Hidden by the shadow of a high August tree

lost in a garden of enchantment.

and a child's fear

evident because of infant confusion.

A hint of a tear

smeared across the cheek of my former self.

Wonderment unleashed on me,

the real world beckoning, the cruel world


A small face of innocence

peering from behind the tall black railings of learning.


Childhood spirit, where are you now

with your flowing locks

and intent to listen eyes?

I will always remember you

for that first fragile kiss with me

when we were nine.....


..... and Julie, my poor dead friend,

How are the angels treating you

now that you are one of them

gliding in the misty fields of unknown solace

reaping the corn of eternity?

Today I saw your tree,

the one we planted in your memory

to mark your courage, to mark your bravery.

I felt your breath among the blooms,

I felt your breath among the blooms.

The playground is a quiet place

so cold without you, so sad without you.

Small birds set down on the sundial.

I think I hear you whisper,

I want to hear you whisper!


The world my love, is a strange place

full of meaning and yet, no meaning.

There are people out to destroy me

from the hypocrisies of mischievous conversation.


..... and love?

Love is a demeaning slave

fresh from the ashes of World Horror.

It blooms from the tragedies,


in its destinies

only to be knocked off its pedestal

by the unfaithful partner that true love

demanded to trust.


Collectors compile their morbid dossiers:

News cuttings from the day's immoral behaviour.

Photos of child murderers peer out from

National Press pages

reminding us that no child

is safe in the bosom of our (dare I say it)

green and pleasant land.


I have abandoned my conscience

and marched naked into the arms of an unknown destiny.

She loves me? Yes!

She loves me? Not!

I am alone

in the sanctuary of a long, cool beer

staring aimlessly into the lost fathoms of my glass.

Happy when I was never happy. Basking

in my own confusion.


'Free love' lies bleeding from its own deflections

carrying out the emotional suicide of consequence.

I am the shadow of this love, this orchestrated hype.

Though I am here in my solid form

no matter what I am!


Clouds move away from the sun.

Dew hangs from laburnums

all along the river, sparkling

in psychedelic sunlight, splashing into the silver ebb

as the current passes.

Bottles scheme on the flow carrying messages of distress,

each one with its own secret,

its own mandate

ready to blast reason high from the water.


The sky is as black as religion

dragging the funerals of politicians

across on its clouds. Here, is the perpetual vision,

the ideal storm,

the perfect maelstrom!


Some enchanted evening beneath the lights

of the city, I smile into the eyes

of a fantasised lover. I am well in this oblivion

where I seek my purpose and experience

the arrival of a soul.

Thank you, madam

for being so beautiful. I love you

for such tactics.


..... and so, it is I begin to spiral

in personal crisis after the ornamental stake

is forged. I stagger in new directions,

hating and rebelling, a warrior

of my own heart. Such is the dream,

the pain becomes a vision, society is the same,

strain shows on the face of all I pass.


Back from the 'wars' and the 'revolution'

we sit in attic rooms and discuss the ideal fate.

There is an element of hope at last

amid the chit-chat. Optimism booms from its proud

red corner, smashing gleefully the Capitalist's

hungry paws.


Speaking well in defensive circles,

a little pretentious, a little shy. My ingenious lover

speaks of all things even on the pillow

by my side. I at last have found my refuge,

I at last have found my peace

but the corrupted world

will keep on turning

inviting me back into its vicious circle.


Peace is a haven

between a hundred burning cities

surviving guiltily on the balance

of power.


The content of the newspaper is strong.

Subway placards emphasise a busker's song.

There is death where delusion counts its cost.

Street Romeo terminated on a housewife's bed.

Husband lurking still with gun, suburban killing

in council semi. Scandal brings

an eerie silence.


My mind is an abstract full of empty cans.

My conscience returns

and shimmers beneath the stars.

Where is love? As I sit down

and try to assess the glory of it all.


In Happy Street

lovers are heard to admit their love.

Warm bodies in a cold environment,

their limbs reaching into vines,

hero and heroine reaching as one.

Worship of the purple heart.


forging as they kiss

the long lingering accent of moments

his beard, her hair

entangled as they sow the all-important seed.


I am sitting on a grass verge

of a road into a magnificent sunset

a hitch-hiker's guide to the nearest pub

Swans float down the August river

justifying their presence with easy grace,

symbols of freedom

defying the final act of the sun.


Beneath our favourite street lamp

I am alone. It is a different year,

a different season. You are far away

in newfound anonymity.


In my mind, there is a tiny memory,

I see you dancing in the sacred poppy fields,

rain on your cheek,

sun on your brow.

Your pale white body


into my heart

and a thousand most remarkable dreams.


Something drives me to the brink of insanity,

from the core of uncertainty.

Life in the fast lane isn't so fast.

The gutter leprechauns

throw me their wisdom as I, myself

throw in ambition's towel.


I look out from my window

in Hotel Curious,

I wonder how the street survives,

everything like clockwork

fast and flowing

the audacity of rain

intermittent between traffic.


On the edge of town

the disease is spreading. Immorality

supersedes innocence to engage

seedy sexual challenge. Doorways

whisper as loners and misfits stagger,

a lady of the night, her lost beauty

left alone.


..... and who is alone this damp and dreadful night,

watching the dark horizon, searching for

answers, considering maybe spectacular

ways to die? And where is the Samaritan

who volunteers to save you as you drift

back to unacceptable sober state?


Step on to the stage my sweet and cherished lover.

Tell the world that every war is won.

Threaten them with peace, it's easy,

yes, so easy - lover

before you gouge another silence

from the issue of your womb.


We are running to follow

the exact path of the sun. Angels with clipped wings

jumping into the light. We are the ones

in society who simply do not matter.

We have spoken. We have been frank.

I have dreamt about your body. It is

my only purpose now. Let's stay awake all night

and forget the bomb!


The horizon glows with an eerie light

as I collapse into you with all my body.

There is music between the rainstorms.

Buses hurry out to the dawn.


Poppies grow in clusters in a time-warped field.

We have taken umbrage

and are lost with one another

beneath the sun.

There are days when I can love the world

in wispy, milky summer,

days when I can love

and tie you with the chain

that is the token of our binding.


Illusion casts its spell of impermanence,

nothing seems clear anymore.

Governments control our lives,

we are bondaged in red tape. Today

I slung your virtue to the wall.

It's not your fault, it's NOT your fault!

I must apologise for my angry Mr Punch syndrome.


Sweet love, Oh sweet petal of my anguished heart.

I can wait for nothing in your presence

but your love.


Raindrops threaten teasingly into middle age.

I am humbled. I am still.

I want to kiss your bosom,

I want to touch your heart!



Depression unmasks me.

I am alone in a room

where I have only memory to talk to.


You fucking whore!


Where are you when I need your comfort,

your soft, pale, lust-worthy skin

and the endless kisses of your divine attention?

I want you now, back out of history

with your intelligence and intellect, I want you

with your philosophies and love,

immense bottles of wine

stolen from your father's drawer.

I want you HERE in this precise moment

naked from your shoulders down

complete with the Mediterranean beads

of your last holiday

and the lipstick you always wore for beauty.



…Those beads are buried in the sand

where hope lies buried. I stand or sit

on an imaginary shoreline. The waves

eat away at my heart. Destiny

turns on the tide of commitment.

Good fortune shines with the sun.


There is nothing illusory in this

but at last, I have refound ambition

amid the dreams returning.


Tired swallows come back from a long

migration through the eye of the storm. Ships

bounce on an incoherent harbour. I

see myself in a newfound destiny

with a newfound purpose. The harbour

of thought is glittering with the salvage

of prizes.


Nuclear fall-out threatens from the Ukraine,

yet we are spared spectacular accidental

death. We have been warned!

We have been warned! 


I speak to you

with a yellow tongue as we come cheek

to cheek in the candle-light of our last

supper. Oh, the night is our epitaph

and your face is a worried gravestone.


All life flows into an unaccountable

jet stream. We all take off, but where

do we land again?


Oh, sweet and powerful angel, immortal

guardian of my personal fire, what method

saves me from The World Grave

and such continuous mournings? 





This morning, I awoke

and felt you beside me despite the distance

I went down to the river

where the Spring sunrise flickered and reflected

in a seasonal collaboration on the cold water

I saw your face in the reflection – smiling

and I wanted you more than ever

I wanted to explain whatever we have is more than love

but then your image vanished as the sun passed a cloud

and I thought to myself – ‘fate is a desperate thing’

if fate indeed is what it is, but it drives its force between us

and then brings us together


Your eyes are the perfect diamonds that enlighten my soul

leading me to the absolute point of love’s perception

Sometimes I am lost without you, but I am whole

The mere thought of you unravels everything I feel

both spiritual and physical

so much that I have to write it down

not as a poem

but as something that has to be written

I love you

and I know that it really is more than love


My whole body reaches out

towards the image of your beauty

I cannot explain it

There is a hidden meaning somewhere in all of this

This is our life

and yet

they are such separate lives



You were bound in leather and red cloth

you were the High Priestess

of the makeshift boudoir

You were the vehicle of attention

a raw ramp to explore

Waiting with immense anticipation

with your clitoris out ready

for my tongue

So, I wrestled frantically between your thighs

and you called it cunnilingus

and I called it going down

In the end, it was really nothing

unless indeed I saw you smile

Oh, High Priestess, you were the one

as I surrendered and succumbed

to the rhythm of your song

2023 (Out-take from 'In the Shadow of Marc Bolan') 


How will you read these thoughts?

How will you respond?

Will you have your own take on things?

Will you go away and write them down somehow,

or simply talk to friends about your next nice cup of tea?

Do you eat meat to fuel your brain?

Do you only eat fish or simply stick to vegetables?

Are you an artichoke?

Do you feel confident in your skin?

Have you ever felt confident in your skin?

Have you ever held court with an audience of over two people?

What day is it? Is it relevant?

Is this the beginning of a new dawn?

Is the indigo sunrise between the trees a sign?

Is the robin in the birdbath a sign?

Is poetry relevant?

Do you understand the therapeutic use of poetry,

and how do you implement it?

Do you write poetry? 

What is the sense in all of this?

Do you believe in fate or destiny?

So where will the journey end?

Is it a journey?

Was it ever begun?

Have you ever hunted for ghosts?

Do you believe in spirit?

Have you ever prised open a coffin lid only to find yourself?

Have you ever laid flowers on the wrong grave?

Who was the faceless priest who read you your last rites?

At what time did you emerge from your worst nightmare?

Why does everyone go through a period where they have to ‘find’ themselves?

Is it the change of life, or is it just a pretentious act of self-indulgence?

Do we really need to convince ourselves about who we are?

Who is the Grim Reaper?

What parts of life and death does he control?

There must be an end to all of this. What is the end?