Four Poems, 2018

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2016 was a Bitch


2016 was a bitch you said. I’ll say that…


many heavyweight stars died 

and observatories harvested full-moons

like fruit slung from low branches.


Fascists and bipolar boyfriends trended, mindfully colouring faces blue. 

Migrants became sad. Reporters spoke of states hugging borders governments abused. 

Brutalists, astrologers and the absurd understood these broad fates and sweeping gestures.


While you posted ‘self-hatred’ and ‘Neoliberalism’ in the same sentence, 

I packed a bag, thinking love must exist in a metropolis or country

too wide to photograph, not in this networked township.


So I travel in search of a big mind, (in theory), floodgates continue to break

as though a pick-axe had struck walls of a circling aquarium, we pick

redemption from wreckage, one star, globe, red-faced breath…


Dinosaur Scoliosis


Down up down

my dinosaur spine,

breath rides,

choppy as Lake Hollywood.


Observing, physiotherapists

set flag-semaphore style exercise

in abrupt adolescent onset,


before I heard my

tyrannosaurus neck crunch 

at table, sofa, computers…


crunching along Riverwalk, breath 

flows like water on pins, air

fills my vast vertebral mechanism


as if walking history, as if

stalking a glass museum.



Nana’s Blue Eyes


Nana’s blue eyes burn over Christmas turkey, 

their safety flames move 

before lips.


‘Have you met someone yet?’ 

She bites onto dear life for a wedding.




One perspired marathons in sleep.

Dates ran fast from his diary

                     …insipid, invisible ink.


One hid a passion for men

behind closed doors. His flat –

a play-den of phallic tools.


One would only speak 

to his therapist of my faults.

Silence was their punishment.


One whose ex’ tried to lose life 

whole by swallowing pills.

He found himself reticent to commit.


One’s Romantic moods, 

oceans from home, engulfed 

with mania and contempt.


One praised then critiqued 

as a Ballet Master would, 

ignoring protestations til’ I bled


and bled.


‘No Nana, I haven’t met anyone yet.’




The Autumn Edition.


She sits amiably with herself 

in a public place.


Rolling cashmere sleeves, unzipping an engraved pen.

The almost Saint-Laurent handbag has a place for everything.


A man behind her coughs cappuccino into his saucer, notices:

one lock of shiny hair falling proud of each ear.


She bites an airbrush effect pink lip while pressing ink 

onto an envelope selected for purpose this morning.


She writes, every character with upward stress:


Nails. Too mauve for Autumn.

Coffee. Generic at £2.90.

Route home. Uninspired.

Body. Unfit for the gym, yet.

Car. Filthy in view of bike.

Mornings. Too late for optimism.

Facebook. Poor nourishment for lunch.

Short-wavelength-enriched time. Gratuitous.

Hours. Cut.

Leanne. Spreading slurs. Delete.

Leanne’s friends. Screwing faces up. Delete.

Family. Controlling. Place egg-timer by phone.

Partner. Mentally absent. Rethink.

Childhood sweetheart. Forget.

Unborn child. Stick a pin in it.

House. Inappropriately suburban.

City. Competitive/smells.

United kingdom. Claustrophobic.

Life. Edit edit edit.

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