The man is in a plateau’d valley,
It stretches between the rising humps of desert beasts.
The expanse is full of dust it shimmers but is not hot,
An endless wind shifts all traces of life.
It is cold in Sunlight and bitter by Moon,
The Children wear dead Fathers shoes.
No-one here knows his name or that he exists,
He might die and not be found.
He holds a handful of golden grains and lets them fall away,
He sits to curse The Bone White sky, and waits.
The Sunburst of trauma the explosion of a moment,
Rips the colour from the day and turns it inside out.
Black and white, X-ray sharp it permeates all that’s solid,
It exposes what is hidden to the glare of constant replaying memories.
Now burned against the white walls of cranial caverns,
As if the first confused scrawling of early man.
We tentatively explore the brushstrokes of residual time,
Probing the meaning of what indelibly remains.
They are nothing but the imprint of Shadows,
the cast off pupa from which everything after flourished into flight
The heavens pulled the earth aloft
and swallowed up what once was all
and those who had so idly scoffed
became as dust as did we all
“It’s not necessary that Women play Cricket”
said the zealot
whilst adjusting the dress of his own middle wicket,
fearful of progress and all that goes With-it
In the Maternity Ward out pops another
Allah is praised for the gift of a brother,
while the now Empty Vessel knowing her place
Averts lesser eyes from his superior face.
The Un-bearded head spat out between Thighs
coughed out Her Blood and replaced it with lies,
to think all that hate was born of his seed
It’s beyond all debate that it’s him we don’t need
Poets do nothing
save to steal and to share,
they relocate riches
That are already there.
A Sunrise unspoiled
from a blue virgin sky,
they’ll scrawl on the page
not knowing the why
They’re up in the morning
when the wild things awake
like Cat Stevens yawning
fuck, give us a break
They’ll paint secret colours
that you’ve never seen,
and tell you of places
that they’ve never been
But mostly they sit on their
arses and write,
subjecting poor wretches
to unfettered shite.
Notes from life 