidents


Friday, December 28, 2012

Sunday, December 23, 2012

entropic paradise

I've been asleep and going back to sleep—Facebook

as though it doesn't matter it all happens
she is just gone, down somewhere
the boy looks down that road late at night
listens for anything that says

I have been sleeping I am going back through
the dead grass radio

my door was always open
to going back at any moment

before it has arrived and oh once there then I lifted, listen
into the air
still as we are unknown you are not the eyes
of the same radio-turns this way that way fly-
catching catching that for which he listens:

I was sleeping I will sleep again she says again

not these conventions, no, you must have been
mistaken, intaken

it all happens as though it doesn't


Friday, December 07, 2012


 Was it so hard, Achilles, so very hard to die?
Thou knowest and I know not
So much the happier I—Patrick Shaw-Stewart

start them on the adventure
you are searching for (find out more)
what's on your mind?
the reflected photographer
looks like a ghost
polished my nails and toes I feel pretty
I am ready for Jesus
days I feel like my rapture is
almost ready

non-smoker with average body type

see anything like that happening now?
(details about the pixie)

1. select everything

2. ostrich arteries bypass hope

3. upgrade now and get awesome features


Wednesday, November 28, 2012

boy gives hug after owl story, speaks of love, complains

open your mouth when you speak
find some kind of love in enunciation
or else you just dead wood uh uh
hardly here
barely alive
algorithmic Bletchley Park
betrayal of of all humanity
by folding with the fear

bagpipes, black and white
popped up veins roses
the conclusion of the system of things


Thursday, November 22, 2012


ugh a claw in the blood

ugh a claw in the blood
teeth blue with words that will not wait
.............................I also will not wait
I will not deliver babies
or think or wait or want
I have nothing to do with smoke or images
I will not go wanting
tonight I will scratch it out
in dead chitin, triplicate, in the sand and blood
the dust that speaks.............whirling
I will write all poems everywhere
with a chicken's claw
..............................in the blood from my thigh
..............................light lit light upon light
.....................................all these faraway inner edges


Wednesday, November 21, 2012

The Triggerfish Critical Review #10 is now available online, featuring lots of excellent poetry and reviews, with astonishing artwork by John Brosio, who I had the pleasure of interviewing. All this fantastiferous slurp is available just a short click away here!


Tuesday, November 20, 2012


get your coats on boys
we are going out looking
for nothing



deer tracks

deer tracks through the shrubs
all of us looking foolish
as the train goes by



slumping bookcases
oh all those words
what a burden



beck by the mill
silent with all its lost
old trollies

curtains fly out
in the late night winds
cold eyes staring


hard poor corn

all the night beat down like wet corn
black crop circles
saying nothing

even the owls run out
the wind stopped in its tracks
flies dropping from the mouths
of dead bats over the doorway
last sputters of stone sonar coming down
like honeydew, not bouncing
silenced all of it like a beat prisoner tied up
to a chair slumping as the clanging stops
the blooded guys saying shit
he got away this

even the chair bouncing
laughing confetti
through the corn


Monday, November 12, 2012

stairs from there to here

of the rising and the going I sing
of the nosing and the string
our earliest habitations
had no such elevations
no treads or risers
no such lofted dreams
no tiptoed surprises
to upper-storeyed memes
back then without cares
we rested vilely
at the foot of no stairs


Sunday, November 11, 2012

a crawling TV active already

the Chinese dominate baskets
... be surprising a false flag pulled off area 'ie'
I wouldn't put flowers in the gun barrel just yet
for several decades and then one day they just told you 
how is that possible?

A U.S. Embassy spokeswoman in Manila, Tina
said Wednesday that the fishing boat had started talking on water 
the previous day 
war within 60 days. probably .... for several decades 
and then one day they told you to FUCK OFF 
  in error, not intentionally

 Haartz Newspaper in Israel reported that Bibi was pissed
 oh he sent me flowers after insulting me for something or other

my words seemed to sink in


the hitching stone oct 2012

look out kid Obama coonskin cap
coonskin anyway, Cap
these laws made to resist tyranny now
diverted into bullying impasse oh oh
the pump don't work
she, Jefferson, has everything she needs
to paint the daytime anything she sees
it's all very well but
not forever
not with all these children
rushing all over like wild rats
in the heather
where the buboes lurk at the witchstone
where the fayres went
where the rock of everything for bathing
yeah that and the graves
the mass the fuck imagine if he wuz blacker


never buy discount time machine mama

skinny fuck
what you like that fer?
shoulda seen my
as though the clouds had names
or some rabbit now ruled the world
it's cold all over the shadow now
at dawn examining my fingertips
looking for what happened
how this bed full of blood and cockroaches
became the Oracle
to which people far/wide
flocked to witness
what really


the snuffle of a coming future

if this gets too real please

O his dread in that moment is that
he will die and leave everything behind
the blindness and the yellow
for the inheritance
the mother thing, let us not misremember
one day my son he shouts at the vast window
above the city nightfall
all of this will be yours

(China fills capsules with human baby flesh etc)

where is your outrage at this?
oh there yes

all of us from the outer wards huddled
in dressing gowns
around the victims
just in case

if this gets too real please
approach an attendant


this way, quick

there's always going away, there's always that
when all else
sail away like a light bulb that went out
in someone's kitchen by the canal
while they slept
dreaming of the ripples that ate at the cracks
that appeared in the icing of the faces
which ate at the ice with such utter looks, look—

this tension of trying to preserve power and safety
it must be a disaster for the nerves
I suggest giving in to everything
then eating cake for some time

like moles, moving always on
blind if necessary


the cousin wields great standards

now again the fluted convoluted roundhere
of the unworthy house and occupant
it is too late I will call you tomorrow
your fingers your fingers out there white as
another night
everything you say I say she says has, she says
uh, attachments, detachments, malicious scripts
your evidence is not evidence-based
this house is not that ugly or filthy
I reserve the right to put things in it
most of all whoever
when the curtains part
is first seen looking out
at the filthy fog along the river
where the deer don't dance


Monday, October 29, 2012

fixing the faulty clock

this early the uncertainty of anything
overwritten by memories into a palimpsest
of the other but the other other
that's not good let it grow further
a silver spaceman by the river
who cares not to jump
the boys made a 24 hour clock
but stopped after some guidance
at 29 and then only after some persuasion
like gazelles who had run too far
out onto the ice and had seen the dark shapes
moving below
in this manner we fixed ourselves
and went in to dine
like alchymic pelicans bubbling, burgeoning
and could not shut up
the gold that spilled below
she has sensed my horror
and she will not easily return
to the waterhole
all night at the hide the huge noise
of one small frog
has the buffalo dancing though skitterish
as maidens in mythology
this vast mouth such
awaits the fearful shelving and frost
O Sylvia up there on the hilltop no
there is nothing
I am afraid


sure as sisters in black snow

her sister says be sure
her sister says remember
what happened befure
how you got dismember
so this time be pure

and the face the face
the hands the hands
off it on it
like a scotch bonnit
so hot baby what you got
but all tonight
down the west wall
sadness leaks like flutes
after snow-down
like cold moths
breath making leaves and dead stars


blood minor 7th

this is so exciting
blood all across the crash site
a thing rising through the bubbles down there
for all his talents from the public mind
the blackness of all this, the sparks
that rain into the day, all day, mind you
all day and the radios down
the film frozen in a face
a small boy from nowhere
runs in, leaps through the fire
straight down the well
everyone moving now
gathered at the well-wall
looking down
howling that great wet watery howl

down down
the wishing well
where O he fell
E fucking minor

so long oh honey baby
where I'm bound


Monday, October 22, 2012


salvoes of Katyusha
before you commit
get everything out
because Love
is like the gates of Berlin


Wednesday, October 17, 2012

of ten committed hours

 before he initiates and delivers the desired results
I'll keep you all posted

we may see a delay in the launch
of 10
it is now Monday in his land
he began work on researching the Mark's habits
and vulnerabilities

we have hired a contractor
he has committed

to a certain number of hours
of background
and delivers the desired rexults

it is now Monday in his land

we may see a contractor
he has the desired results
of 10 committed hours


Tuesday, October 16, 2012

all of us anyway stink

jareeb jareeb this is what he says by the pool
spare me Douglas do this one time for me
we doing Fenni in Goa
late night
it is disgusting splash another
all of us thinking of nothing but murder
no he says, not Jareeb
someone drives a Vespa scooter into the pool
why not anyway
Jareeb Jareeb, like crickets or prime numbers
only then do you start to see the ghosts
rise through the blue chlorinated mess
all of us stink
tomorrow some dead elephant on the beach
must be buried before it's too late
erupt like chainsaws
sca esca links maillons proto-maillons
slick down the cliff-cave bellhoused
bell bell unbell all-flowered


holes in everything

this cheese like all cheese this dressing gown this frown
this iron green-grown giant that kicks in the door
the sick stuff when it flew all red and thick stuff
but no no the giant who walked in with fists
like sheep whoof he says whoof what now
will you do, little poet? in the valley the river
has risen and the road surfaces are sliding off
your new sex toys have become an embarrassment
you want now to throw them in a ditch, walk home
in the rain. we have no fortitude now. we are not
the Red Army so determined.only this little last thing
are we as the waves the waves lave up


Sunday, September 30, 2012


those faltering halting little steps
now barely from the lean to the totter
from smile to smile if all those days again
if all not another life one liveth in the mind
but the same done different so small is all
so small, so missed



some pretty pretty poetess
sat there upon her round
upon a milk-red carpet
admirers all around
for in such opportunity
buffoons will oft abound.  

I love thee all, she cried in glee
though coyness were her crime
upon a milk-black carpet
which served her for a rhyme
if I'd stop gazing in my glass 
I might wake from this mime .


not yet wet

the wind has changed tonight and all the washing left out left wide open to the rain like windows flapping like intruders against themselves in all of this shut out shut out open shut in flap like an insect trying to get out or in to that light of the moon outside inside by which to navigate without the rain there could be no wet not yet .

line-breaks wah

I have no intention of writing prose poetry. Blogger has stopped allowing me to use line-breaks. I sort of like the randomness of this form of divination, but really I'd rather it wasn't happening. Could someone call them for me and tell them this experiment was fun but now needs to end? Thanks, kind stranger.

coits after cigarettes

the holidays are over
the holidays are over
oh ho oh ho oh woe so
known about so known about oh so
exposed so thrown about and thrown
without so disapproved so frozed. the holidays
are over, over I suppose, who knows? the holidays
are over the clover is all over. in Dover it was over: when
the ferry hit the shore I knew we'd be no more for the holiday
was over the holiday was over oh no oh ho oh woe. there's only
now the last kiss and better make it fast, miss. goodbye before the bus.
was nice while it lingered, but really what's the fuss? for the holidays are over
and it's back to Jan and Rus. for that's what's left of us. the holidays are over, over
(fade to echo) .


is or is not the drumming

wall hanging mandolin selected poems of Lorca brown carpet brown why brown carpet Delta Fit multigym the fab cab dented heater TVTVTVTVTV Vanity Fair swell slough somehow curtains cameras (many, archaics) swell of form under banjo brass backless chair backless dress spineless undress ballistic soap coning a spurt or two the red scatter a stench of barium, lead, antimony, domesticity cooking a marinated corpse at the railway an iron corpse visibility fair vanity ten to sixteen offing veering later just gone five miles north utsire moderate shannon a washed- up corpse in a copse tonight of all nights the harvest moon-faced swollen gibbing slid from her/his hand in hers the metal the amplified metal face up to it no more than a bedstead clutched a thousand times over the years by both parties partied out partied out out out .

Monday, September 17, 2012

all so furred the engines now

a furred thing half and half of what came next to the wall by the stair well with the grandfather clock this in the ancient carpark a man breast that was reviled but think tank think outside the boxing day or night this comes with caveats and conditions are so bad in the besieged city states before the Bronze Age collapse like a wounded bull shit we had nothing back then even it up hand half of this over and above our last it was nothing .

Sunday, September 16, 2012

big-eyed alien

sometimes you can fall in love with some of what someone is ick uck wah they say in their place after some time you recognise the phonemes as disasters issued across a table ick uck wah you have issued back I love you it means in this language from afar I hate you it means in this other I nothing it means I you end it all with schwa the most meaningless the uh or ugh the unpronounced the unborn limp dick-waving throat-wrap the final uh .

red threads of the animal soul

had a dog once that collected stamps he had a network of pals all over sent him Magyar Postars and Third Reich rarities used to sit looking at them over breakfast never seemed that happy or enthused just did it like a routine historic ones he liked the best would lick the backs to see what the past tasted like getting in that vestigial DNA from the last lickers from Germany Romania Czechoslovakia the Soviets saliva fossils full of dead crystal messages one day he starts writing hundreds of letters envelopes them all up applies the stamps when I ask I am waiting he says to speak with the dead people from afar who I have tasted it won't be long now they will come I think this is foolish I say so and we argue over breakfast he looks at me angrily but one day we hear the marching of many boots, the singing of wild songs outside then a stop then the door bangs hard no I say no, don't answer he is marching halfway to the door when I shoot him down like a dog with the old shotgun we used on the rats he barely whimpered just soaked in you know how they do there was no more stamping anywhere after he marched away that last time last thing I heard was the letterbox slam and a curious eldritch sound of licking from the outer green yard I slept like a log .

a stamp collecting animal

this Chinese belief that children at birth emanate tiny red threads that go in search of the soulmate of that child.that and this.sometimes the threads do not survive the turbulence of parenting they are broken and lost.the child will not find its mate, having no threads to guide it, or will but will not know.these two souls destined for all time to be together will look upon each other and not recognise now that their filaments are severed.under the spreading chestnut tree.one hears trains steaming at night and must hasten away.something deep deep.the naked one wakes from a dream of knocking, runs to answer the door, but nothing is there, but surely something brushed past something that could never, could never .

Friday, August 03, 2012

strange curtains awry

landscapes leaking through the daylight
what new disaster is this?
tick tick
everything huddled as though uncertain
what is here?
eiderdown is here
wainscot is [not] here
guitars and books is here
like peering old characters from fairy-tales
they look and one looks back
seeing their faces
fearing a little
still rowdy with dreams
unsure what is real
through the gap in the curtains
trees sway
with their old solemnity
but in here, in here
it is all ruffled white like TV
blinking out the national anthems
at the end of the world

hush now, hush
some beginning of the world
is nigh


loved by no one (to Nick Drake)

the hole through this huge rock on the moor
is inexplicable now
who did this?
typhus spread here one year
many dead memorialised in Kildwick cemetery
but the wind now
is almost silent
no matter how strong
you can lie and hear nothing
under everything
the old quiet beneath the wind
the water running
below human hearing
the silence hears the water
the water hears back
this, in running history,
is the meteorology of the moor


Wednesday, August 01, 2012

now love

they merge now, but all night
these children
it's strange how it's more shock than wonder
it's almost impossible to be there
all the tightness, the panic, the help
and then out of it all
another person
there were three in this room but now
there are four
and then it goes on
look at it like it is an alien
for it is
truly an alien
sucking in our air for the first time
looking, trying to look
its eyes all glazed from the viscosity
okay little freaky alien
you have landed
now what?
now love


Tuesday, July 31, 2012

the much longer low-lighted other end of love (for Sharon)

[i]may your mind be wide open
may your heart lead you on
borne by the wonderful[/i]
—Tim Booth

upon departures a drowned cat a huge purple lung
of a thing in the memory
the crying and gasping of all that

all its futures that tiny silent infant
strange now how strange, how distant to the heart
that despite
it is so much
will always

may your heart lead you on
may all your lights be stronger
hence undreamable, wild sometimes
may the woods unfold before

voices forever quaking, uncertain
now certainty has grasped
trust this only
that your heart again
is divided and sure

[of your two tiny giants]

unstoppable in its compass
unending, filled anyway

(may that same Eastenders Happy Mondays Dusty Miller
Stone Roses M62 Sunny Brow webuyanycar dot heart)

may it lead you
lead you always always on

so many brinks
which up to
yes, yes

all your lovely, your dreadful

shine on