There will come a time
In future lines of
Epic poetry
Where scientists extract
Ego from its usurping
Residence, its hijacked
Flying palaces,
Like a dark diamond
Stolen from the mines
Of enlightenment,
As a scratched diadem
Snatched from
The scalp leaves
A ring in the skin
Of a sleeping king,
It struggles and
Clings as octupeses
With beak and tongue
Swallow their prey
Somewhere beneath
The unfathomable dreams
In plankton and sea-bream,
Sea-bream more commonly
Known as pomfret.

Deeper still, like
A hoarder of
Fuselages on the
Ocean bed,
Broken in three,
Transponders and
Navigational wingtip
Lights emitting
Dimly and contrary
To the properties
Of flight,
It struggled and
Flailed wildly
As it surfaced
Into Antarctic
Sunbeams up from its
Installed in
A museum for captured
Unnecessary parts,
Sanctioned for the
Disasters, there’s no
Comfort for the visitors
Who queue to see the
Surprising, underwhelming
Size of that dark mass,
Displayed in
A repurposed
The scientists wore hazmats,
The scientists are poets
Who will one day enscribe
Definitions in gold plaques,
That blotch-bead preserved in
The amber-aspic victories
Of the bodhisattvas.


The local crows on fire
Were used as projectiles
Into the pit where the women
Would sit while a cleric
Determined the extent
Of their irreligiousness.

When I was a teenager
I made you a mixtape
On a TDK ferrite strip,
And if the tape chewed up
On your Walkman
We could fix it, with a pencil.

These are the same two worlds
But my hurt is displaced
For Asia, and Malala, and every
Other recepient of man-made
Injustice and medals of pain.
Mine is not the same, yet
The tape bobbed on the river.

The Horologist’s Song

A timeless unwinding of love,
We dismantled the blossom clocks
From Guangzhou to pause lotuses
Opening their bouquet-tunes;
Music produced for the Queen
Of Heaven is on hold in
The brass and copper components
Which wonder how they lost
The moment of their subtle roles.

I would not be so complacent
To overlook the craftsmanship
Of the opulent Asian creed
Of peacock silhouettes and
Jade apparatuses. The ripples
In your name are released
With a gasp as I unclasp
And reappraise the eternal
Struggle of apertures in Time.

The assonance, the lyrical
Sweep of your name rill
Through the teeth of my
Rehearsals like streams
Flowing over precious stones
Glistening underwater;
We have stripped the needs
Of ego as we dipped our feet
In the dials of my training.

May these distinct entities
Rewind with answers for two
Distant lovers; a former state
Repatriated, Love’s levels
Slowly rose like water-marks
Behind the buttress dams
In Hubei Province, not far
From the alarms at the start
Of dragon boats fiercely racing.

Eton Mess

They made a pudding, gave it a name,
Now two repasts are never the same;
No table-head, no Toby Jugs,
No morning kiss, nor goodnight hugs.

Hunting meringues, cold sugar-coated,
Furs of fox, wick-weasel throated.
Institutions in the wolds
Poured strawberries on the whipping folds.

A kitchen cabinet’s full of mugs,
The mugs have mugshots made of thugs,
They bore a mace, wore ermine gowns,
And pasted slogans through the towns.

Ah, they’re cheering cracks of willow paddle!
But underneath the leather saddle
There’s neither lion, nor horse from shire,
But running creases, Truth’s for hire.

It’s butter churned at Corpus Christi,
Though source of Sophistries are misty;
I’d rather pen-portay some anarchy,
Than this Middle England’s apathy

To anaphylactic taxing of our sense,
We’re told its better for defence
Of national interests long since sold;
They’ve got the cure for common cold.

Moving On, Not Moving On

Do you remember
When love was composed
Of moments that mattered.
I remember incomplete
Semblances of light
Piercing through patresses
Which flattered the soul,
Landing on the carpets
And comforting rugs
Of sentences
Sometimes forgotten,
But habitually
Resurfacing without knowing
Their purpose as they’d unfold.

See how in these strands
Of memory alert to
Dust in slow-burning noons,
There is nowhere for me
To hide as soon sunlight glides
Into my room for the living,
My coffee is cold, and memories
Unforgivingly dismember
The ingredients for
Moving on.
How we agreed we fitted
Like pieces cut into life’s puzzle,
Or a key in a gate
To meadows where

Buttercups would bloom
In the yellow hues of useless
Eternity; for we are two keys
For other locksmiths
And like pollen
Our love was scattered
To the four seas, those ranging
Blue plinths of the sacred minds
Of prophetesses who once
Spelunked in the Hebrides and
Who own more love now, more
Respect than my Hesperides
Descending through the bones
Of half-closed curtains.

Yes, we moved on
From the fusing of our arteries,
From the quiet platform
Of fond remembrance.