Autobiography

A belly-full of flirting –
and looking back
posts are knocked into the
ground at equal
distances
and look at me leaning back
against one of them –
smiling and referring back

Unworthy

Driving through an upscale neighborhood in Nashville Tennessee on my way home one day.

When I was fifteen I had a flashback in Wigan High street.

ich

th thing is good

We lived in a cul-de-sac. A modern 1960s-built sort of square dead-end. Our house was embedded within the square or rectangle of houses which sat around a central patch of grass.

Filthy rotten bad mood now. Just wrote for two hours and lost the lot, auto recover only saved the first couple of paragraphs when the computer decided to shut down to load some updates.

Today is the day. The day
of the
annual phoney get together.
Every damn year
we take out all the
ungrateful selfish
bastards that we
very kindly
employ. Some as long as

On the bright thread of time
I am nobody’s child
On the bright thread of time
I am not your mother
But some kind of kindred spirit
With the power of a larger body

Today I looked into the eyes
of the woman that is
my mother.
The vessel that carried
me for nine months. The vessel
that fed and nurtured me.
Kept me deep within

“When I am gone, I shall not be the dust
That licks your soles beneath your steps wind-borne,
Nor yet the thread of ash that, shorn of lust
And reason, trails the mantle of the storm;

nostalgia again..sorry

Yes, where the hell have I been? Again.

When I saw him, the night before, he looked his usual size.

The hands of the clock
wave stiffly through the small hours;
a lengthy, bitter goodbye.
I sit in four-cornered dark,
so awake yet wrapped in a shroud
that slowly slips from black to grey.

A story of The Mayflower

Monday March 2nd

Dean and I would have been together ten years yesterday - the sixth of March - bur we split up, so it was also the end. I can't claim not to be upset, but when its over, its over.

I’m asked to write of hope, a subject which
Resists festoons of metaphor with almost
The same propriety as death. Foremost
Among the skills that make a poet rich