Going all the way.
Awake, not sleeping.
Visiting the world
in the round.
All three hundred
and sixty degrees
of insanity.
Never stopping for
one moment to consider.
When to get off.
When to step out
of this one and
in to another.
When to sit down
and watch it all
go round and round.
Go down like those
troublesome emotions.
Freewheeling in the
opposite direction.
Ever wondered why
the ball keeps rolling ?
Rolling slow and steady.
Another three hundred
and sixty degrees.
Another roll, another
firecracker in the night.

A Syllabic Murmur

In cold shadow
at the fire pit.
A syllabic murmur.
The flutter of flames.
Light with five edges.
A cluster of stars
in a clear night sky.
Broken daytime rising.
Awake in dreamtime.
Asleep in daylight hours.
Render some laughter
with claw-hammer madness.

Time Passes

Is it really true
that you were punks,
in the purest sense.
Because you were
young, way back when.
And like all of us,
you’re surprised
to be old.
Time passes,
it takes us down a peg.
Makes us reassess
the way we really were.
Humongous pricks,
turning on a click.
Shouting down
the lost and found.
Digging our own ditch.

Step by Step

I will carry you down
through the long grass.
And make your troubles go.
I will sing a sweet song, quietly.
Folding and unfolding,
making the world anew.
Tapping barefoot on the ground,
gently without a sound.
Step by step, step by step.
With footprints, soft and easy.


Handle with care
says the label.
Red bold print,
on a white plastic back.
A warning for some.
An invitation to others.
A question, not an order.
A suggestion, a nudge.
A reason to be bold.
A path that is crossed.
A point of no return.

John Pitman

On hearing the news
of John Pitman’s passing.
I mull over memories,
decayed and neglected.
He’s a brushstroke,
an impression –
when reanimated.
A humorous king
of the witty aside.
A painter in film.
A seeker of truth.
A reveller in nuance,
with a soft drawling voice.
And I know there’s more,
much more, to the man.
But all that I have
are these small
shiny fragments.
These remnants
and remains.
These rich
remember when’s.


The smoker on the heath,
The gas guzzler,
fuming on the street.
Building work half done,
half complete.
A mound or two of
dirt encrusted ice.
Detached and
not quite there.
Falling out and falling through.
Tracing a pattern
from A through to C.
Flakes of reality from
an undigested life.