Poetry I

Form no Form

Julie – is only a

name – an accessory

to the pulse, unlike

a designer handbag!



I stand before you

A provisional


An aside to your

Temporary breath.

It will all pass.



I am of this

World – an erupted

Animal pretending

To be human as

I wish on a star.



Night welcomes

The Day welcomes

The moon. Bejeweled

Evening frost turns daylight

Diamond dew. And you my

Friend are welcomed

Into this chaos of the

Dark and light, dark-light

Light/dark. No above or

Below, no and or, no

With without but rather

Here and there. Day runs

Into night seamlessly but

Do not mistake their




Difference is not

A space in between

To sentimentally meet in.

So give it a room

Of its own to thrive in

And not call it spare.


Becoming no one

To vanish is

A particular kind

Of presence.



Tender shakes

The tree free as

You craft me a self

In between no moments

From a deck of unknown

Assemblages that

Breathe into the

Dark sweet shadows

Where throbs a life.


Wet ink

The unforgiving
Aged ache pains
Through this body
Of years and love
With grey heavy
Duty to let the
World know this
Woman is no spring
Chicken as she
Faiths a leap
Further into her
Unfinished story.



Perpetual beginning
Of myth and mask
Leads merrily on
To dust.



Stop looking:

There are no

Signs of life,

There is only

Blood hot and

Sticky.  Red sticking

Heat is no sign

Of life, it is only ALL

Life in flow.  Nothing

Before behind

Or after.  I am

But a trickle

A smudge and

A blot.  A lick

Away from

All dessert dripping

Like a raspberry –

Eat me now

I am done.

Always done.


Please no integration

As the bird sings

I fall silent, as the flower

Dies I live, as the

River flows I

Float, as the mountain

Looms I shrink, and you

My love, taste a

Never ending



Where I end

A joyous separation –

The only place

An ethic can thrive.


Playground love

If I could play

Piano, I’d play Debussy.

If I could play

Guitar, I’d play Jimi.

If I could play

Drum, I play Buddy.

If I could play

Horn, I’d play Ferguson.

If I could play

A poem, I’d play Garvey.

If I could play

An alter, I’d play Bowie.

Instead I play

At selfing and take

These loves to my

Heart and so in

The end we

All play together



Ectopic Beat

The cavity houses

An extra beat that

Pinches under her

Breast pulsing more

Life than she

Feels she deserves

But amusingly

Cherishes none-the-less

Chuckling as a

Cheat often does.



We are always a

Line that is blurred,

Smudges on the page

Blending colour and

Shape – a vaginal butterfly

And phallic flower –

All vile abuse in the world

Is vile abuse of me, and

Imagination shared

Is a bottomless pit.

No true state of mind

Is ever in existence,

It is always busy in the bowels

Making, and rarely quite

Emptied even when

Expressed, and if it is,

It is always OUR expression

And I am always alive

With you and for sure

Dead without you –

What other sense is there

But that? – a presence not

Co-joined, not interdependent

Nor co-existent but a single

Undivided moment in

Accommodating absentia.



The heart

Travels, traverses in

Trepidation and truth.

Journeying the only

Way it knows how.

Living its life

Born of all



Out of Nothing

The bundle that is

Me, a chaos

And riot


In Mr Benn-like

Shambolic clothing

Is an ordinary

Miracle that

You read as though

You had written the

Mess yourself and

Created a verse.


Washing Line

My clothes hang

Filled with drying air

And empty of me

Yet I sense my arms

My legs, my breasts

Shaping my devoid

Garments hanging

There free – temporary

Homes – what a strange



Wholeheartedly Partial

Half eaten

her belly is full.

Half perished

her full heart throbs.

Half given

she gives wholeheartedly.

Short changed

her bank is full.

Half spoken

her words are plenty.

Half blind

her vision sees through.

Half dead

she lives copiously.

Half loved

her love is complete.



Every breath a

Lesson to fly a

Constant changing sky.




by moment like

never before.




He wants to

Make his mark.

The dog pees

On a lamppost.

His existence is

Value enough.

Required recognition

As one hand claps

And a tree falls


Her graceful exit

Is mark enough.



Every sight

Every sound

Every touch

Every word

Every pore of existence

That my tongue


Is written into

Each and every

Breath I take and

The perfect ash I

Leave behind.


Sailing in a sieve

My lack

is where you

find yourself.

Your lack

is my


Mind the


as fullness

seeps through.


Sublime tapestry

Sentimental brushstrokes

Comb the ego

And keep the pile smooth

Ignoring the knotted truth

Knitted naturally into

The human animal.



A constant not

breathes me

a capricious life.




carries me anxiously

on with open wound

in search of my own undoing.


Exquisite blighted living



I taste its ethereal substance and die in its evaporation.

Exquisite blighted living.

Work, rest and play? Not for me.

Wake, squirm, smile, wriggle, exhale, cry, laugh and die.


The myth of boundary at the end of my fingertip blurs into you, and him, and her.

Your fingertip, and his, and hers, tease the tip of my nose.

Inhale; exhale; fingertips knitting untouchable air.

Everywhere us, we; our fragrant exhale of decay.

Exquisite blighted living.


Heel Toe

Whistling gypsy

nowhere home

bar the nomadic

shoes she insistently

takes steps in.


Hole in the bucket

Present moments

The Spectre uncontained asks

What am I present to?

The eternal elusive “I”

Passes through

And cuts the air

With a decaying gasp

And a smiling tear to

Fertilise the earth with.


No home

Emptiness in me

Fills up with nothing

Roaring with laughter.



Blood pulses

Through a no-

Self as a no-

Thing that is

Something and

She weeps upon

The tender stems to

Help blossom the no-

Thing we call



After thought

We must remember our place: we all come after.

I is a referent nothing, a not.

I, as a referent, is just a response.

You were here first.

You are always here first, just as I am a first for you.

A life full of firsts.



Avoid me not

Life death.

Beginning end.

A continuum?


Mirror clear.

Blurred touch.

A rolling wave?


Crashing force.

Kissing foam.

Always meeting.



Connected solitariness

Reclusive isolation

With you.


Visible ether

Self-assemblage appears

as hot breath fogs the mirror

No-self disappearing.



My journey into


Under my nose.



On the path

of the Buddha

all along.

Sometimes we just held hands in different directions.

Same path

Big grin

Kissed me today.


A winter’s day

In this wintery breath

I take

there is no shake

vibrate or mistake

I am true-being-here.

I am?

Am I?

I am no I

no what

no who.

She flew


one frightful day

and left a welcome

open mystery

that breathes

this winter’s day.


Becoming Whom?

Who is this I

that cares

and stares

at all creation

creating me

between you?


Fog in the mirror

 Of course I am a fog

without your face

to see in

dense and scattered

that moment mattered

between your eye

and mine

it wasn’t just a line.


I underfoot

As I crunch the ice


I present myself to you.

Whilst this I, I do not know,

offers a sum

that’s free to woo.



Can I see the

wood from the tree

the shape and


that I want to

be me, yet know –

I am not a tree?