It’s five o’clock in the morning, it’s -5,
my dog pisses as she stares at me.
Her steam, my breath as one
I think she’s laughing.
I’m laughing, I’m wearing shorts and a beanie.
What is this,
eccentric Englishness?
Stars in silver sulphide pierce a frigid sky
a Supernova vents it’s dying throes.
She stands from squat,
the Blackbird sings
At five o’clock
a million things.
Used to be
I could get all the news I need
on the weather report
When days
were long
and darker times came in short
I could gather all the news I need
on the weather report
Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today
but cry
and to cry and to cry and to cry
for what’s going on
is this the only dying world
our greed’s brought.
Most of the time they’re gone
and we just don’t care, no we just don’t care
you can see that their lives are gone
and we just don’t care
Friends, why don’t we open our minds
I know there’s so much we could find
fly to where we’re one of a kind
fly now and leave these horrors behind
Hey, let your honesty shine, shine, shine,
let it shine on down
on them
let it shine on down
to them
Are we the only living ones to have thought
what we paid for is not what they bought
When we preach but don’t practice what’s taught
when we preach yet don’t practice what’s taught
Behind the songful thicket
where fields tuck in to ancient earth,
the tiny birds sing thanks to birth
trod and turned by boot and plough
much goes unseen by humans now.
Beyond the foamy edge
where breakers roll on timeless sand,
the wilding wind knows no command
stamped then cleared by men and tides.
whose howls are drowned like griefs lost cries
beneath the thinning soil
where darkness bears no fear to life,
the crawling universe is rife
stained and spoiled by poisoned plan
yet still they toil in spite of man.
Between lost degrees
where all worlds meet,
we close our eyes and still our feet
that none may see and none may go
where harmony might fledge and grow.
Larkin lived on Dixon Drive
now he’s still dead
and I’m alive.
He stacked books
with referenced spine
and trousered coin,
paid in fine.
I lived just off Ethel Road
half a man
but full-on toad.
Crushed into my loutish form
dull schooling
shaped me
to this norm.
Phil moved on,
to Queens and hope
with less despair
and longer rope.
An “elsewhere place”
that pushed his pen
“the salt rebuff” of tougher men.
I too, found the Belfast road
its years had turned…
too much implode.
No scholars gown
or tweed for me,
nor friendly tongue
across that sea.
He a poet I the fool
two lives not shaped
by finer tools.
Though one sharp mind
was lesser lost
the two seemed spent
at equal cost.
All the poets of all the Kings
with all their fine imaginings
have only ever offered up
the favoured flavour of their sup.
with words so lofty, full of grace
persuading of their given place,
that they alone could fill that space.
Emblazoned coin, gods chosen face.
While those of us with poets eyes
not blessed with pardons for our lies,
see through the crown to truthful skies
where sunlight strips all earthly guise.
Then with our mortal time unspun
we’ll coil our spirit toward the Sun,
to close the round as it begun
where all of matter is as one.
Wrapped in sky and heathered hills
caressed by briny horses wild,
so far from dark satanic mills
survives the empire’s favoured child.
Once stripped and starved of tongue and god
its people slaved and banished cold,
crofts and mànas razed to sod
that none who dwelled there might grow old.
But land in time calls back its own
disgorging tyrants, killing kings,
and those returning hold what’s known
that those who stole could never bring.
This place so loved by earth and man
too much that any heart could own,
will never bow to scheme or plan
that was not on its own shores grown.
Ice puddles like lily pads
an archipelago of creeping freeze,
stepping stones of tears perhaps
shed by autumns grieving trees…
then captured in the frozen glare
of sunlight’s first defiant rays,
they’ll fade as if were never there
to herald in such hopeful days.
So many things unseen by men
the simple and the subtle change,
that slip through time like ink through pen
rewritten on an unturned page…
like bridges built between the wars
that yield to fear and promised gain,
all reaching out, their hope ignored
when war in season comes again.

I see them in forgotten towns
men in pairs and burdened mums,
nowhere stares with heads bowed down
“Something broken this way comes”
In carless forecourts of bleak hotels
where fag butts rot and litter blows,
cruel deals are done that no one tells…
We turn our heads so no one knows.
While in the dens of whispered spite
be-trolleyed locals sneer and scoff,
at those who stain their one birthright,
and dare to be of different cloth…
This inheritance of human spill
a cash cow for the Corporate Kings,
who for 14 years and lack of will
made misery their sum of things.
Times will change as time must do
with cut and thrust new Kingdoms Come,
and who’s to say it won’t be you
that those who rise will hateful shun.
Though there are wars that we cannot see
their wounds and scars leave history
some is carved in marbled stone
the names of those beloved and known…
and some is seared to flesh and mind
unknown to those we left behind
who waved us off and served us well
and in their waiting shared our hell
Flesh is commodity
guns universal
uniforms reversable
flags incontrovertible
Kimchi for Borscht
tank for a horse
fodder for force
mutual of course
Bodies for bags
medals perhaps
dictators relapse
generational gaps
Star for a Sickle
water for trickle
allegiance for fickle
too much for so Little
Blood for the soil
dollars for oil
horrors recoil
exploited for toil
Glory for States
closed borders for gates
freedom abates
oblivion awaits…
The Jag is in the driveway
behind the iron gates,
the home was christened “My-Way”
(he who loses hesitates)
All the frills are garish
from The Pillars to The Pool,
the gothic-faux nightmarish
its rendition most uncool.
The topiary is phallic
it’s freudiently flawed,
the colour palette so manic
passing psychopaths applaud.
A bronze eagle guards the doorway
it’s talons dipped in gold,
Munch’s art screams in the hallway
a fucking car-crash to behold.
A kaleidoscope of carnage
a tragedy of taste,
like a turd that can’t be varnished
or a Henry Moore defaced.
i
Millenia before divisions birth
sands shifted unconstrained,
seas un-parted caressed the earth,
no sacred path by men ordained.
ii
Lands unfolding, gods and kings
psalms and gospels, crescent and cross.
Twelve tribes rising, desert springs,
prophesying wealth and loss.
Borders burning, skies afire
blood and soil, words of hate.
Symbols raising tension higher,
revelation incarnate.
iii
Desolation, wastelands of peace
sea and land unconstrained,
for gods and kings all domains cease
the reckless path of men ordained.
The wreckage on the ocean floor
lies deep,
the treasure that it went there for
its murky world will keep…
as are the souls and truths
of those who dare to seek,
beyond the veiled lies of proof
too many others speak.
Above, the shallow sunbathers
bask in filtered light,
welcoming malignancy
they revel in The Blight…
they’ll all go down together
no matter what the cost,
they’ll just enjoy the weather
and “be damned” the Winter frost.
The Orange Groves in salty air
stand proudly squat, toward the Sea
the cultured roots that hold them there
unseen beneath each nurtured tree.
The blossomed fruit pristine with dew
raised up through rock, held firm by soil,
is testament to life anew
and those who gave with blood and toil.
Though the sky will fall and burn
and some may cling to cleft and shade,
it’s true that men will never learn
they cannot kill what love has made.
To live in the shadow of one’s self
is to never see new light,
reliance upon historic wealth
is the Kingdom of the trite.
To tread unknowing steered by will
is to chance new worlds to see,
the path of men should not be still
that all of man be free.
To speak of treachery one should know
that those betrayed
sometimes do sow…
the seed that takes to fertile soil,
polluting blooms
for future spoil.
The revelation of the fact
by gloating fools
unveils their act…
that they unknowing of their fate
expose their woven web
of hate.
Men, entrenched like ancient trees
whose branches mock their roots,
their trunks engorged with gnarled disease…
embittering their fruits.
The axe gleams brightly in The Sun
beyond the shaded edge,
where with one swing its work begun
it fells their broken pledge.
To cut and clear the rot away
of stock that’s grown too long,
where green shoots feel the light of day
and fledgelings find new song.
The morning mist conceals the birds,
yet still their lilting song
is heard.
I lay a while beneath my shroud
listening to the
warbling cloud.
The coffee cup drains itself
while topping up my
fickle health.
From radio’s reluctant news
blooms yesterday’s
emerging bruise…
to spread its spill like rancid oil
toward the day
as if to spoil…
the warming gift of light reborn,
like birdsong dulled by
muffled dawn.
Words emerged from alphabets
born of tongues the world forgets,
hieroglyphics from a wall
their echo sent to teach us all.
The documented “Rites of Spring”
the histories that they danced within,
so frantic that they lost all breath
their language spoke itself to death.
Yet here we stand at Babel’s Gate,
tongues still tied, is it too late?
to learn from lessons unobserved,
at last their treasured message heard.
The bus is double decked for fear
that those below might come too near,
and break the spell of motions peace
where trials and tribulations cease.
I float above the addled Streets
on clouds of ruined ragged seats,
I see the penned in office slaves
computer screens, like headstoned graves…
Traversing through this fashioned feast
I’m swallowed by some other beast,
a parasite of endless queue
that once used up becomes as spew…
And those behind will follow on
to pass on by where all have gone,
their work and toil will be forgot
if once they had, they shall have not.
The Street is one step from us all
we’ll meet it willing or we’ll fall,
trapped inside or passing through
to stay or leave, is up to you.