Seen in Morocco 1974 A run-down village of adobe walls painted shabby shades of rose-red pink stands forlorn on an Atlas plateau – this is Morocco. A long-dead jacaranda with sun-bleached rigor mortis branches reaching like beggars’ beseeching arms too flimsy for goats to roost on supporting ravens and a loose-slung canvas awning stands in the square.
» Read moreGeoffrey Chaucer, though dead as a saucer, towers in April showers. From “Disoccidented” by Alfie Shoyger: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Disoccidented-Alfie-Shoyger/dp/1999922859
» Read moreMoody poets are most volatile and unpredictable, they are complained of for their lack of continuity, that you can never trust them, that their constant roller-coaster causes trouble and imperil not relationships alone but even lives, and so the irritation of the growing avalanche goes on. The problem is, however, not the poet but poetic over-sensitivity. It’s creativity that
» Read moreWandering ghosts hide whispering in the mist, Forgotten voices echoing across barren fields, Here only one thing seems to grow, their twisted bone branches still reaching Longingly towards home, each day a new a new crop is sown, watered with the blood of the innocent, warmed by the heat of an endless rain of fire, watched over by a
» Read moreThis is a memory of a place rarely visited. A recently trusted wilderness, where I wandered without worry, when the light died and the curtains closed. Now, with intervening years, scar tissue has re-opened and legionnaires march to war along a tow path, where boat horses once walked. A lonely location, Victorian canal side, where fishing with nets and futile death
» Read moreNo, not quite as yet, there might be shortcomings and hangovers, there might be some abruptions, something wrong that wrecks the gears, some sabotage and sand or mud in the machine or in your eyes, but let the show go on, and let the party start anew; when wrecked aside, marooned and thrown off every saddle, there is still
» Read moreThe planet ricochets to prophets’ chants and I am forced to only half-mistrust what Nostradamus fished from out his trance and revelations bishops have discussed. Does everybody think they’ve got it sussed, shrugging with dismissive looks askance? And worst of all, as this would be unjust, what if the world expires before my chance? What if someone has a
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