For breakfast I eat up my vowels, my a e i o u, to which I add from consonants a fricative or two;
After that I move my bowels then write as poets do, and frequently am quite surprised to feel a trill come through.

Thursday, 19 January 2012


the dark river runs
between a dog and a wolf
full moon

Friday, 13 January 2012

how the old dog loves
this treasury of jaw bones:
gypsy hill
winter grey
the old dog running
in his dreams

Thursday, 12 January 2012

awoken by thunder. . .
fading into the call
of the imam

Wednesday, 4 January 2012

A Railway Stitch

With a clickety-clack we sit untogether
like jazz inharmonics in a syncopated yarn
pulled along the lines of Granny’s knitting needles:
she’s knitting knots of might-have-beens
in each stitch of a pattern she’d once worn
a year before the War when wool was cheaper
than lives unchained, cast-off, unpurled;
before the death of her father drowned
in a field of mud with seeds of bloodied bullets,
and before the now of clickety-clack halt:
another stitch dropped at here and gone station.

First published in The Flea, August 2011 - Broadsheet 18