Puddles of earth? More curious than an empty packet of crinkle cut or stray Tesco carrier bloated on sea breeze.

A trail of ericaceous led me to a boisterous four by four. Our infant tree tossed like a badger in accidental murder.

Displaced below street level, his outlook is uncertain.

Angry person, avert your gaze. You are not a postman so don’t open gates, grab plants like turkey necks and hurl them at private number plates.

ou say either and I say either,
You say neither and I say neither,
Either, either, neither, neither,
You like potato and I like potato,
You like tomato and I like tomato,
Potato, potato, tomato, tomato!

Because our relationship only exists online.

signs flicker
metallic, neon
hues
as concrete and wireframe
make love to a half hung
moon
two strangers sit
watching the night fade
the man speaks to her
reads her
every crack and break
&
she chews slowly
over his words
all the while
her heart
marchs
to the beat
of some whimpered
music
that is gobbling at her
soul

the man in the seat in front of me, BA flight 1463, Edinburgh to Heathrow, 31 August 2012

you put your seat back
as soon as we’ve taken off
I learn about you

he sits
on the toilet
i’m taking
a bath
she asks me
is there a future for us
requests
i don’t piss
in the water
as she’d like
to get in

i tell her
it’s too late

Let your pen write,
“The sword is sordid.”

The sword (contrite)
will duly find a forge
and beat itself
into the cutting
(or leading edge)
of a mouldboard
(or turner of topsoil)
and follow the coulter
(or ground-breaking spike)
to the end of the earth

which is just as well
for in war
no-one hears a bloody word
you write.

Rain is sometimes morse,
repeating its message of the sea,

of secrets or recipes thought lost,
each drop preserving a story.

Cars scud – ore and oil wrought
by digits that grub in dirt.

Trains slide a line – bridge-high
metal worm muscling a bend.

Rain writes in long-hand –
letters that never arrive.

Some books are so dark and miserable

Like harbingers of doom,

They tempt me to make paper planes

To fly around the room,

Psycho babble couch confusion

That shouldn’t be let out

Depressing stuff that beats you up

And fills you full of doubts,

The sad thing is the covers ace,

It’s a shame the book couldn’t keep up the pace,

Signed Mr. Sensitive.

What’s so wonderful about Pandas, why do people stand and stare
At what after all is only, a black and white veggie bear

A mysterious thing is a Panda
of which knowledge is vague and grey
but we do know because of its diet,
It shits, forty times, “every day”

Curious crowds are wide-eyed, at their cuddlyness, “all agog”
not deliberately shy and elusive, spend most of their time on the bog

If the Worlds population were Pandas living on bamboo grass
and man the endangered specie would it ever come to pass

I imagine myself loaned to China, on the first of many trips
would Pandas turn up in their thousands to watch ME,
eat egg and chips.

A cry on behalf of all animals, highlighting the disrespect
toward elephants spiders and warthogs
from whales to the smallest insect
this bias in favour of Pandas
is politically incorrect

Agreeing with the protest
will be creatures of the night
screeching, the public only love it
because its got bits of white

The greatest actor of any age,
was a gent called Sidney James.
He was somehow famous
and a hit with the ladies,
though his clothes and his teeth were
beige.

A SEASONAL STORY

Up sprang a gust of playful wind

scattering cherry blossom

in this May time spring,

swirling round legs

old and rickety

leaving a scene,

of enchanting serendipity.

Twas a canines random scattered stools

transformed into petal encrusted jewels

euphemised on this fine day

when nature, wind,

and circumstance favour,

courtesy, a stray mutts

naughty behaviour.

An accidental work of art,

forged by the elements taking part,

this vision of wonder

the soul to delight, blossom covered

lumps of shite.

I want to make a tape for you
The way I did when we were teens
Ignoring those pre-CD warnings
Of us killing music with C90’s

I’ll spend hours deciding the correct
Selection, labouring late into the night
Sorting through piles of eighties vinyl
Singles, twelve inches and 45’s

Until I’ve created the perfect playlist
And then fast forward, pause, rewind!
So I hope that my gift is well received
And my peace offering isn’t fated to be

Smashed in the street, or hurled into a Tree

Unfurled, streaming like a pennant in The breeze

The butterfly dances a ballet
From bloom to floret
A painted lady
Decorated from natures abundant chest
Urgent in a nectar quest
Flower and insect combined
Does a most beautiful image make
And yet,
Shorn of her wings
She’s an ugly little get.

When she cries
It makes me laugh.
She cries
because she cannot get her way.
If she was crying for someone else
It would be different
And I may even, cry along with her,
The way I do, when I feel sorry for someone else.
The way i do when someone has been hurt or through injustice.
But she will never do this
So when she cries
I laugh.

This is my only voice
My voice is this only

This only is my voice
Only my voice is this

Only this is my voice
My only voice is this

Only, is this my voice?
Is this my only voice?

Is this only my voice?
Is this my voice only?

Young dude’s swagger
Shirts off in the sun
Comparing tattoos
With everyone,

Like battle scars
And walking galleries,
They surely are a force
Of life to see,

Testosterone fuelled
And chewing gum,
Singing along
To the iPod hum,

But in every city centre
Of this twitter Face book land
There’s a middle age parent
Looking on,
Trying to understand,

But alas for me,
Those days have gone,

But the sun hasn’t set
On the old skin yet.

The seed awakens
Watery light springboards life
Dormancy declines

Recognition grows
Pollination of ideas
yields a bumper crop

Recognition slows
Fields of creativity
decay, fall fallow

Dormancy begins
Hibernate ideas so they
survive to revive

Cycle round again
Chain of life is circular
Season is complete?

My love plays the PlayStation
my love kisses my breast.
In Saturday elation
my love plays the PlayStation
then views the cricket test.
As sun spills from the West
my love plays the PlayStation
my love kisses my breast.

Then I play PJ Harvey
and grin for the weekend
for we are simple, aren’t we?
Then I play PJ Harvey
sing it until the end
and kiss my love, my friend.
Then I play PJ Harvey
and grin for the weekend.

Making love to you is a ritual –
When the rain is done
and the air is new and clean and fresh
After all of that
I still love you, I just love
It lays there bare, a knowing, a fact
A feeling on its own
Separate from place and journeys and destinations…

I open and close the window
as the wind abides and sun appears
I spend my day like this
Adjusting a sail
Yet the tree always stands in the courtyard
letting the wind through its branches easily
Perhaps it’s true, it has no choice
but to grow towards the sun from where it’s rooted…

I look for my voice in hiding places
A child playing, koo koo

In 2002, in the mushroom town of Garamanda, there was born a young goblin. This goblin was named Cooke and he grew up to be the greatest warrior ever seen by the goblins. By the time he was ten, a war between the goblins and the elves broke out. The war went on for three years and soon the Wise Goblin, Yadamante, became ill and died. He was the commander of the goblin army so the goblins were forced to choose a new leader. All eyes fell upon Cooke. After three days of intense battle, the goblin warriors gave up. They said,
“We are outnumbered, and unmatched. If one of their spells can kill the Wise Goblin, then what could one hundred spells do to the whole of Garamanda?”
Cooke listened for a long time. Finally he spoke.
“You giving up will do more harm to Garamanda then the elves could ever do.”
The warriors were silent for a while before a massive cheer erupted. They rushed into battle and their desire for safety of Garamanda was no match for the elves. After ten days of war the fight came down to Cooke and the Elf King. Cooke slashed and stabbed while the Elf King could only just defend the blows. The fight went on for three days and took Cooke and the Elf King all the way to the desert. The two fought viciously until Cooke lunged at the Elf Kingʼs chest. Time seemed to slow down as the golden goblin blade grew closer to the heart of the Elf King. Just as the blade pierced his heart, the Elf King said,
“Who are you? Are you some sort of god?”
Cooke replied with only a wink and killed the Elf King.
Cooke was never seen again after that battle, though some warriors claim to have heard his voice while in battle.

Between the Red House pub
and the Railway hotel,
after Ready, Steady, Go!,
the rendezvous. Handbags
circled like wagons, tactical retreats
to the loos. Revving up scooters,
puffing on fags, waiting for ever
to make the first move.

Perfumed sweat, floor sticky
with beer; every Motown beat
of my heart. Forces sweethearts
starting fights, drinks spilt,
innocent squaddies tumbling
into bloodied streets
while not-yet-famous bands played
on. Most saw their names in lights.

Why didn’t we? Things you’d
forgotten with the years;
words that once made sense.
Where can she be? Fingers
tapping keys, hands searching
in the dark. The longest kiss
you’ve ever known; holding her
close on the last bus home.