Saturday, 19 March 2011


I thought I’d never start a poem like this:

the moon…

it seems too cheesy
a bad joke, like that bad joke

but it is the moon seeming
larger looming, slicking
roofs sick of frost on the first night of spring

offering us; the bewildered

not found in rolling coverage of earthquakes,
a shoeless girl weeping the soaked tatami
where isotopes dare her wait a half life for love

or in the cracking of Africa’s burnt crust; 
the sudden end of history 
as we knew it the last time our moon dared so near.

Realpolitik in its ghostly glow breaks
free of the dossier haunting headlines
but doesn’t seem as mad, 
as you and I dear, raving
for nights as bright as this,

feeling wolf hungry, daring the lunatics
to draw their curtains, and set us free.

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

Your little finger

Your little finger
is a match in my hand
I strike it like a cartoon cowboy
on neglected stubble
to light your cigarette

You’ll need a manicure now,
and the flame surely burns,
But the smoke is consoling
and your eyes reflect fire
like amber in the sand.

Brain Heat

The bed is harder than asphalt
hotter than tar cooked
to a gritty treacle by July

and although it’s March, winter
still grips the roof with killer’s fingers
the heating thuds guilty carbon belches

and I writhe with the brain heat,
cranium cracking like a fault fired pot,
flames finding weakness and licking it.

I made this mind a crematorium
and for assembled family roll us in
corpses on a barge blaring

all the rock songs of summer
and winter’s dreams of heat                      
lost in the absence of consoling sleep