Seven

My palm lines are changing –
Life is rearranging,
Slowly, piece by piece.
Scintilla soul,
Tesserae hole,
My apocrypha, at least,
Is over
For now.

A cloud that day,
That cloudless day,
Revealed its fury,
Furies revel
In sixes and sevens.
Spectacles covered,
Pigeons survived,
Dustsheets all over,
Sevens and nines.

Dead escalators.
Tokens to green,
Covered in dust,
Dust and debris.
Sirens pervasive,
And pervasive
We collapsed
Or scratched
Or stretched
As an inflexed
Naked armpit.

Asphyxia,
Suits say die,
So they said,
And so we trust;
Yet truth can be
Evasive.
Grey faces,
Early grey hair
Like a Lowry abroad.
Hatzalah paramedics
Abound in my
Parallel dreams.
I wake
In a sweat
Into boundless rust,
Into blue sky
And a useless sword
To thwart a seam.

Nile

Rivulets of such gravity
Haemoglobin cavities;
Blood falling thick as rain,
Thick as thieves disguised
In deepening red,
Plotting in clots
Through the depths of my bed.

This is where it all begins,
Mere oxygen,
Sheer hydrogen,
Globules in a stream,
A Nile along my forearm,
Neither white nor blue,
But red, and red, and red again.

The end of my existence
Will be the death of tea;
I donated blood today
And shared the leaves in me.

Everybody Matters

I am my own death.

Uplift blackening acrid smoke.

People fall down.

Blessed observers
Surviving
And thriving
On wi-fi
And serendipity.
Some did choke.
Some awoke,
But not all.

I gave birth
To twin apostrophes
Then suddenly spoke.

Bleak confetti,
Death wedding,
Lateral bleeding,
Distant heaven.

I dreamt last night
That every living entity
Has soul,
So why is there
In some buildings
And some people
That deeply observable hole.

Taxes, beliefs
And comfort
Paid for all this.
You can talk and share
All you want,
Blind and besotted,
But beyond a white cap
The next one is
Already plotted.

Numbers, Part 2

Plastic bag in a tree
And a sizeable saving
By a company
Still to this day
Profiteering.

Divide by seventy two
And you will finally find
The value of one human life
To the north of a borough
Is equivalent in weight
Of a wife’s whiskey sour
In the lies of the mouths
Of their blue sickened south,
South to the south of a tower.

I cannot yet rewind real life;
But when I can, I will
Know those perpetrators
And their sad accounts
One by one, although
There are those who continue
With more grief in their arms
Than I have ever known,
Who still continue with more dignity
Than any member could ever redeem
In number ten, or eleven, or three.

If you want to see,
Touch, and hold
Discrimination raw as
Rotten fruit in your hand,
And also observe
Sallow platitudes
From an MP and their man,
Their deepest is shallow,
Just head for the gallow
Dressed up in green,
Witness how words
Defer and demean.

Ode To Fame


One day, you will be old
And as wounded
As putrefied fruit
On life’s dining table.
Memories of your folds
And your unmet fears
All but faded,
They melted away like ghosts
On the road to
Your home in
Villanueva del Rosario

So you flew far and wide,
And you documented all
As the infernal place cemented;
People love colours
If purposes suit,
Lovers of movement
With a kit and a boot,
But all movements made
Give illusions their root.

You owned the diurnal,
You owned a dispersal;
They made arrests
On Grecian beaches
Yesterday, refugees
On deflating, sinking dinghies
Paid the price of your coat,
And you traded it all
For a soft drink and hope.

Serialised

Where do they go to?
Those endless rows
Who once sat, bless,
Pleased as punch
And bright as a bunch
Of tulips essential
To our well-dressed
Red-shoed universe.
They sang a hymn,
They learned a word,
Only ten or twenty years
Ahead to be interred
In brambles and roses
For the wrongs
Of a man, or men,
Or whoever we failed
In our future roles
To only once deter.

Green Dog

A dog painted green in the woods,
A white frog caught in floorboards
In my dewy miller’s youth,
Begins in my memory’s mouth,
A horseshoe over the door,
Rusty, swung another way round.

Those brass horseshoes abounded,
Luck pours out like the entrails
Of stars in the observable universe,
Pouring like turned milk from jugs
Invisible to the naked eye,
Invisible to the soul.