Monthly Archive: April 2016


Like snail the voices stick here
Under the floor, on the glass, in here
They still whisper who were here
And them and you

As if seeing not hearing the fear
That crept like snail and hid here
Lives as new as then and hear
Them trill like a bell

As the skyship sails air here
It rings the shell snail ear
Melting the seventy nine year
Curl up in this shell

The burning lips of gas peel
And shrill sounds a siren steel
The souls searing chorus sings

‘Sail away, sail away
Burning whispers of one day
Drop where snail trail glisten
And listen.’

Teddy at the opera

Teddy and Goat were at the Opera.
Teddy had trouble following the story
So goat gave her some tips.
“The song
Is like a sneeze
It tells you something is wrong
It’s a tease.”
Teddy thought she understood
But still found the rhythm troubling.

I-Spy Teddy

Teddy was driving with Goat.
Goat was playing I-Spy with Eel.
This was made difficult by Eels insistence
That Goat play in shorts.
“That’s not really fair” said Teddy to Goat
After all, you know all the answers.

It and I are sat outside Number Nine with two friends.

Baked dry and summer kissed
Kent brown girls and a boy on
a wall of brick orange cream and brown bread.
Our feet hang like fish on chicken limbs.
Plump skinned thin boned
flop on the green flesh Nasturtium flowers
where we played
with butterfly babies and each other.

A poster paint by number view
Too bright to be true.

Then as seeds and grubs we grow big and drop
Probing the soil
our white finger roots and bottle brush creepers
reach up and touch and tug our feet down
to ground
where in the chalk and flint and stone
stiff stands the wall and I
still drip the years till now.

Dreaming in colour

Wrapped asleep tight in a box like this box
at fourteen I dreamt in red
like a dog dreams of rolling belly up for fun
and of my red riding hood
where the wolf lies red belly up too
split like her lids
red with acne…

Too much!
She was tucked up in a YHA bunk
and I was out and about
sticky in trouble with Steve B and Steve T
wrapped slept together by rain in a phone box.

And awake, and cold, and dream stopped
for no light yet but the dimmest, slowest hint toward the sea.

So we left the red box behind
and as we walked a silver road south
through the orange sheen lit Downs towns
she sank bleached and pink in her bed
and dreamt not of me but of Steve B
the wolf.

So we reached Bournemouth
the wolf, the other and I.
shaking legs and fags we stood and sucked the sea mist in
like ale we belched and howled back
and spat it like our heroes spat.

While she lay white now
a milky feast fit for a pup
or a cub
or for me.
so we slept like dolls, Steve T, Steve B and me
in a bus shelter.
Till the sun blue and the bus came
and she and me grew red again.