Thursday, 16 December 2010

Long Eaton, Six.

The first night
Back. The television
still blares, mindless
and endless
false realities
and faux
intelligentsia. It
is still home
if nothing else.
"Formative", a constant.
It is a past,
but not, unlike most,
an unwelcome one;
Not something to escape.
A shadow stains
the wall.
It is not
yet is, and is
Defined and inhabited
by reluctant fathers,
and vague echoes
but it is

Wednesday, 15 December 2010


[A.N the right-hand-side of the body text is looking lonely. Prose-o-clock!]

Everything that’s red: the tree on the left behind a train, top third; the rail of a stylised iron train-bridge, and the bridge’s lowest arch which curves over a city-river; city slick. Two stripes of aeroplane mist. There’s a bird the size of a pair of peas on the page, but it’s the size of a mini’s hood or a vespa in reality and that’s your scale right there.

Everything that’s white: there are two kinds; white inherent and light lies. Three clouds formed with dash-zag crayon, and in between the red the railings vertically painted cream. A Greek-pillar holds up the bridge in all its iron mongering, and the pattern whispers white where need be; square spirals. Above the arch and below the horizon of red there’s more. There – where? – there, four sizable squares of light, black lines through the top fifth; windows of a black train. Haloed are two black walkers. The light shows their shapes against the rain (white crayon, how stormily you’re taken) against the dark – a glowing rope outlines a lead, a dog for the front man, a procession. Goats and lions passing the odd cream diamonds.

Everything that’s black: fatter drops of rain the size of the first man’s bowler hat which is in turn the size of the two-peas-bird, but these men, ah, they’re closer. The dog is barking white. Cooly they lean in walking through fat rain; men the same colour as the train and shown real by the light of those “four squares” - windows-four and glowing-all. You think of Fawkes.

Everything that’s grey: One Sky. One Greek pillar. The mass of cross-hatched metal between sparse red and cream on th’bridge beneath railings. The space under the bridge – a low horizon and water-all – might be shades of blue, might be black water and grey sky; the light of this room is amber and swatting at the dark and blue is grey is blue is black. You rub your eyes, see colour-sparks like powder in the black. Your ears whistle.

Tuesday, 14 December 2010

Super Smash brawl #1

A.N. Okay...look I gotta get some silliness out my system; David and me've been talking about a super-smash-bros slam-poetry brawl but it's come to nothing...and...well...Elliot, Cal and anyone else who wants to take part: is it OwN? REPLY!! xXx

Written to read aloud but..meh!

Go, Pikachu,

I choose you

Hope there’s no need to explain to you

The gravity - of your duty

All these kids, man, they seek to offend

Don’t let this prick-a-mon condescend. He can do it to himself alright!

Go, Shock! Take this mock:

Head fulla music

respect to that but wha’s the Ray Bans man ?

Wha’ wi’ dat?

Cuz oo-ee man you is just like buddy holly

Only that guy is occasionally jolly


Think you can take me on? Come on man my words weigh a tonne

Beware; I’m loving this. Yeah my hands, they shake

Full of the cast-off-run of it all

Watch me Quake, I’m free; reeling I’m trailing the hype behind me like long hair

in the breeeeeeze coz this is a breeze to me

Don’t feel appeased,

keep up with me man coz you’re trailing too;

Let’s hear you take down my Pikachu

Saturday, 11 December 2010

monolith part2

“I love you” a faint noise emits from
somewhere in the house
It was Thom earlier
But now Canada
There is silence otherwise, except for
The drip dripping of the sodden
Sock, one single sock
But many
The white cat
was not back
There is not enough
symbolism in the shouts
that filter
through the bricks
the anarchic quiet
The doomed couple
Fill my thoughts
A generation
once dead
but now living
The noises slow
And swallow me
The renaissance
Thoughts of Yeats
and beauty.
There is no smoke
The stairs frighten
The dark engulfs
Is gone.
When I die
It will be like this.

Friday, 10 December 2010

A Week

It was only
A week.
Should I
Have said, have done
Something, anything?
There was silence,
Closed doors,
Hollow sounds
Echoes of echoes
And echoes of her.
Early starts
A frosty air.
Still here
Now she's gone.
None of it

Wednesday, 8 December 2010


The noise and voice will not leave my head.
Why will the noise and voice not leave my head;
it won’t leave. Because the idea is as circular
as the steady beat of the drum, the rare and
laboured pattern of a dombura, the charged and
voluminous solar flare of deep amplified static
loop and loop. With only
the ghost and concept of a noise I have undone myself
each faculty of speech is as one crummy timber slat
pulled aside violently and burnt until irreparable
a melt together of carcinogenic balsa and adobe
but all circle like so as to loop again, again verbatim
and to burn and unburn itself from the plasterboard
walls, tiles fall and smash,
lame Polaroid photographs fizz white hot,
floorboards splinter and bend –
you can see the joists set alight –
pipes bursting and unbursting and reiterating,
the fall of, alas, not a tower but a man
gendered, ungendered by waves and a pulse
charged and steady, burnt and amplified
For each adjective, a compound to negate,
returning all to zero
with the steady beat of the drum.

Monday, 6 December 2010


somehow during the impressive silence of washing up
a single glass took so long –
how many glasses of water were sacrificed for
just the one (and the cycle repeats
chasing chasing round the plug-hole
the thought itself a sacrifice)