A muggy summer burst of rain-heavy heat
brought flies winkling in half-opened windows,
the blue smell of bread turning,
cat food, uneaten
‘cos the cats lie unbothered.

A fat lazy sweat on my reddened forehead
sometimes salting the eyes;
earwax melting,
thoughts lumbering through sweet decay
like a film noir dick in an Orchid House.

The inspiration of exhaled air, foetid
swamp, grimy condensation, wet
window wiping, peering.
Longing for long lion
days in the overgrown garden.


Are the molecules wet
(The water that binds us swimmers
As we turn mid-liquid,
Carving ourselves futures,
Pressurising others paths)?

At the death of the swim
Droplets slough off
As we haul, bend our elbows
Allowing gulps of survival.

Fluidity of hope, dousing
Arid realities.
A merciless Sun
Simultaneously nourishes
And incinerates.

Present Company Excepted

Life can be a video call
In which
I absent myself,

Shout witticisms off-screen,
Let the participants know
I’m there, alive,

But refuse to be the main protagonist
And hope each growl, each reedy peep
Will be enough

To let everyone feel
I love them;
But in a poem

I can shoot my cowardices down
With the gun pointing backwards on my shoulder
Whilst I look in the mirror.

Pianola Appearance

Snow suggests itself-
a whisper coming down-
time stops for the journey.

There is patience
in the prayers of the gods.

This moment of falling
in soft song.

A pianola scroll of
white/greyer/blurred dots.

The land of cradles
for a billion pendula.

and there she is…

Pale fire pink,
but where chill has nipped and bit,
cheeks red as a well-skelped arse.



Not the heart.
Not the fluttering lungs.

Not the ambulances in our arteries.
Not the blue sludge in veins.

Neither the Farads running to ground
Nor the factories of piss.
Not the inexorable rot of death
Or it’s playground slide to feigned entropy,

But that stuck pin of the lepidopterist’s Now.
The hum and flux of being.
Stasis moves in mysterious ways.

Stillness, a chimera.

All The Rage

She was all the rage.

I knew when we met

she was my hidden rage.

She told me.

I had to wait for a year to watch it unfold.

I didn’t know how to argue, being an only child

of noninterventionist parents. So

when she exploded I’d walk

out of the door and almost immediately

start calculating how long of an absence

would make it “look good”.

My silence

Infuriated her, so I learned to use it,


But over time I learned

the dance of anger,

learned how to

dig to the gut

with stilletoed words,

fillet the righteousness out of her,

pick the scabs off

of buried pasts

and have those sores run

and slough us into the morrow.

On Imprecision

It’s a lazy day.

I’ve been making a meaning.

Not actively, not hewing or constructing one.

But in the reverie of moments, sifting,

seeking discoveries in the relative simplicities

of commonplace words and things.

I float in and through liminal space.

Wander, wonder.

A deep sea diver familiarising himself

with watery discoveries.

I float.

I circle and return, and peer again.

I watch how sentences sit on the seabed

of the everyday. Then how they shimmer

and shift in the liquid glow of attempts at understanding.

I sense how things are and despair of communicating this.

The lazy days, the days when nothing comes are hard work.

As I drown

the escaping bubbles

belch a new language.

We Got Soaked

The pond sizzled

as cold rain slats drizzled

down from the heavens.

It metamorphosed

from mirror to cheese grater,

and as the wind whistled

today into tomorrow

winter sliced our soft bones.

We were fair drookit

as wetness clung

and dampness seeped into

our accepting souls,

the Higgs-Bison seeds

of small Scottish rain though

imperceptibly sunk our spirits.

Our wetness melded,

not knowing where we stopped

and the weather began.

The Clock

We moved the clock

After five years.

So we now look at

A little red oil painting

For the time,

Then swivel our necks

And shoot our eyes

Up to where it sits now.

It sometimes reminds me

Of the shock,

Being unfamiliar with girls anatomy,

That vaginas weren’t sat

Like perpendicular slots

But craftily tucked somewhere below.