call back the black tree

up there on the horizon
in a field
silhouetted against the sky
wild wind blowing
tree bending
whipping back.

beneath hovers
bent over
a little boy
lost above
cold and hungry
green with illness
cut from falls.

the moon looks down
one eyed myopic
it seems
to help.
dim distant glow
warms boy’s heart
and makes him remember
once he had a mother
who kissed him tenderly
and even a father
who held him safe

long gone
and alone now
with the moon brought
dancing a whirling moth-like creature
twisting in the breeze
yet somehow capable
of landing directly
upon the child’s
quivering pallid brow

the touch awoke
within the child
a buzz a hope
of make believe
that everything
would be okay.

the quivering stops
and sleep arose
like a warm quilt
within and without
and in that moonlit
the boy dies a cold
and cheerless death
to decay
and disappear
in bracken, moss, and
distant timeless heath.


oh turn bee

a trillion trout lay on the floor
the world bites softly
no hissing
this will irritate
the only solution
is a calm one
which includes
turning about to face the other way
with hands in pockets
gently lowering forehead to floor
without a clunk
now stay there
let the blood fill the temples
let a throb grow above between the eyes
now roll onto the side
try not to hurt yourself
and rest
one hand may still be stuck in a pocket
this will have to do for now
and listen
particularly closely
to the ground
for underneath
you will find
a turning sound
constant turning
and beneath that
the hum
of nothing
right in the middle
remember the trout
they shout
and lay about
a trillion trillion
of them
gaping in their gills
and gone.


a lazy gaze

over the top of mug
sucking the edge
lipstick marking
sniffing the tea
steams singing nostril hairs

entered a tall dark stranger
awkward and gangly
nervous and gaunt
he wanted something
he wanted some

their eyes met
through tea steam
across the cafeteria
from door to seat
past paper readers
cake eaters
coffee stirrers

before each of them
a thought
a possibility
a want

she slurps tea
still gazing

he does not move from the door

a bus roars passed outside

‘shut the door’
calls a lady nearby.

he turns and leaves
and the tea drinker
slurps again.

cafè i peix

M’he aixecat ben prest, a les 7 del matí, i vaig esmorzar com sempre, amb cereal i dues rodanxes de pa amb mel. desprès em vaig dutxar i vaig prendre un cafè amb llet. vaig veure un peix a la tassa de cafè. El meu germà va ho havia posat allà mentre netejava l’aigua del peix. El peix estava mort!


jugador autònom

hola, com anem? ja m’estic en la meva nova casa i estic molt feliç. el meu company de pis és maco. li agrada rentar el pis i sempre és traquil i ordenat. és alt com un arbre i només porta roba negra. el seu cabell és rosa i té tatuatges a les mans i a la cara. és diu Colin i fa olor de roses i d’oli de pachuli.



An ache in the tuppence.

tuppence (two pence piece) is both large and small.
Large coin, small value
meaningful to a child
useful to an adult.


rolling through the motions


charming battery

bent sugar

empty word

fat region

giving up

positional descriptions that rely on a reader imagining their own contorted body squeezed into a new straight line.

chat chatter chatted chattering

no reason to continue

no one could read

the end.


do think it’s good enough

do think


think it’s good enough

think it’s good


it’s good enough

it’s good

it is

good enough




quiet turning

around the merry go round

scrummy sugar in a bowl

finger licking

more and more

crunchy awareness of lessening volume

more is less

soon gone

empty bowl

full fat fat full belly sore

empty bowl.


fuck at the mercy seat.

The well wishers sat below the skanky statue, all graffitied and buried in pigeon poo.

They hope and prayed for better days as the goat was lifted to be sacrificed.

It was an old tradition.

It followed on from an era long ago. A famine, when a supposed miraculous goat had kept the children of the village well fed and watered through a long miserable time.

To celebrate, bizarrely, they would throw a goat from the church steeple. Or the priest would.

And the crowd, drunken, down below, would fight to catch the flailing beast. Before it splattered, injured, surely dead or dying, into the giddy crowd below.

No sense in this sacrifice. Except that for the cost of the life of one billy goat, the village full of human dwellers, and all their local relatives, and passersby and tourists, all came together in a festival, a feast, a gluttonous bout of revelry. Pissed. shit faced. larva-ed. Belly ached. Vomiting. Shit.

The cost of togetherness is high amongst the humans. Generally they hate one another. Stay well clear. unless a certain level of trust, or interest, is generated through similar, or amusing behaviour.

And togetherness? what then? Well then the continuation of social living. togetherness was safe, is safe. Alone is frightening, dangerous.

It’s the booze and the drugs that enable it. togetherness. If not amongst the women, then definitely amongst the men. They forget. Which is a close rendition of accept. Forget is close, then, to loving. The drunken blood eyed version of loving. the swollen vein. the bulging eyeball. bulging anus. fat tongue. red skin loving.

not all the time though.

I’ve heard there are sober people among us. still heads. quiet thoughts. straight types.

Others, like myself, can’t even cycle straight. We need pain killers to move.