I saw a snake swallow an egg.
Eyes bulging it crunched a life
flat in her throat.

Trucks and dead sheep
spun around in the howling coil
of a twister.

In its candyfloss eye I stood,

Squinting upwards I saw the sun.
Jumped for it,
and caught it I did,

skipped across a mountain’s smile,
down to back streets,
in darkness
and a smell of damp soot.

Like a robin’s delicate eggshell,
glass crunched underfoot
as I slid through cones
of halogen lights,
and slithered bereft,
down tin can alleys.

A sly peek at quarter moon
dripped a man-made skin
of light,
earth swallowed her whole:
crushed her foetus flat.


Swiftly Now

Condensation blurs --

       -- reflected in high sash windows,

a crowd of four,

consider paternity in a white room:

 Sharp creased suits turn 

 (quick-eyed flickering looks)

 consider an angle-hipped girl:


not good inside.

She remembered displaced air--

--as hard as glass,

and a simple, irreversible moment,


beneath the silver birch

in a hollow scent of clipped grass.


--Memories blurred…

like distorted reflections

on pewter tankards

of suited men

laughing: curved in time: 1974.

A head tilt and downward glance,

away from the napalmed TV girl:


fists clenched.

Black and white

and shiny.


and static

in a white room.


Herlihy’s Reptile Collection

Georgian crowds bound to him, pondering
a vision: rings of people floating in orbit.

His mind died in damp fog – grey as ashtrays;
croaked, from a throat hollowed brittle
by fags and joints
smoked in a bar, in New York, South Tyneside.

Reborn, at four fifteen, on the cusp of light:
a solitary skink in a tank, in a tower,
in New York, South Tyneside.

Hidden under Shields’ sand,
weaned by electric heat: carefully.
A boy, blond, gawped through glass
blurred and twisted, like mutant pink.
In a tank, in a tower
near New York, South Tyneside.
Skink imagined a birth
pressed out in sharp quartz sand
beneath warm tobacco leaves
mottled, like the Seven Stars floor,
stubbed out fag-end burns,
a tracheotomy's troublesome stoma
his cigarette holder: raw stingers
void his voltage, and scale a suit

crumpled to second thoughts
that scabbed a doubt:
sky is a strip
of electric light,
slung above a bucket.

Autistica FAbularama BiPolaristica

drilling machinery downwards, plunging
needles, pins a brain synapse connection; widgets
welded rivets - smoke, a thought slug, white head
liverish splendour, grinning, clever sly,
husband of black toothed adultress
- anyone but him. Anytime. He leaves,

glistening diamond studded trails, ooze
behind her rubbery slitherer, grins wide
swivel eyed, on stalks, pervay's the corpse
dismissively, body rippling, past cackler's
hysterical laughter at the fat hairless blob
laughing stock and cuckolded slob,
"See? Who the fook are you?"

Moliere & Molly's Magic Ping Moment

It's magic, full of star shaped fuzzy light stuff,

mirror-balls spinning, floating in bright yellow light

Molly, me and humanity - warm skins, a glowing

patina of sweat beads circling fractured fractions,

of fractious thoughts, we lie down, dark shadows merge

into our special white yellow light.

A butterfly, broken wings, crushed chrysalis bits,

meringue pieces lying on fresh tarmac.

A warm road skin - glowing black liquorice -

shiny water droplets, steam rises - smells nice.

"Bye, bye!" little boy cries,

crying tear drops splatter.

Now unaware, coming up, disassociating ethereal

grounds, as sunlight pings from window to mirror,

pulsing light, signifying to some -

fir trees on a horizon line, black against orange

nibbling a sky, blue blurred, fraying edges, threadbare.

Diverging now - shadow memories decorate pavements,

hardened, like Plato's cave, the thirteenth (magic it is!) chakra,

a multi-faceted two dimensional timeless blood line.

Add ten, multiply, divide, sequence, linearise the binaries.

Then it's done, now he's gone. And her, and her. And him.

Pinging towards the sky. Forever happy.




Blue eyes, furrowed nasal bridge frown, caressed, coveted and possessed.
Running away from tragedy. Remedial action required, a thought wisp.
He knew, the third eye, it can help that piece of every one;
fall back to the one, the me, that is needed.
Not a creeper, a crawler manipulator - listening and walking
suspicious and constant is the interruption and irritation
disruption and cancellation of my thought processing.
Obstructive - a road block to progress. Obstructive a thought planter - limpet like
in the distraction of her destructive need to control, hurt and gloat
at the result.

Stamina is such that no amount of double Dutch code speak - "it's a load of shite" -
response as a cover for blank faced stupidity would help.

A good mother? Probably, but so what?
What does that mean?
But the stone man is dreaming a dream of passing - passing –
still with me and him and her and them - all to one place - somewhere she is not.

The lad walked in, and she's back again, desperate to interrupt and control the situation.
To make her voice heard - come what may - what is envy?
She knows: fear. Looking in the mirror and seeing time.
Snow falls slowly, methodically, gradually, smoothing it all out. The
trees, bushes, dustbins and plants merge with cars, even houses.

The frozen land that crept through leather soles to freeze skin flat.

In the memory he looked eighteen months old, unsteady toddler,
standing, staring at his wrist. It had a bandage wrapped around it,
tied to the cot, bright white enamel metal.

He cried.




Toes started it. Nipping cold toe, blue shiny
frozen toe. Meandered, lazy like,
to fingers.

Peripheral light flickered sharply divergent and diagonally
he succumbed to a slumber, he wanted day before stuff
from a soft edged vista. He peered through a hole in time, jagged edges.
Surrounded, each side also, lines of Aztec gnomes, hats reddened
or blackened: depending on the thought mode.

Some frowned or glowered returned neutrality: back in the eye.
Acuity, concision and precision is a watchmaker’s blindness;
the last words lost to him, too small in time rewound 17 times over,
elevated shore line - misty heat haze above it lifted them
to red sky, blue sky and green.

Jealousy splits granite – slowly – ice
numbs it, time cracks it. Gone for good.

Bubba, Billy the Cat and me. At shore’s edge, waves small,
frothy saline drips,
i.v. leaking, blood dripping, puss fills a jar.
Life, it’s not that far,
elevates us into the eye-line
shimmer and the beauty and light of love.

The beginning is the end sometimes,
futile, lonely.
The mind’s eye or a Third Eye.

Lobsang knew.


Witch’s Asp.

Swagger, curled lip snarl, high level android mentat, logic processor,
feelings guesser.
Thin mist of never caught thoughts hovers in periphery,
smeared to grey fog’s pirouette effect – velvetine leatherette,
luxury he imagines. Wrong again, of course,
Null void; reactionless, marble stone-faced cold, beard icicles dangle.

She surveys him, with warm love, no melting,

“You’re cold, callous, full of badness, suck the goodness from me,”
Evil you are, no feeling, don’t feel, don’t care don’t know.

She cried it like a Lioness who has lost a cub to the new Lion,
face crumpled in pain.

Hurt words exploding invisibly
around flint eyed ice bearded man

“love, yes,” he said.
“love, but never call, never go, never ask, never a card or a word, never…..”

The hurt he saw it, it evolved like a limpet, it stuck
to his thoughts, it evolved into a burrowing thing, it burrowed into his brain,
the bit that feels and explains the pain.

And he saw it there in her, he did, he saw it there. The first time
he cried he couldn’t stop. It hurt a lot.
Not him, her, he thought, not me her, he thought, he tried to anyway.



Fly away Peter Fly away Plant

Starlight smile spangling doe eyes; soft

sunlight in velvet chestnut mantle.

Deep soulful eyes smiling, survey him.

Dreaming of the sensual curve of calf

    • stilleto balanced on toes, leaning in

    • and cupping hands; lingering touch

    • complete control; I'd know; I'd needed; caressing

memories of that first night. When we were younger than before, my

heart opening for the first time, that mischievous grin

stirs my soul for the first time,

the memory of it even now, the last time,

whenever I kissed your lips

pure, soft and sensuous. Beautiful.

Waves of love flowed out of me to you

never stopped being in love with you.

Dreams of sun drenched beaches and being in your arms again

Always in love and caressing

Queen of my night and Mother of Mine.

Forgive me.



Some incentive is needed to produce
Buy contact from, a magic number,
Called one.
It surprises one that no one, ever, is active, or
As clever, without
Knowing. Is manipulated, easy, no shame, or fear
But blame, yes blame there is, plenty of. And fear,
Yes fear there is, a lake of it, full of tears of pain shame,
That one lasts the longer, like a rebound mirrored forever,
Pinging away inside your brain, just when you think it’s gone
Ping, back it comes, like a dog with a ball,
Fear that is, pit of stomach panic fear and anxiety attack stuff,
A dead tree, swings and creaks, no leaves, not ready to snap,
But it will split like a melon chopped and spray splinters as it
Smashes a few things; besides time is a healer, money is a sticky plaster that
Helps the healing process along, loads of money is pain relief
But if you now know the what of how to do the stuff, in the book it is,
Just do it – I would.
So should you.

    The Way

The way is to stay away, detach, “attachment is crap,” says Buddha,
He does, it says it, “attachment is crap”, in his book,
“Lead the way, me teeth’s gone, me legs are fucked,” said Buddha,
But me brains’re intact. In fact, activated to follow,
Slavishly, the way set. The way of words in books, and thought hooks,
“it weren’t me, it were ‘im it were, he’s a twat,” so sayeth the Buddha
The dictat signifier of a kinda inchoate heuristics thingy, and the effect
On the ontological what’s ‘is name? Is unpredictable, like logical positivism,
That pseudoscience stuff and other bollocks, just like that.
Just have a fucking fag, or a tab, choke your fucking self
Have another gallon of beer, gan on, yer kna yer want it.
The fucking twat he shat that fucking fat greasy bastard of a fucking in cress well, towers
Above a long way like a spinacle of glass, twinkling a bit, and shiny, like a car,
In a long stay car park, and a postcard lands lightly – the thought inside
It – the thought on it – the love in there, hidden, and there, and every
Where, follow that then – but follow. When you lose the me you lead,
You are very careless indeed,
Like being a child, kidnapped, now punished as the devil’s child
Beware, declares, the curse intercepted rebounds back to you?
No the one next to you. Never you.
You are you, you are mine and I am yours, we are we, we are there
We are here, our minds are there. Beaten for you there, see?
More than you, that’s fair
Even now, we are, even, okay?

Push me to the something there, not a whine or a whinge or a cry, something more than just fuck off and die, too easy, it’s what he wants? You, you really, really don’t see the power you have over the us of being them and one. See?
Q. E. fookin’ D.



Not That bad

Sad, not bad, mad not sad, no not sad, unaware, anywhere, bad anytime,
“What you looking at twat? Eh?”
Sad, yeah pretty sad, not really, really sad, no, "out there" sad;
somewhere high now,
In a k-hole, when I was two, out of body
smogged up for good then, fogged up
And choked up, choking on a star – its crescent congruence pertains to the appellation:
Constellation, stellar and canny good.
You could have it all, if it made bad not sad, or sad bad, just for a day,
Just for a friend who stayed true to you in the end he did, for you, you know?
Stay true he knew and you loved, because you is me, is you too, see?
All imagined, helical congruence is just a parallax view of it all.
Shaped, spangled, tangled and she played, indeed, twangled, strings vibrating
The heart in a red star glistening soft edged rose, red swollen
Exalted, excited, anticipated on elbow and knee creation, a fog of love descends,
Honey and the caress a cupping of unaware intuitive feeling my paradigm slide slowly
Clearly - plug in and turn on – clearing, disappearing –
“let me see it,”
Coming, coming, coming – it’s over make it harder
Get parted, diverge – demerge – avoid – polarity switch, core started the time of last orders
Dancing in the pale blue and white striped dress, pale above knee, bright shining doe eyes,
Illuminating mine, mine, she said. “Sometimes,” is the best it got, but now it’s never.
Left turn at the bog roll factory, or the box factory in the valley – she went, she came, and so scents life and the dying.
Photographs curl, like a fish on a line twisting and dying slowly - image fades,
The heart – the soul – the dead – the living we know, but unaware, of there and here.
That’s the place: the waste of time displaced; wanted and dreaded it flew by faster and larger.
Dropped through a fog of curlew craven crow like things with wings, a thought, it was;
A dawning of a new neurological quizzling report of an element of diligently laden kant that seeks to lay to rest, the rest of the true best – No, true.
Sad not bad.

But sad?

Aye, and that’s a fact.