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If It’s In You

I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. It reeled through the space debris, past Saturn to crash land in Titan’s sea. With all the volition of primordial slime it crawled out and shook itself dry. After charming the locals it hastily made preparations for the return journey.


I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. Skimming over local ponds and rivers it landed in a picturesque hamlet. It marched into the mayor’s office and split his head in two with a Churchill bust. Arriving back two weeks later in a motorcade, I awoke to the sound of boots on gravel.


I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. It didn’t flutter very far, only to the foot of the bed. It cried so hard through wounded eyes I took it back into my arms immediately.


I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. It landed artfully in a gallery and claimed it was an installation; some junk about the divided self. Inside a week Saatchi or Saatchi was sniffing around its hinds. It rejected the cheque claiming it was all a joke. We fused back together in revulsion.


I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. It landed comfortably on the fat heads of patients in a nearby waiting room. After a brief discussion with the doctor it strode out with a clean bill of health. In its paw it held a prescription for a galaxy of drugs. I made a trip to the chemist.


I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. It landed gracefully in a publisher’s office. Within a year there was a new self – help movement gathering apace. A hardback copy of , ‘The Way,’ dropped through my letterbox. It was autographed with a print. It was dedicated to me.


I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. It landed in a rented room. After dark it bombarded me with phone calls, texts and emails, demanding to know what was wrong with us. It threatened suicide or murder. I decided to give it another try.


I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. It landed on a DJ’s shoulders in Concert Square. It hired a hall and threw a party in my honour. New New New Beat was hailed as the future of  music. It was just like the old days. We carried each other home.


I always knew I had it in me, so I cut it out and threw it away. It refused to land. As the blows rained down, a familiar voice cried, “ You’ve got the wrong man.” It was lost amongst the mauling yelps and howls. They quickly skipped the body. Just another tramp expired to the night. It padded unhurriedly away, flicked up its fur collar and headed for the nearest neon. It didn’t look back.





Lost Highway


The Highways were always waiting to be built, they just didn’t know what for. After the first shipment of Essence arrived this was no longer of concern. Tentative pathways soon grew into monstrous freeways, constructed with a cold proficiency passed down through the generations. No import had ever been so valued and any reservations were soon drowned out in the black gold clamour of that first rush. A light had been switched on. The four corners had been illuminated and a glow shot right through to the core.


Soon nothing would stop or slow the supply line; speed limits were quickly abolished, trails rapidly divided, winding slow lanes swiftly becoming taillight afterthoughts. In the flourish of bloated boulevards old ideas were swept away, sweet cares crushed into a heady rush by the slaveship pounding of unquenchable desire. All was crescendo, no resolve in the studied rhapsodies of this autocratic anthem. The supple earth appeared cauterized as horizons compressed, and whole districts were tarmaced flat for the gaudy loaded floats of the marching parades.


Resistance rose up sparking red blooms of revolt, but the insurgent atoms could never configure. In dawn periods there was an occasional exhausted détente when construction ceased, with a sharp intake of breath, but finally each one was starved out as new ideas withered without companion. All faces were eventually turned to this singular objective; every angle rounded and polished to the meaningless cold steel monorail of relentless industry, until even the idea of stopping shipments became absurd. This was a divine legacy from beyond. ‘History is repeated', was proclaimed, while in chorus, it was deleted.


The purring rhythms of triumphant motorcades soon faded away, replaced by a flat siren drone, yet the nagging melody remained hard wired, as if fused to the circuit boards by staccato lightning. Onward. Advance. Believe. Delivery to deliverance from was now all, but hardly anyone could remember from what. Demand eventually started outstripping supply as transit wore the roads to dust. Through the arid landscape, the swollen vineways started crisscrossing each other hysterically knotting into a scar tissue mass. Supplies trickled through the tangled wires staving off the ever growing longing, sending sporadic sweet bursting shudders to the extremities, but the enterprise was becoming a corpse.


The patterns had dipped out of focus, the fibres had torn. Distended borders snapped back with a massive rush of air. You could hear the crackling of brittle, frigid stars as the infrastructure buckled to collapse. It was over. But it wasn’t finished. Finite endeavour falls but something remains. A pulse under the ruins. There will always be a cell you can never reach; mutating, transmuting, unearthing its own escape route, craning for the light.





It all now lies derelict but pristine. A ghost town in a plastic snowstorm, preserved in vinegar and blood. On the abandoned film set the warmth of sepia seduction fights the apocalyptic freeze-frame; forever aflicker in the fairground light, relentlessly redacting the next frame in the child’s flick book. The echoes of clanging scaffold, wind chimes in an exhausted dream, still call quietly with a cryogenic calm. The Highways have always been built. It only takes a falling drop of Essence hedging through the membrane for the machinery to grind into action again. I sit and wait for the sands and woods to come, to reclaim the land before the flood.





Lives in the gap


Between your


Grasping and Aversion


High Time


Clinging to the edge


Of a fragile brittle prayer


Won’t help you


Let Go


You’re not a sea anemone


You are not preordained


Trial and error breeds realization


When standing in front of trains



Not What They Do












there was never a line to cross


washed over centuries

there from the start

under thin pewter horizon

pregnant with spirits

equations riveted in

a dazzle of constellate sadness

a spire blinded certainty


so forever straining to sing over

matt cracked ivory waves

to exhale in border countries

quicken from the set

a tiny footfall out of time

refutes the chanceless shanty

rivulets  between carnival cracks


you never but could ever defuse

such sulphur ground indifference

shake ten million tempered hooks

kobalt cast and loaded blue

your lop sided symmetry

an agony

a counterweight to the stars




Kana 1



The first miracle I dreamt water to wine. Communion returned. The moon was completed, blind and impartial, I looked up. Horizons realigned flush as pressed steel. Cells swelled cardinal red, filling every nipping gaping gap, flinging swaddled sheeted cautions out to the spastic wind.

Inert blood flows rerouted sparking forgotten pathways, rushing, cohesing, diminishing, firming up the congregation, dissolving the empty host, everybody but myself, nobody but me, here and here and here, gone.






Point proven, the daylily bloom faded as a mayfly miracle, and fled embarrassed back to the sea. Guests filtered home full of enough leaving only flotsam and me to crash through the apple’s eye, astonished alabaster white, still dancing alone under stripped house light. I was back, a dull replicant, something stitched up in-between. My hour had been and gone but I needed more. A fragment of the miracle had dodged itself in. A dial had clicked. I had to witness again.


The shrapnel gut ached in my monochrome bed, provoking the patterns as they began to tear. Gill green, I couldn’t sleep, I had seen and swallowed the light. The ember of alchemy longed for some oblivious reward, a molten reunion. I began to climb lower and lower for a reprise, any kind of repeat performance. The lost lodestone was pulling me under, trawling the unquenchable Mary-blue brine, desperate for a dose of tectonic crush.


Under the salted depths, compressed to a single page, I was surrounded by a shivering lost shoal, a roaming vagrancy. At the bottom at last, at last I wasn’t alone. There were others who didn’t know how to witness a miracle, make the sign and turn away, to just let it go. Buoyed by our pooled shame, we shed our gills and deformities and headed to the surface. Fish out of water, maimed by the divine, we joined the numbed dismembered chorus of seven thousand. “Again, Again, Again”, we shouted, zombified and incantory, “Again, Again, Again”.


The chorale of carapace craving pulled it back through, or perhaps he just felt he needed to sate the mob again, give them a little taste. Bloody and trembling it arrived back in the world. Something went wrong on re-entry. Idiomorphic crystal cell mutation. Remember bad kryptonite: it simply wasn’t built for an encore. Freed from divine protection and performance restriction the miracle couldn’t be contained. Being the first so young and alone it revealed its incantations to anyone who would listen. Beneath our monkey eye we saw the chance. It didn’t survive the procedure to extract its DNA.


Shops sprang up selling cheap imitations, potions of violet green and khaki blue, each one a watered down watercolour of original wonder.








We were in heaven.


Its fractured helix lay

Bleeding on the pavement,

Fluids evaporating into the sun,

Incense pluming out into the air,


Two boys picked up its cracked spiral,

Good crescents for a joust.


Roll up Roll up!


What price a miracle?






Run For Your Life



The single bead of sweat that ran down my temple was milk white. I wanted to flick out my tongue gecko like to taste its acrid android bite: final proof that I was just a collection of soulless cells - animated slime - a simple denizen of Dawkin’s Darwinian dicksweat…well.

Chemical warfare: my fucked dial downs fighting the icy chimerical ups - insomnia overseeing the minds grey trenches like a vile emperor. But still still still I worked. I was so happy to be Pavlov’s yapping dog or maybe Skinner’s rats pounding for reward…yes.

My legs milled the tread, lungs processed air. I was alive and that was it.




Spiritus Contra Spiritum


A desert of grains.

Crude pearl cultivations,

Itching black atoms that refused to split.

Irretrievable they rattle polka,

Chasing down the warrens,

Of a shiny tin heart.



Tannoy clatter,

The ice on the wings,

Take off delayed, landing obscured.

Spirits alone in a white plastic cup,

Debate everything all of the time.



Motes of gold in the syrupy poison Goldwasser,

Diamonds dusted from

The feet of baby kings,

My children of the contract

Oversee a cripple’s collection.



Amassed in the holes between

The pointless star firmament,

The pyrite pools dried meniscus deep,

Compacted into scrap slabs,

Jettisoned from the chamber earthbound,

The dirt knowingly quaked up for the crash.



Screaming down the Focke Wulf shaft,

Splintering through the shellac plates,

Embedded in the awful deep -

The spidery frail parched bars buckled

Unravelling rusted spinnerets,

Releasing swarms of sawdust chimeras,

Back to their sticky bitumen and ash.



The crumpled carapace compressed,

Punched into to the silt and clay.

Scorched circuits fused into the panting damp,

Exposed wires sparking amber -

Tiny beacons or desperate drops,

Inching through the membranes,

Raking the loam,

Searching for communion,

In the mineral veins.



Tectonics slowly grinded, rasping petrified cognition

As febrile root fissures crept through the ballast.

Equations compressed to cartoon concertinas,

Steamrollered to a pin head density,

Damned - behind the shut eye aperture,

Murmuring, simmering, reconfiguring.

A dissention against the light.



The hydrant red rictus wretched violently,

Fountaining out huge plumes of dissonant garbled theory,

Emptying flamboyant geysers of strangulated excuse,



Balking, screaming, heaving itself drought bile dry,

It evacuated to the parapet of pin drop silence,

Where a million magnetic ball bearings,

Clamoured desperately for their sheet steel union.

But the amalgams undone refused to meld.



The charred limbic laughing stock cracked open

As bile corroded hinges crumbled to sand,

Leaving two carved question marks

To exchange astonished bolt blue glances,

Blinking amongst the Siamese puzzlement

Of a shock separation.



Riding to the end of the discontinued fault line,

Fission had sent out its cleaving pulse.

Elusive obliteration had left.



On familiar cinder tracks

Lit by shafts from flood lights cracked,

The shrapnel lay iridescent,

The atoms breathed imperceptibly.

Bright beluga before the knife.





Alaska (Robin William’s Blues)


Something about the white, the blue,

Dissonance emptying out

Diffuse, through the skyline.


The slow drift crawl brought back gifts;

Rose flakes of redacted unity,

Silvering shards of doubt,

To cleave the rimed possibility,

Minding room for the gap.


All voices became stilled

But the clear stalac drip,

Carving, whittling, transforming,

Glacial in its patience,

Polar in its insistence,

Winding casually round

The idle proposition:

Why not?


Cobalt blue resolution

Thawed to a Iago white clarity,

Sticky mother’s milk whispers

Completed the black coagulate;

Crystalline the only reply

You ever wanted to near:

It will be alright.


You were always the light in the fridge

Clicked on by its gentle release,

And as the door yawned

Its soft murmuring chasm,

The downy blanket of closure

Cushioned over your face.






The girls played on the grass together

Lost in something other than themselves.

The wind cut through the blades,

Each cusp moving in unique union,

Green tipped shoals

Not searching for anything

But the recognition of their own flux.

A knowing now knew

The chance of the cohered self,

The one who plants the flag,

Had gone.

I called their names,

Looking up

Remaining unanswered.