Category: Poetry

A plump gherkin swims round a jar, as chips crackle. Pasties malinger and saveloys shirk. Gristle and sinew are scraped with a rattle off skewers. Through lack of hard work, thistles continue to flourish, they lurk in untiled nooks. The misted wall is panoramic Istanbul. The boy you can’t take that place out of sits these days beneath the Brandenburg

  Sweet folly of wisdom, the experience of your hardship is more valuable as education than whatever merits of material life, certificates, awards and medals counting nothing in comparison with the humility of personal disaster, since most people have to learn the hard way by surviving suicides and nervous breakdowns to be kind and human, all that matters. Indians of

  How come that love is always either or, an overwhelming inundation sweeping everything and everyone away or drying up for thirst in smothering desertification leaving you alone in languishment pathetically miserable in abandonment? – and then the flood comes back again and drowns you in its force. How come you never find a middle way in love, which seems

When I was a child, at school I lost a perfumed eraser green border on top I cried for days. Now I am losing my world signing it off to destruction life catapulted with weapons graying the verdure of being together as friends, family, neighbors. With painful words adulterated actions the infinite wide stage, not an eraser, is breaking apart

The moon was ready to part unlike me the silver ball, with all its crews in its single hue hidden forms, out of sight knows it’d reincarnate anytime in the huge blank of blue. I am never done it seems with transactions of all sizes, shapes and colors alas I am never ready to leave the body. That pending interaction

  When in the shadows of the night we change identities in cover of what can’t be seen and get confused about as who we really are, emerging with profundity into each other, you becoming me and vice versa, it is difficult to know if love is real or only madness as our senses are distorted by the ultra-rational intensity

  Fuck off, shit slam-poet soaking up at the bar, convinced you really know wit, convinced that you’re a star, applause in ears as you stand cocktail in hand, full of cocky tales that entail your hand on your cock, or your clit, with your Mockney or Jafaican accent turned down now that you’re off the stage, to reveal you’re

I think this has been here before but it has been savagely edited – so not quite the same pome as was.