Sad songs she sings... sad, like she was.

Fluffy tassels smoky-green …

A poem about the black death and how the church refused to help those who begged for salvation.

Walking across the forecourt of the garage was felt a bit like walking out on stage. The attendant would spot you from a distance and watch you, while you played at trying to relax and look older.

Bacon is the ultamate crab catcher.

"...a kiss to remember a long time ago..."

Lose concentration and let it slip, feel it fall along the sandy grain of your fingertips, I watch as it drops, and I watch as it hits, and I see when it stops on the bottom step, then see as it cracks, and begins to leak. It trickles round, down, between my toes, and looking up at you in the light of the doorway, you looking down at me in the dark water rising at the bottom of the stairs. It fills my mouth and it feels my lungs and it swallows my heart, and I am sand now, I am the shore, and you are water now, you are the ocean, and you stand and look down forgetting I was ever there. Lose concentration and let it slip, feel it fall along the grain of my fingertips.

I run this block like Muhammad Ali ran the ring in the eighties You can call me Hugh Hefner because I’m a magnet to the ladies

it was great poetry, but a poor global prediction...

Your silhouette is an achromatic ghost shimmering back at me, hauntingly beautiful. The curve of your back’s a quotation mark, and I need to unravel the soul scroll, the length of you.