Forward Motion

The scent of morning
as it flows into midday.
A perfect end,
to a special slice of time.
Meet me at two thirty.
When the afternoon
is in full swing.
A round wheel spinning
in forward motion.
Hold out your hand.
Feel the cool air, venting.

Time Tunnel

or the end of British Summertime.

Mojo the navigator,
turns onto an unfamiliar road.
Got my man-boy workin.
Says the puppet master,
breathing-in a shot of rarified air.
Only lovers of pure CO2
will be left alive by the end of the month.
That glorious day when nothing happens.
Just the clocks keep on ticking an hour behind.

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Marching through thin air.
I become old.
Unswervingly fragile.

Hovering outside,
on the perimiter,
sit the ghosts of real people.

Narrow tendrils of pain.
That sting again, again and again.

The Whirligig

Imagine taking a pill,
to make everything all right.
Fixing those things
that can’t be fixed anymore.
How come it’s all been undone.
The silk thread running
through the tapestry,
is through unravelling.
Grotesque is now normal.
A whirligig has wiped away calm.
Imagine just one day of peace.

It Goes

The beneficiaries have taken over.
Please don’t be alarmed.
There’s nothing to concern you
and all those secondary souls.
Masters of the bottom feed.
Freedom: that amazingly
twisted word.
Expensive to those who have none.
Cheap – a thing to be bought.
Watch as it disappears.
Down, down, down, it goes.


A fractured chord.
A fissure of time.
A remembrance.
Sleeping softly,
in a snug room.


Happy Birthday.
You dont look
a day older
than when we first met,
on that Wood Green step.
Many happy returns !

At the Pineapple

A warm Kentish Town Wednesday.
Undertakers Drinking outside.
In shirtsleeves and open collars.
Having a pint after a long day.
La Vie en rose by Grace Jones is playing.
Breadsticks on a white tablecloth.
One of the men in black, takes a bite.
Now I realise it’s the wakes end.
Crumbs fleck the conservatory tables.
Mourners have consumed all the food.
Ready to go they pack their smart clothes.
Before the new crowd arrive.
My Jamaican Guy serenades an empty table.
Quickly taken by a teenage broncin buck.
Peace breaks when a troop 
of workmen arrive.
In Jackson Pollock paint
-flecked sweats.
Incongruously they sit next 
to two old gentlemen.
Renegades from a distant age.
Who swiftly manoeuvre to a quieter spot.
Later we go too, as day drinking drifts into night.


Talking about making
yourself a laughing stock.
You were a punk.
Now you’re an enabler.
Slug it out another day.
Let us circumnavigate.
Propel ones self
around the globe.
Make hay while
the sun shines.
A fascinating set
of strange beliefs.
Let us pray for
souls long forgotten.
Let us remember.
That small suburban shop,
packed full of rich kids.
Making involuntary.
That barely relate
to the common exchange.
There are answers
to the question.
Posed by an endless
cycle of words.
Barely intelligible.
Just rust attracting
holes in the snow.

A Fateful Firing

The sound comes
to you like a song.
A faded paragraph,
carefully rolled over.
Let it incubate.
That soft shoe stroller.
Tap dancing down the stairs.
Fate that’s all it is.
A fateful firing of neurons.
Experiments in free words.
Shadowboxing in the dark.
It will come to you.
Just give it time.
And room to breathe.
The sound comes
as a quickened step.
Keeping pace a steady.
A soft shoe shuffle.
Rapping on a theme.
Joining hands and giving
thanks to all those dancers.
The strollers.
The shufflers.
The magnetic gazers.
The choice is yours.