Hear the Hush of the Axe Behind You

A collection of older poems, some from the last few years, some older than that. Some are funny, some are sad, some odd, some beautiful, some just unsettling...



without you catch her voice, whispering why within wild waves. your tie still worn black a year gone. each cigarette is seven minutes of forgetting, (or not remembering)


carryon crunching down on a meal of gravel, my teeth, red raw and shattered, bawl with enamel duress. as i choke on bloodied regret. the ground caught my cheek in awkward landing.


cortege like an eel, the cars crawl in a line over the curling russet cushioned carpet. shiny black metal polished with late afternoon sun, a solemn, sluggish pace set


margins i am becoming like a series of pencil strokes; an addendum. squeezed in without thought whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. just a name, left to curl and fray

heart attack Friday

heart attack Friday something about the nearness of the weekend, moves the hearts of a certain kind of man to frenzied beating, squeezed in the grip of the fading glow of the week:

the principal of one lost shoe

the principal of one lost shoe i have lost a good many things in my time: a key, money, good friends, a brown leather jacket, more money, poems on scraps of paper like this one,

farewell, old black settee

farewell, old black settee your leather had become tired, brought to ribbon corners by determined claws. we pushed you over, and turned away from your dusty belly.

hundreds and thousands scattered like ashes

hundreds and thousands scattered like ashes the recipes remain, ingrained like folded away papery scars, or the memory of a wartime lover, felt over the lips like a ghost wind,

the wrong hands for the R.A.F.

the wrong hands for the R.A.F. during the festive crush of the rowdy season, i got to talking with a newborn pilot, who fresh from heavy correspondence, talked of jets, of choppers,

ink black

ink black an ebony lacking in all possible reflection; limpid, mildewed blackness crushing forward, through a glassy introspection, solid, insurmountable

there's few things more tragic than a wasted condom

there’s few things more tragic than a wasted condom deep in the night - somewhere around 4am, i crawl awkwardly from the bed. cold rubber against the sole of my foot,

Painting for Lemonade

painting for lemonade an ancient man, brittle on a wooden stool, slowly painting his gate-post. a day of raw sunshine, but autumn will soon roll over the horizon. by winter the

innocent wallpaper

innocent wallpaper through the wall, i can hear a family failing next door. a couple in the thirties, nearly, average intelligence. i think they drink. they stopped fighting

sometimes i deserve a capital I

sometimes i deserve a capital I everyone loves a writer, loves to watch paper fill as a pencil moves in blurring. it’s a sub-conscious fascination. it’s why she smokes that way…

Slow Measures

Slow measures ‘I’m dying on my fucking arse here!’

the woodwork mirror

the woodwork mirror an ill-bred design, assembled from comprehensive impatience: awkward geometry, and timber bruises of a badly managed sanding machine. triple angled plinth,


snail back curled and tourmaline. your infinite, soft stroked hatchings remind; bring forth whispered remnants, from another time. your dawn pavement, now faces an onslaught-

let there be light

let there be light inside the mole dark, shivered like a slim fit bandage of blackest crepe, the rooms sink, slithering smaller and nearer and damper and colder and closer and then

family photograph

family photograph it might never be better than this: the close shouldered assembly line smile, forced against a sea blue background. neither of you can work the camera.


greenland and beneath me, you lay like a fingerprint jewel. a world of white dreams, clasped to a quiet pause. man has not touched you here. like a wish not yet whispered,

king for a day

king for a day there is a couple slurring their way toward the restroom. she has large golden breasts, swinging free of her crumpled dress. he has the slack-jawed grin,

words make walls

words make walls they are married, i gather, and have met for breakfast coffee. he settles behind a Guardian, and a look of disgust. she fingers a croissant, trying to catch the eye

two winged bugs connected by a sex act

two winged bugs connected by a sex act at first i thought it was shiny dirt, something caught by the sun round southwest of my hot coffee. so i brought my eyes closer,

isn't anything

isn’t anything car scissors at the crossroads, have sheared the morning, from the end of night and the blue white ghost moon, heavy fogged and branch bound,

Saturday night/Sunday Morning

Saturday night/Sunday morning dropped neon dragged behind traffic, as scratched letters bounce over the surface clinging now and then to lampposts trembling in the wind,

the lovers of Boulevard Saint-Germain

the lovers of Boulevard Saint-Germain there is permanence, woven into the way you hold one another; delicate, yet insistent, speaking of love found...

gulls over Paris

gulls over Paris church bells fall mute, having turned afternoon into evening, and in the fade of the peal, the cry of gulls, as they take to the sky...


birdman precarious, on dawn legs, sleep creaking like a jetty, you lean from your kitchen window, with that stoic determination that comes with age...

you can't just leave a noose lying around

you can’t just leave a noose lying around just inches away from the pavement, separated by a thinning, late summer hedge, a rope hangs bright,...


sola each of us, sat alone in shivering boxes, made less fatal with predictable wall art; dented trinkets of teenage hope. sun-faded photos of...


plateau the only possessions shown in your bedroom window is a collection of thirteen paperbacks. from here, it is not possible for me to know what...


handholds when you left, all redundant cooking and trembling tears, my future got mixed up in your hurried carrier bags; mislaid within your shampoo...

for the drunks, the try-hards and the pessimists.

for the drunks, the try-hards and the pessimists unconnected voices, clamouring around a table like well echoes, people crying for help; unheard. all...

tip and tilt to the sun

tip and tilt to the sun we are a nation of slanted, fat-eyed drunkards, rocking time on the night bus; our grandiose Friday dreams, lost like small...

the brown paper bag poetry club

the brown paper bag poetry club this small, musty room accepted our mould a long time gone. but rules live here; still-born memories once begun...

fogged at the tram park

fogged at the tram park blank faced machines, nestled like eels the shivering hiss of electric snaking through the air as an alarm call. travel,...


viper the remembrance of your poison, still angers my blood. what you think you can excuse, with a smile, and a hug, makes me want to vomit my lungs...

not quite AA, but only 12 steps to the bar

not quite AA, but only 12 steps to the bar the afternoon drinkers, wear no wedding rings; these, are the lost men, who failed to persuade, anyone, to...

red herring

red herring a warn-torn tomcat, 9 lives burnt, and lost. squandered; the cost, tallied by those left behind in the dust; scratching their heads...

14,000 mg

14,000 mg it seems like enough; the chalky shapes, gathered from middle-aged women, ‘just for my toothache, you know’. innocuous in my smiling...

for all the childless fathers

For all the childless fathers perhaps, you didn't love them well enough; consistently enough. perhaps, you never made it; never found someone safe...


breakdown we sit in traffic, the same place the same time each day; leaking free will. our wheeled tombs, filled with smoke, with spite, with...

section 136

section 136 it's coming... that day when i can no longer step over my pavement cracks. a crisp uniform and shoes polished within an inch of twilight...

cow pylon

cow pylon there is a conference of horses, bemused in the breaking sun. attempting to understand, why the calf lies still, cancer cold. the...

sad old man taking a shit

sad old man taking a shit it swings out of me, like a tired conker. a sigh in the water. i don't know when, i started looking in on it, curled in the...

six gold bands

six gold bands i listen to you, trying to remember 1982. back when you weren't rich, successful, and married. and haggard. you talk of forty, whilst...

twin flames burning out separately

twin flames burning out separately we're identical you and i. nothing to fill a trolley, just the basket. i've disguised my drink with bread, and...

coup de grace

coup de grace bowed, over railings of ice, and iron, the cemetery stares me down. faceless, it blanks me with sunlit stone, frigid and unyielding to...

how the dead rinse away to the sea

how the dead rinse away to the sea i walk the cobbled path downhill, away from the cemetery. a path for mourners, for those with supermarket Sunday...

the brink men

the brink men they meet, monthly. 4 coffees in a Tesco corner, 4 Mondeos at rest, beneath a Warrington rain cursed by Unilever. they meet to discuss...

heading Supertramp

h eading Supertramp they’ve made the petals bright/raining down/halo flocked/by artificial light/and i am reminded of buttercup chins/decades since/...


spent the scrying glass, now knows only dark. a blackness, i find nothing in; can make no sense of, any longer. hope, used to swirl like a vision,...


blunted we’re all working so furiously, to take the sting out of life, blunting our edges, with drugs, or drink, or working late under artificial...

the loneliness of the long distance diner

the loneliness of the long distance diner the crisp, white linen almost holds my gaze, your empty chair – silent in the flickering light. we dine by...


mcdonalds we broke the noiseless lift with small-talk. she mentioned copd training, i recommended an Italian restaurant i had not long left. she said...


scrapyard as a child i saw magpies, nailed to fencing. a crude warning from farmers; an example set. now, i see bumpers, wheel arches, bonnets and...

cotton wool

cotton wool i used to drink special brew for breakfast, claret and ice cold san miguel work days i’d take a codeine chaser that was when i worked for...

you'll find no online guide for this, so bring intuition

you’ll find no online guide for this, so bring intuition i need a safecracker lenient fingers of love that know how to work my tumblers i can tell...


i haven’t worn a watch since i lost the last one aged 23

amber bain

amber bain today i wanted to pin up a poster on my wall girl with guitar and a tattered jumper feel that NME hope again when pinning up the pages was...

missing: presumed poet

toothed toast edges remain, cooled coffee has assembled serene pools in the sink each reflects a ceiling


semblance displayed as swinging hams, we are ruddy, over-exposed; we have sneak filtered, failed love cropped from the borders a dead gaze, neatly...
Gold cherry
Poem of the week


teeter steel-toed foundations deep dug into crusted shores middle-class plastic drift pushes in layered like ageless skin cold hefty monoliths cloud...