Spike I

At half ten at night while he was flicking through the pages of his girlfriend’s novel, a spike went through David Lyndhurst. Not a spike of pain, not a spike of inadequacy. A spike. The spike pierced him like a skewer through a kumquat at a middle class barbecue.

tar fairy

misleading stillness

moving at a pace unseen

flitting, winged being

back before you know it

in a twirling flurry of ash

cigarette smoke dancing

on your palate

leaving grey footprints on your mind

dainty flecks of tar stick up

pink air sacks

bobbly black surface

brer rabbit breath

tar baby coughs

side of fist on centre chest

wheezing fever


Bricking it (up)

Gentle problem

Elusive stony nature

Winds and whips through the red underskin

Contracting in a thoughtful pulse that lives here between the temples

A creeping rage illuminates the deep black, things happen.

The people don’t see but the walls move, the bricks align with grainy fluidity, a rug lifted and shook, rows wave like fabric

Snaking cement lines drip down the walls, they’ve come loose in the upheaval.



Flame of Consciousness

Stretching out ahead

Vast narrow wind

Stringy path – goat tracked

Grass matted like my hair at the back when I can’t be bothered to comb.

Poke holes in soil


Dew in the morning on the “washing” line


I’m an adder, swishing through, coiling up

Slow worm

Slow wyrm

A letter and I have wings and claws and

legend gold

Fear inciter (twisted)

Blowing up bin-breath

Antisocial hoarder of things that mean different to me.

A magpie value

Scrooge McDuck Dragon whip my tail and yawn, as you creep past me

Heart pounds

My great yellow eye pierces your body,

Drop in fear and I make you dance, twirling dolly with scaled fingers,

Black glinting talon twirls.

Scar in the lair – you can be Rowan Atkinson’s blue bird