may take just a little while

the voice

coming in from behind

& I felt the shock of memory

pulling to another time & place

& then she spoke to me

standing in front

though the colours were all wrong

hair, clothes, eyes

that voice had sunk the hook in deep

the question hangs loose

shimmering close in the air

can a person still alive

become channelled

through another

to mess with my head

make me feel the pain

all over again?

& why would the world

do this to me

take a sunny day

make it rain

she had to repeat her question

I wasn’t here, now

had to return

& her eyes full of questions

who was this idiot stammering

what was going on

& there wasn’t minutes enough to tell her

she already thought me mad

& may take a little while

how to say

I can’t see your own beauty

with another coming through…


from & born

in the land of mists

threaded by salt bogs

half hidden cow farmsteads

I headed west

at my coming of age

holding of short sword

rejecting bovine life

wanting the ways of the bard

finding the deceangli

& the loving of a maiden

whom I could not marry

they not knowing my lines

lineage or elders days

instead the druids luming told

find the midway of the sun

so south I wended

to live among the durotriges

learning late the wiles of their women

by entrapment of blood

false gods in fakery

there my days to be done

but first the dorunni & wars

there to be held

long against my will

until londinium paid my way

back to Vectis view

to speak now of rivers

instead of places your feet wend

may be for you

to misunderstand my travels

these ways were ours

of wind & paddle bank to bank

t’was only when the foreigners came

our lands bore the yoke

of stone to break meadow backs

for legions to race & kill our numbers

enslaving children to be sold

in darker places beyond Frankish shores

the iceni fought & died against this

& our kings sundered

speak no more since

of fire & blood

while I wait midway of the sun

hoping the druids spoke true

of my fine end here amongst the tribe

half beached on the southern sea

waiting for the wraiths to come

poets as persons of suspicion

why do you write?

where do you get your inspiration?

who is your muse?

do you have a special pen, book, time, place?

don’t you ever write about me!

will you write about me?

what do you write about?

can’t you write a screenplay?

& earn some real money

are you writing a book?

why do you write all the time?

can you your make your words rhyme?

what do you do in that little room?

is it an illness?

its an illness with you!

its all you ever do

obsess about the past



trying to get it down

why aren’t you out earning a living?

taking me out

having a good time

not sitting staring into space

clacking on a keyboard

this magnificent beast screeching

roaring in my ear

at two a.m.

& every bellow was pure poetry

man you should write I said

lay down those words

as I heard him strain

in all timbre of being

trying to convey meaning to me

what? he said in colors

pulsing to the music

what the fuck you mean?

& I heard his misunderstood moments

from centuries of suspicion, doubt

police, parents, teachers, lovers

I’m trying to get to the bar

can you move over?

sure I said pitching to my left

all portents ship shape & shifting

listing to port creaking

a fully laden privateer merchant ship

cargo hold of tobacco, silks, spices

horny sailors reeking of dusky maidens

the clap, the drip & typhus

to spread amongst the old world

shrooms I said

squeaking out the one word

my larynx straining now as new violin string

bowed by bow short of resin

in a smoky cold concert hall

ah he smiled

I get it

yer off yer fucking face

his face cracking

dark deep lines leading to new horizons

where all people could meet

live in harmony not split asunder

by religion, politics, hate


dullest thud

you know this

I know this

hearing words spoken

by the flak catcher

general factotum

policy wonk & speaker

& rather than ting!

like a rap on good glass

tap to polished porcelain

the dullest thud comes

words that grate on the third ear

this cat rather than being straight

is fucking with me

pouring out the purple prose

in the hope time ticks away

we get bored & get gone

like lovers lies when they love no more

creating self doubt

when all should be clear

as fresh window pane

hard to put a finger on

but hearing that duller thud

than resonant clear ring

& knowing something is wrong

is how we dive into the mystic

core inner

of our being

can you come get?

about sixty miles away

& a couple of light years

he was shacking up again

a woman he’d met out drinking

& moved himself in

even though the cat

had shat

on his suitcase

the man never could take a hint

she was an ok girl he said

one of those never workers

but able to float through life

took me a day, maybe two

to get there

not my monkeys

not my circus eh?

all was level when I arrived

people smoking home grown

drinking out of bottles

she was dressed only

in an off grey housecoat

bare feet & tired hair

the music at a pitch

to be appreciated

not background sound

all seemed hunky dory

the talk moved slowly on to him

his antics

drunk dancing

pissing on the bars

of an electric heater

telling people what was what

just who they were

then she caught my eye

mid riff of a guitar solo

as all nodded their heads to the beat

I said I had to piss

as she offered more drinks around

caught me in the kitchen

I can’t get dressed she hissed

he won’t leave the house

keeps fucking me all the time

I’m so sore I can’t think

sit proper anymore

he’ll be here in a minute

want to fuck me again

& there the door

slowly opened

Christ! here he comes

he came in caught her hands

kissed her lips

I wasn’t there anymore

hey baby lets go round again!

as he led her away

catching her glance back

help me please…

& I heard the springs begin to squeak

at least

I hope that’s what it was

as I stood for a while

thinking slowly

just what is a man to do?

after five minutes the cacophony ceased

they went back to the people room

as I silently gathered his shit together

in the shat upon suitcase

& waited for night to come

‘til he was drunk enough

to drag to the car

needing more beer

& drove him home

while he slept mumbling

of love, lovers who never come

took him a couple of days

to clear his fog

that too much of everything brings

we never


talked about this

& he never heard from her again

conscience lies still

the pointing finger

having pointed

moves on

where two or more

are gathered

there will be

a them & us

some sclerotic

force of poor nature

creates cliques

claques of tongue waggers

an idiocy if you will

where conscience

lies still

for who on examination

can stand

such scrutiny

poring over personal minutiae

in search of dirt?

but brigades

never care

for theirs

is the glory

of higher moral ground

shaky though that

may be

on examination…