What it says on the tin...


laid one over the other like lovers the lines of the letter the kiss in the ether this is not you and this is not me I write it I write it and practice until it is perfect

'We cannot experience molecules in the same way we experience dogs'

every level of us is imperfect theory. It is the rough tongue of experience makes the universe’s primal unevenness evident. As the eye fissions the previously perfect line,

A photograph of you sitting on a white plastic seat on the Hook of Holland/Harwich ferry in the midday sunlight on August 13th

Although I never said exactly what I was thinking, and although I realise that twenty-three years is a long time to have waited and the moment may not be as fresh

blue gunpowder starring

there is slow dynamite watch the blue gunpowder starring flashes and bursts beyond the road we drive along in separate cars it is a shared moment a controlled
Gold cherry

Chiesa di San Giacomo Maggiore

I lit a candle in front of the fierce gilt of the Madonna, in the still air. The church was massive and filled with silence, and, although I knew that you were not there


The sea is cold and salt and, though we are many, we are always alone. You are too beautiful. It is our curse to find you so, to be drawn to your light, to need you. This is not life,
Gold cherry

Red wine

Red wine at John’s was a laugh and it wasn’t. Tongue-curling sour. His mam bought him twenty fags, a full Showaddywaddy drape in scarlet and gave him twenty quid to blow


He was always there. Gobshite. Loudmouth. At first, you were grateful that someone had said even hello. 5.30 in the morning, the depot filling with tired men in hi-vis clothes,


This is a lost art, a skill from the past, like riding a bike or playing tic-tac. I am rejoining the club. Standing here, I remember them, the anonymous men:

The starlings over Abbey Park

Autumn. The starlings over Abbey Park pinwheeling, turning the hard sky - splinters of ink, diffusing. Sudden dark shakes and fills the rough-barked, aching trees;

The dead crane at Battersea

hangs rusty chains in the January wind, strapped, a loose Ulysses at the edge of the Thames, hearing no song, massive and bowed. Tomorrow’s dawn will lap light

us, and the stars

are scratches on the night’s skin, cold as blades of grass and wet as lips. They do not change. They move, hung in constellations given sense by the myths we create here,

We walk through streets empty of all language

We walk through streets empty of all language and so I say nothing accordingly. Not looking at you is hard to manage and I never do these things well. I see

Driving through cloud towards Capel-y-ffin

I am driving into the mist and sky with the windows open. I am touched, drenched, wet with beauty, dripping song. The air hangs, deep and alive with rain. My tiny voice

Iggy Pop's Eyes, Manchester Apollo 1977

beautiful clown boy pulling asymmetries of chopping bass bird ribs and spotlight halo your eyes Pagliacci glazed mirrors wells of sorrow we stare...

Last night

Last night I dreamed about you for the last time. So strange, how we spoke for hours, like we never have. Perhaps once. Wordless, I remember sitting...

The Things That You Are

A black cat sliding through the slick grass of my awful garden, all yellow eyes and symbolism. Hope. Champagne in a Mykonos bar. The moon broken on...

Icar us

I am here under your bla zing sun. Your heat still burns my skin and I imag ine your finger tips find ing paths along my arms, swooping over my...


Karen, You are not perfect. Neither am I. You are not an archetype, a projection; a cipher for my more complicated need for companionship or...


You are in the sky above Africa and I keep looking out of the window, watching October spin leaves like the hands of clocks. Everything shifts so...


Back home, as I undress, I breathe in and am lost to your perfume, unmistakable on my T-shirt. Visceral, I feel your presence, pulling me back to my...


I'm becalmed in a day , Karen, as flat as this page; silent as paper. The scents of rooms with unopened w indows . Heady p eonies in vases. Trees,...

London Sun

Sun spilt my path along the Dalston roads, and, I swear, some of those twenty zones and traffic lights that changed to red as I approached them made...

Aphex Twin - Selected Ambient Works 85-92

This music. It's beautifully balanced, but it doesn't have the wamth of your arms or your rushing laughter's heady buzz. If I lose myself in it for a...

Mrs Dalloway III - In The Garden

Lying in bed with you full in my arms. Music swells and slides to fill this dark room: Mrs Dalloway III - In The Garden. "It's beautiful, right?" "...

Lock in

The clock scratches four, and the pub is dog-lit. You and six other young men sit, ranged at the top end of the long wooden bar, after hours, in hard...


This wall of birdsong against the deepening sky and its attempted evening is like the day, though it knows that it must leave, refusing to go. I turn...


Threaded through the rain-sown air or the cut of sun through the window. Overheard a hundred times in passed conversations. Written in grass, the...

Like music

The sun is a heart beating light into the coldness of space. And this heart is a small, ugly dog running joyfully through the bright spring air,...

Blue Smoke

Did anyone ask me if I wanted this? No, they bloody well didn’t. And if they had, I’d have said to them, you can keep it mate. Not interested. I’ve...

Neurodivergent Tea

An unprompted good cup of tea is the best cup of tea first thing on this rainy morning. He is becoming independent. This pleases me. I step back,...

Breakfast At Tiffany's

She wasn’t really that wonderful, or even especially nice, but she looked very good in her Vogue power stance in a tense cloud of backlit dry ice...


Clinging hard to life with shrill knuckles of rosaries, in coats like bruises they prayed through pinched lips and plastic teeth. Hail Mary . The...

J’ai dormi sous l’eau

Waiting has its own tides and I have slept beneath the sea, playfully pulled away from shore to wide, shifting fields of spray shattered, broken,...

Beacon Hill

Today, I have found you in the small spaces, the pauses of thought, the stops. You are in the differences: shades of green on Swithland stone, broken...