Tag Archives: SJ Lavery

After Joy Division

From Broken Down House

Radio transmission
seeks out new listeners,
as night tightens its noose.

A sine wave.
A square wave.
A synaptic dance.

The radio plays
to the static man,
one of his old tunes.

His child wakes with a cry.
His wife waves for help.
His radio plays on and on.

The Incompetents

Wind blowing through the trees.
Why does Friday feel like
some other newly fashioned day.
Keep us all safe from the tribulations.
The horror, just a doorstep away.

With truth staring you in the face.
The illusion of control, crumbling.
We lurch from one fiasco to another.
Will their mouths ever form an apology.
For this extended dereliction of duty.

Cynical, with an eye on some stupid prize.
They resort to the age-old stratagem.
Wetting hands and singing happy birthday.
Will never wash away the peoples blood
from their cold clammy hands.


a love letter

How do you write a letter
to someone you don’t know.
Do you twist a flower
on the stem and present it –
Smelling fresh and lovely,
the way freedom does.
God bless you Marianne.
The night has become day.
Please accept this token
of my appreciation.
Sleep well and dream
only sweet scented dreams.

Just Yesterday

The sound of birdsong.
Butterflies in flight.
Sun casts a warm glow
on this deserted garden.
May the days begin to dream,
of yellow, green and white.
Extraneous noise of human activity.
Sweeping and seed bed digging.
If you could throw a switch,
and make everything all-right.
Take a journey to the street,
to a park, a shop, a public place.
And feel it less than hazardous.
The dreams of just yesterday.
Stay safe and this will pass.
Stick close to the land.
And appreciate all the living.


Paralysed like a deer.
Stunned into submission.
News reports rolling
in like thunder.
Drowning everything
with their ferocity.
Thats what its like,
as one day streams into another.
No routines.
No breaks.
No alternatives.
Just relentless numbers.


Welcome to the New World.
That strange and altered place.
Where history is written,
the way it deserves to be.
Not some satisfactory morsel.
Wolfed down all the way.
But a pointer to ragged recollections.
Played on a tenon saw.
Take heart, truth will be heard-out.
In some wilderness.
Where it spreads to the cities.
Then finally to the broken places.
Farms forgotten for so long.
And red skeletons of former industries.
Welcome to the New World.
Sailing away to some
long forgotten shore.
Waves lapping on a pebble beach.
Sunlight in your eyes.
Moonlight closing down.

On The Edge of Nothingness

You have me,
standing on the floor.
Waiting for that
door to open.
To imagine we are
better than that.
Can you take me on
a different journey.
A reality that is somehow,
different from itself.
Hold me close before
we disappear.
Speak to me in words
that I will understand.
Temper the rage that
has no accessible quality.
There are see-saw
emotions afoot in this world.
Cut me with sharp metal,
and see me bleed.
Take a step backwards
from the abyss.
Linger on the edge
of nothingness.

Valentines Day, 2020

Reality feels so damn disappointing.
A scratch on a pristine car.
The difference between black,
and everything in-between.
Inhabitants of earth take this very badly.
Take it to the razors edge, sometimes.
Come play with sticks and
throw them in the stream.
Hurl with all your might.
And watch them float away.
Happy Valentines Day,
is what I meant to say.


Say we walk in spiral.
Circulate about the place.
Circumnavigate in style.
Open with a poem.
The man in gabardine says,
with unflinching certainty.
There will be copious
rhyming couplets.
But no central meaning.
Thrown-out the way
you chuck rubbish out.
Down chutes to collective bins.
While whispering with that
old style of singing….
The moon in June.
And I have a memory
of that drunk on the 134.
Ranting-on about effervescing.
With a plastic two litre
cradled beneath his armpit.
I could feel the exasperation
seething from his point of interest.
A well dressed older lady
who fielded his insights
with the skill of a professional.
(file-away as accustomed to intoxication)
We shall fade out now,
as the bus turns into Camden Road.
And the ripple of people moving,
in sweaty exodus, head towards the door.

Time Travel #2

Wake up, wake up !
It’s time for a séance.
We need to summon-up
the past and make it real.
And the only way of
doing this is by being
a breath away from.
From everything a-crumbling.

Wake up, wake up !
Slither out of that imperfect
skin and return to perfection.
With all body parts intact.
The scars of life,
how they trail away.
No time like the present.
No need for a map.
You know this place.
Every wardrobe and street-corner.
The route to work.
The place you call home.

Wake up, wake up !
It’s time to be that person again.