Monthly Archives: April 2020

Cities (working title) #4

We take the sun road north and follow the path through the entrails of our community. All animals are not created equal – some are moody and steal away in the night. When I say I followed what I mean is that I heard you cry and deleted the poem as an act of liberation. We praise our inaction and justify the mountains we build on top of scrap heaps and scraggs top and tailed. The language we use is so full of waste and misdirected barbs it is no wonder we are nomads and slink off into the night. Once, I found a little patch of light upon the apex. I stopped and sent back word that the sun followed me and that I was sorry I left nothing but darkness. But the world turns as we cut and fill our lot and lay to waste whole regions of deposits still reeling and speaking.

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Cities (working title) #3

Crash headlong into the flaming interior of my expressionless love. We write and tackle the rotating moon and leave it sightless while I, myself, am crisp and worn. Brittle coastal repetitions greatly outweigh the possibility that ‘A’ is jump and I find myself in deep water flailing like a star. There are voices outside the cranium superimposed onto pink parchment. I hear the words “let me not” and then tie the loose light so that we can call a spade a symbol of human ingenuity. We are turned out from either side of the lazy bed to meet the new arrival and somehow, as the story goes, the ships flew flagless into the night.

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Cities (working titles) #2

The day, the sun, the silver-tongued gargoyle of the world eats and laughs and doubles down as he coughs up his void and we pray for death. Where there is a flame there are mirrored rooms glistening in the sun and where there is hope there is none. The song continues in a different key but the words never change – a tirade of histories unknown. The city has never been this loud. Birds sit on the roof tops before casting their imaginations high and wide. The game continues. The sea changes. Surely, we saw it coming, placed as we are. I can’t put this sentence right or wrong, all I can do is draw a line under the word fact and pray to god I remember where I left my keys. I live tweet my search and find not one but two descriptions of hell were peace and rest can never dwell.

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Cities (working title)

In 2011 I started writing a sequence of short prose poems. I read these at SoundEye, the Sussex poetry Festivalin Brighton and in Prague at the Microfestival. It was in Prague where I met David Koranda who later would publish the original alongside his translations on a website called Jumpspace. A few years ago I wrote a few more in an attempt to complete what felt like an incomplete sequence. This updated version was lost to the digital gods.

Anyway, I wrote another in the same vein.


We flaunt the existence of linear time and buckle down among yellow gorse. Heather angels shipwrecked along the boggy marsh, there is nothing but the thread from you to them to the crystal grey rot of profit. I want and wait to respond but the dead stay dead and the living fluctuate – the exact frequency remains unknown. We become solid and static while looking back, the valley behind us as clear as day. The simile redundant in this clime. The holy mother of fucking Christ called and asked if you could come out to play. His exact words were “Row on my man! Row on!” and I took leave of myself and slowed the orbit of the world. I find the moments before thunder to be exacting and wish poems flew fast in the face of all that is holy and right.

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origins of process – published by Wild Honey Press 2011

It was such a privilege to get this chapbook published by Wild Honey Press run by Randolph Healy. I do not think they are producing books any more but it is worth clicking on the link below just in case as they have some wonderful books in their catalogue.

origins of process – cover by Allen Fisher 




-including households-

genuine structures

disposed of via assemblage

take speech


before departure

leaving space

between our bodies

i write about you

and you

write about someone else

take one glass box

lined with paper

and insert the word “contents”

then discard


identities are formed

through failure

inherent in memory

the inclusion of reference

is suspect

on some levels it all looks the same



a mountain in the distance

out of the ground


miniature and looming

standing on this outcrop

a top a hill

beyond a twist

a gaze directed at nothing

sitting – back to stone

water beyond

the silt and mud

the tide waning

in a flurry of

wings of various colours

circling – jutting off in straight lines




each breath


two sounds

between memory



as reflections



not once

at night

in a vacuum

with you there

and you there in the other room

staring beyond

your own gaze

attempting to merge

like with like

a temporal space

between sound

and sight




water to my right

w/ distance

sharp cuts

of actuality

poised / set against

that which is and is not equally familiar

the road

as dark as the air in front of me

being filled abound

w/ no trace



rose     yelling


salt of the table

pinched over shoulder

a rear view minor / minnow

drink over handled – eggs over easy

over easy

peripherals pacing

outward    upscaling

a nest of bees

in sunday cloth

a large plume  enthralled

(rounding) to a point

the sky retreated                     wide

with the tide lunar

leaving silt  revealing the road

doubling back on itself



of course  yellow / leathery / jaundice

fistful of skins

bed soaked w/ flesh

in time i am sure

in 14 carats

floundered                  finding the rain

as we stopped by

the cross          and every other station




stretched / streak

tied to a rack


a steady decrease

to shallow

yield                 (to yellow)

memory in reverse

linked to gravity

plough north

along the ditch




mist hung over eyes

gorse flowing flowering

risen in rows along a trough

standing — facing — returning

hours on end   in silence

smoke clinging to crevasses

the hand steady

a woody appendix

bearing down


scratch “KOAN” in block capitals




yellow              orange

peeling in delight

rising porous

one of us

still in jammies or night dress

positively thoughtless



lined and patterned


light emanating

from a door

left ajar

attar of roses and rose water

amber flush

brown musk

and a three penny bit

the chorus revealing

illumination upon looking

out of the blue

the linoleum strains

a knight in the making



diluted / deluded

plummed / pommel

bring forth prickles

stem / base / hilt / tip

cultivate the little apple

to counterweight the jewel


the noise of you sleeping

lingers in diminished waves

stimulating both the long and medium

now perhaps with recourse

or recoil

CUT rounded and placed

perhaps rain

perhaps not

perhaps the kitchen

entered from memory

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