Tuesday, 20 September 2011


I was holding the edge of your skirt;
it was tough fustian, 
the kind of artisan thing
with the hard stitching
of a babushka
which it has become fashionable
to fashion and indeed wear here
in Brooklyn, when I finally woke up;
and shook off pain,

if not killed it,
with the waking up of words I first read,
or heard spoken on warm lips
not above crowds really

but really above a vent
and the backdrop of an apartment

And it was cold but not truly Christmas.

I favour the truth now älskling
it won’t hurt to say,
a thing like; I love you
and the tough edge of your artisan’s skirt

though you’ve never yet worn it
or owned it,
and once again I’ve let
the appropriateness of an image
take truth one stich further
than I oughta,
because it sounded better. 

Monday, 19 September 2011


You were with the Sufi,
last time I looked,
holding on to his skirts,
as the red eyed hashishin,
offered you small glass cups of tea, 
sweeter then a child’s voice
from the damp sheets of a dream

I will look again, one day soon,
and I don’t know what to expect,
except a sand storm, 
crumbling ramparts, 
the slow hooves of a camel
and you, sheathed in silks,
protecting your eyes from the sun. 

Friday, 9 September 2011


All I said I’d do is sit here,
waiting for your hand to lift its fist
clenched to hit, waiting is all I did

"I share your frustration" you said,
as I clenched mine,
and in the rattling of a sabre,
or the snarl of a dog, it was over,

all those careful acts scattered
and now in boxes, stacked
jumbled in storage, or half tumbled
from cupboards,

this was never the way of war,
armies should range in rank
careful generals assess the valley
and the direction of the wind

before their volleys are cast;
because it’s a serious business 
to hack the flesh of men, 
it calls for doctors and poets,

but when we came at eachother,
the war against terror 
was year younger than us; 
and we had only lawyers.