Posts Tagged ‘style’


I tire of these poets’ ragworm tongues.
Words dragged drugged as alibi for art.
Stabbed and stripped, a menu mocked:
One cup of spit, a bucket of bile, wrangled gristle,
Punctuating slice, the wet meat slap,
Served up alleluia teenage grit.
Sneer chant, hooligan thrust,
Smelling of quick ink and sweat.
Educated ejaculate, staccato excess.
Did we not do all that in the sixties, but better?
And Dylan before that with fire and form
And beauty in the boiling of the blood
And its exquisite deadly music
Throbbing word by word.
But it is all too soft now
In the smell of burning plastic
And the falling fruits on flicker screens.
A manufacturing of synthetic ecstacy,
Needled sublime in neon sewer arches.
A scribbled, dribbled sgraffito, rude and crass.
Self-lubricated splutter, skinned, pampered,
Hung out, drying, shrunken, mean.
Slick city strutters, the ravens watch unfooled.


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Ice moon
Punches light
Through brittle
Smoked sky.

Nothing is revealed
By word or movement.

Body’s aching
All the time
(As the song says)
As the song.

City words.
Low-fat language.
No need for pause
Or repeat.
A smatter of
Classical reference,
Hand gesture,
All manners of

Overplayed is
The well-suited
The poet
The poet
Trope, trapped
And clich├ęd.

Time to sink
To anonymity,
Forsaking this clamour
For another, yet another
Point of view,

Worms wriggling
Upwards to
Drown in puddles.
Picked off by
Black birds
With golden

Too far

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Someone who believes the voices in their head
Are worth listening to,
Who shapes a voiceless howl
And paints peacock the grey goose feathers.

Bitter or sweet is its confection,
But flown, not owned.
A convection of breath muttered,
Cooling fast to silent shuffling.
A spark to set heads alight.
A bird at dawn joining in, joining in.

So very modern, so social, so angst.
Shaped anger, a certain brittle brilliance
(Too many pills, too many movies).
Judge not, lest ye be judged.

My colours are earth ochre and mud:
They blur and smudge and taste
As bitter sweet as old iron.
Red is not better than blue.
Nothing but our breath
Is not borrowed,
And that is shared with ghosts.

If I pick a posy of weeds
And small insects
It shall likely be thrown away
By evening, change within a day
To wilt and slime and compost.

A river of muscular words,
Knowing their trajectory,
Slick with fitting exercise,
Polished, glancing slyly
At themselves in mirrors.
Mine: are orphaned, skulk
Adolescent in corners
Wishing they were anything,
Anywhere but here, ignored,
Misunderstood, awkward
With self and not-self,
Ready to punch
And run away screaming.

Small curses and bitterness,
A sweet green wormwood of words,
Unfashionable as Homer and the ‘Seventies.
Nothing if not shaped air,
A moments held tight and wriggled free,
Regardless of reputation
And good sense.

Outside my window
The world tips towards a hidden river.
Every tree and field a palimpsest of seasons.
Boughs thick with time shudder and bend,
Hold their taut silhouettes.
Tangled, indistinguishable are their roots,
Their eloquent green tongues.

A patch of blue sky
The shape of continents
Slides across the sky,
Dissipating like smoke
Slowly turning.
First drops of April rain.

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