00:18 – moving through the self from a few hours ago

double zeroes by the smiling eyes and my brother’s age.

that’s the time

and i’m tired

and by the time i’ve typed this

it’s another time – i’ve changed.

some beads on my string have fallen off and some have been added and i record the dropping and the stacking of glass,

it’s past midnight.

and the light is much too bright in the bedroom and the capital letters are unappealing in my lazy hands and my thoughts are wooden, plasterboard, disjointed – bless,

sleep a soothing interruption to being so heavily awake.



Plane Jane

rising green

plane perfection

no hills

magic rugged lawn cloth

moping on the no-slope

wilding on the no-moor

Jane on the heathered ground bewildered by mother’s harshness

the flat lands unsheltered and the weather comes straight down like a hurried lift

without any introduction or dialogue



balderdash scraped away

hiding underneath is red and squishy

sandpaper lover

rolling in the fibres

hiding underneath, wiped out

fingermarks through the sawdust

and i see your eyes beneath

and i hold you and we sleep


plucked griffin flesh lines the inside of my mouth

black tongue lolls around in there

tight ligaments in my feet from standing up here

drop, let the wind fill my wings and lungs and rise phoenix high

my shadow is the sun now


on the bog

i’m forever blowing boggarts

i blow them from the boggart tree where they grow wild and they fall in amongst the humans in places they call damp and deserted

where mushrooms grow in clustered clouds and shapes appear behind your eyelids and slink away before the opening


grey bobbled concrete

blended to a swill

dragged out matter that’s enough to make you ill

big smoke in next

oil splatter

a greeny from the back of god’s throat

drink it down Derek, drink it down

it’s my pleasure Derek drink the swill now, good lad

I’ve always hated Dereks I prefer Tonys but I do make them snort it instead, they’re good snorters are Tonys, I always mix a bit of pig in there when i’m making them

the mad pooper

crapping on the pavement

in a pair of rusty shoes

the villain’s got it out for me there’s nothing i can do

i have to shit in public

it’s my reason it’s my path

i have to shit on sidewalks

where the people stop and laugh


there’s a pattern on your address

it means poor

there’s a pep in their step

it means privilege

there’s a shame in your soul

there’s a mark on your record

there’s a taint on your doorway

there’s a rip in your history book

there’s a tyre tread on your body there’s a bullet in your head there’s a violence in your existence

there’s a demon, there’s a dread