Poetry 'n Prose

A Brief Conversation

I could have sat there

All night talking,

laughing, crying

A subtraction of time

Or an attraction of mine

Some ways I’m living

And dying

Poetry 'n Prose

Tonight The Streets Are Ours

In this town called Malice

Young people and old

Are fighting for what we have

Taken for granted

These are the roots

Of a different uprising

Poetry 'n Prose

A Discourse in Miracles

By the end of the day

My attention was you

All I needed

To pull me through

A “hard day” day

As riots rise up

Your “kiss me now” look

Quells me

And still

I want to fuck you

Not just once, but over and over

Again until collapsing

Finding your deep mystery

If you didn’t know this then

Then you know it now.

Poetry 'n Prose

Haiku Ha Ha

It wasn’t funny

When you said Hypochondriacs

Are so ill-defined

Poetry 'n Prose

Crocodiles Rock

After he claimed

That he could

“Remember when

Rock was young”,

Geologists were quick

In estimating

Elton John to be over

4 billion years old.

Poetry 'n Prose


I suspect a language problem

Turns out he’s neither english

Nor a yorkshireman but bilingual

German, though he understands my mouthings

Well enough to thump me one

On the back in laughing comradeship

When i reply “albrecht” to his welcome

In this shadowed bearded,

Crumpled shirt dinner invitation

Poetry 'n Prose

Living Like Aztecs

Beneath their feet it’s grass they need

And the sky above their headless heights

Not helicopter spotlights searching

The burnt out ruins of homes and lives.

Poetry 'n Prose

The Visitation

You again, and even here

Back-lit against the window pane

It’s as if you bring me

Words of a possible way to be

Of things I could only say with you listening

Things that don’t have sense without you

Like a gleam coming in through

The window, its light reflected off piled snow

Yes, and I’m stunned by

You again, you in this room here with me

Perhaps you’re shrugging,

Shaking your head

At every least thing I’ve said

Or else unfocused on a pattern-less rug

Like the blue bright sky.

You again, and even here

The downtown bar

I worship one shot at a time.

Hearing you in waves

Of Gabrielle’s song

Reminding me of Dylan’s

‘Knocking on heaven’s door’.


You again, pleased to be noticed

By one more stranger,

Sitting in the corner

Attractive smile that hints of a wildness

But she’s not you

Defunct firms, bars, non-places

Impinging on my senses

Deferring hope, just for a moment

Sooner or later, you’ll return

You again, you’re here now

Completing my big hand


Like the grip I felt

When you said “don’t fret, don’t forget…”

You again, though truth is;

You never went away.

Poetry 'n Prose

Sixteen Verses

She wrote sixteen verses

that my memory slipped upon

though my clutching fingers

held some pieces and a song

Poetry 'n Prose


It was just where I thought it would be

A little out of sight

Like grit in the corner of my eye

I had to pretend I’d not seen it

Or felt its breath on my cheek

Or its subtle scent

Sharp as lime juice on the tongue

I was prepared for the waiting

Adjusted my accelerator

Undid another prayer

Acted like I’d never been here before

Speeding on

With eyes in the back of my skull

Mapping it progress like a blip on a radar

Until the screen coming the other way blanks me

Casual as a duck on a boating lake

I turned away from the oncoming

Unbalanced, senseless, heart bouncing but traced

Like a telegraph wire,

Waiting for the sudden crack

Of words escaping the bone

Last thing remembered

A flash of blood through the eyes

Smell of piss escaping

Hot tarmac burns

Death swoops down

On the runaway life

On my oblivious cavalier

Attitude towards


Poetry 'n Prose

Growing Up

It does have to be sad

it seems we can’t help it

endless love watching

from the sidelines

Poetry 'n Prose

Happy Ever Afters

Heavy tissues

Man size no less

He can’t stop being

serious even when you

Make his watch those bloody

Antiques auction programs so

These days he just holds your hand

Hoping Worzel Gummage

and Aunt Sally do live

Happy ever afters

Poetry 'n Prose

The Song of Eternal Innocence

All things, to all things

perfectly indifferent,

perfectly work together

in discord for a Good

beyond good, for a Being

more timeless in transience,

more eternal in its dwindling

than God there in heaven

Poetry 'n Prose

Sorry Dylan

Sorry Dylan; the times

Aren’t a-changing

So we must

Poetry 'n Prose


Even with bad grammer

Being sincere don’t

Mean nothing.

Poetry 'n Prose


that you love me
doesn’t mean I love you

that you love me
means my live is yours

that you love me
is an awkward question

that you love me
well enough to ignore

that you love me
makes me have to love you

that you love me
means I have no choice

that you love me
makes me weak and feeble

that you love me
make strong as a horse

that you love me
chains me to life of slavery

that you love me
sets me free of course

that you love me
makes me have to love you

that you love me
is a terrible force

that you love me
means I have no choice

Poetry 'n Prose


They chat about travel

Though not about immigration

Proccupied with what to eat

And feeding their young

With no dilemmas of love

They’re above all that

Perched on my roof top

These birds of appetite

Don’t fear loneliness

Or anything

Collections Poetry 'n Prose

The Sea Of Dreams

The Sea Of Dreams

Poetry 'n Prose

A Different Faith

I’ve never met

a spiritual seeker

seeking anything

other than self


till I met you


Poetry 'n Prose

Shout To The Top

Do the right thing

When you have no choice

Even if handcuffed & gagged

Raise your voice


A British Media Triumph

In the latter days of the dying News of the World certain sections of the British media industry predicted a financial killing. They told us that we were going to go crazy over the last Sunday edition. They told us that we should buy early or be left out. They told us that they (the alliance of right winged publishers) would go down in red-top history and that we (the gullible public) should buy now instead of facing hugely inflated prices (Ebay and the like), because their last edition would be so much in demand.

Then, something wonderful happened: Millions of British people considered what was going down and decided to leave News of the World in the shops, newsagents, paper stands and garages. Millions of ordinary British people didn’t book a seat on the final ripoff-service-industry—jackpot-express. And the price of non-accountable News International shares pooped. And the price of our national soul rose upwards.

The British people said: “We may be stupid enough (like most people) to vote for anybody who says they’ll give us more and charge us less…We may be so stupid that we are more interested in what our currency is called, rather than in how much it will buy… We may be stupid enough to teach our children that some people are worthy of more respect than others, merely because of an accident of birth…

BUT, BUT, BUT   When you expect us to play Lambs to the Slaughter after you tell us that you intend to cash in off the misery of others (in a spectacularly, extravagant, illegal and immoral manner) and that in addition, you are doing us a favour…well… All we can tell you, oh spawn of La Thatcher, is……… no……… ”

People of Britain, at the dawn of a new age, I salute you.


Trouble with Lear

I admire greatly any actor who accepts the challenge of that Everest of theatrical roles, “King Lear”. Written by Anne Hathaway’s husband, a writer who has influenced your English speaking life even if you’ve never seen or read any of his plays or heard or read any of his love sonnets. King Lear is considered by many to be William Shakespeare’s greatest outpouring. But I don’t think so. No for reasons I hope to present, I can find no merit in this bogus tragedy.

I saw King Lear at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford—upon-Avon during the late 90’s (I don’t remember exactly anyway it was approaching the millennium and it is easy to be pretentious, affected and overly cultured). But all things come with age and since this time, with a foot firmly in mouth passion, I have managed to reveal in myself the dissatisfaction I have with this particular Shakespearean offspring.

The essence of tragedy, from the audience’s point of view, is that you must feel sympathy for the tragic figure. Trouble is, I don’t feel a micro—jot of sympathy for Lear. Abandoning his responsibilities, he arrogantly expects to be treated as though he was still shouldering those responsibilities. He expects his children to honour and love him merely because he provided the sperm. His loyal and good friend, the Earl of Gloucester, tries to help him and has his eyes plucked out for his trouble. And Cordelia, the only daughter out of three who does love him (and loves him enough not to dishonour him by being a sycophantic, hypocritical, self—serving toady) is executed for trying to help him.

King Lear is a true member of the British Conservative party: He knows the price of everything and the value of nothing; and those around him have to suffer (horribly and/or fatally) the consequence of his education. He is a selfish, self-centred, arrogant, “head in the sand” man. The tragedy is not his: it is the tragedy of those around him. And having known and observed so many of his ilk and the global suffering they cause, I find his saga irritating, annoying and frustrating rather than instructive or moving.

There. Glad I got that off my chest. Well, Shakespeare certainly has me boiling doesn’t he? I wonder if that’s the point. Perhaps the ability King Lear has to anger me… makes it a very good play indeed. Anything, but indifference eh?

Poetry 'n Prose


In a beer and burger joint

where we once sat

and ate transfixed

I recall our conversation

but you escape my need

to realise your face.

I make it worse with beer

and shots of vodka

with a few functioning brain cells

clinging to memories of photographs

to place you

in a holiday mnemonic

and it works except

your image wavers

the scene is blurred

and now I know for sure

it’s time to go home

as in, ‘wherever you are’

as Billie Holiday sings

Good Morning Heartache

wringing the world out

over my face

you are days, weeks,

months, years away

I order 2 double vodkas

no tonic

my cup is





related to Homecoming Remembering

Poetry 'n Prose

Cracked Haiku

he finally cracked

as indelibly she stamped

upon his ego

Poetry 'n Prose

Absent Friends

i am your friend

though frightened,

useless and far away

as friends so often are

yet my words are stronger

than my arms, hopes stronger

than my fears, your heart

revered stronger than

your doubt the daily

grind of searching

for another life;

without me