Still Life




The chair -
hard and hung-limbed, square, uncomfortably-seated;

The table -
staunch, hunched oak, heavy on turned haunches;

The plate-glass, which held the city -
an intricate, grey mural – too lofty for furniture:
the reach to refract, reflect and frame in
fat sacks of faceless grains, milled by
the lap and lick of littoral tongues.


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Am, Am Not / Have, Have Not


Merck Manual of Diagnoses, Black


I have a weight problem.
I have Body Dysmorphic Disorder.
(Google that).

I am not a hypochondriac; fuck
their Merck Manuals and medical almanac.
I have a weight problem.

I do not have a persecution complex,
just a y’gonnaboreus rex -
couldn’t care less.

I am not a hypochondriac;
I have a weight problem.


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Yes, but did he get in?


exam paper


A young man at the Oxford Entrance Exam
was handed:

“Is this a question?”

to which he replied:

“If this is an answer.”

Clever answers are neverending,
and there seems to be constant need.

There’s need

to be freed of the assumption
that intellect trumps all twenty-six other orders
of Human Intelligence;

that gathering sundry stones of knowledge
somehow amounts to rockeries of Wisdom;

that staying home, fostering
the struggle and stride for social evolution
in young eyes that reflect our own,

is the least important job there is, anywhere -
unglamorous, unprestigious, crushed in the
perfectly clean palm of the silicon/e media monster, or
bested by bread-and-fishes abundance of business, law.



Of course he got in. He was director of his own consultancy firm in the City of London at twenty-eight, managing Hedge-funds at thirty-two, and drove off a bridge at thirty-five when the Recession came. He was survived by his mother.


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softening and hardening




partner: limber love’s persona grata -
let us feel the gut unrest of argument
and swallow spat vitriol, because

the softening and hardening in reacceptance
is like the first time, only with
more thirst, precision, abandon


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War is the awful cry of contradiction.

Formed by a body of individuals
who kill for a living,
who rely on selectively-shot Intelligence

from an institution bitter to the sweet marrow,
that knows the self-soothe only in uniformity,
rationale untruths and violence.

War engenders, cyclically, semiconsciously,
the opposite of its goal,

stirring the seething pot of more.

Holy War is, with every harrowing cry made by law,
mismatch, genocide, hypocrisy do-or-die,
human blood, bone and brain, yet

without the faintest cry of doubt,
the ultimate oxymoron.


I had a long rant intended about the Syria intervention, Iran ulterior motive, and the Afghanistan resolution that could have happened years ago, but calculated to happen now to justify/placate/allow the next stage of Middle-East oil conquest (and make it appear as if Obama earned his Peace Prize). Instead, here’s the poem, which could apply to broader war contexts.


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chaos blue fractals
Chaos Fractal Paradigm


I understand
The Butterfly Effect, Chaos Theory, The Law of Attraction;

I understand
Karma, Kismet, and Self-Determism.

I understand
The Big Bang Theory, Darwinism, and

a howling crescendo of Creationism credos, West to East,
Symbolic Myth that seeks to tattoo scowling Fact
on its naked torso with blunt needles and dicey ink,

and the
slippery steeples, spires and domes of Religious Afterlife.

What I do not understand:
this desperate, day-and-night need to be told,
without an iota of doubt, by one that knows
the terror and ecstasy of being inside human skin,

there’s nothing to worry about.


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I’m Not Sorry




Where the road and footpaths meet, I negotiate a way
between hunched hatchback gas-sippers, cyclists,
and small, home-bound children.

I look down at my hands: white smartphone in one,
white bag of prescription medication in the other.
I’m enjoying the Spring sun; maybe it’s the meds. Maybe
it’s the fact that I have a better phone than you.

The zeitgeist whips around my ears, stage-whispering
in a Bale Bat-gravel -

ten ways to reach people you flippantly call friends,
via touchscreen, never much counteracts the fact
you’ll lack bona fide faces tonight.

Facebook. FaceTime. Twitter, Skype -
I’ll see them tonight.

The pills provide just the right levels of depersonalisation.
Detachment. I’m disenfranchised, and not sorry,

because I still have a better phone than you.


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The Green Man



Just because it’s green doesn’t mean
we can eat it. Nor will it provide
respite from the hammer of weather.

Pressing a bill beneath the soil
will not bear fruit – or
vegetable, nut, seed.

A green suit, if we’re handy,
may parry the elements for
a short day;

maybe, too, a crude pillow can
be fashioned from our pile, but
without shelter,

weather will pilfer and harry,
until our heads rest again
on the dulled Earth.

The boiling wind will boister, as
we fail to sleep, that
the punishment

for the chaotic, systematic gang-rape
of our own Mother, on whose
dry, misshapen breast we still lie,

is death.

I wrote the first line of this in English Class at about 13 years old. I didn’t discover till some years later the famous Cree Native American Prophecy, which says pretty much the same thing in different words.

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Deep-set deep blue
sees the past-life detritus
of this wordyahtzee
kamakaze neo-artsy
taketwo tumbleweed.

Deep-set deep blue
sees he’ll make good
for a brood of his blood,
upturning callous rocks


Breath will come easier,
death will seem further,
wan feet will root to earth;
the dearth of joie de vivre
put in

Deep-set deep blue
sees a man emancipated
from the     slew of     self.


Atelophobia n. (from the Greek: ατελής, atelès, “imperfect, incomplete” and φόβος, phóbos, “fear”) is the fear of not being good enough, or imperfection.

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white lie



legs align, bent, three-way weft paths wend

lie, chestnut, copper, ash blond knit-knotting coiffure
lie, looselanguid in familial swathe
lie, soft, hush; sleep with us

lie to me, lie to you:
naïveté new, though it won’t last
past the white-witch moon on her peering arc

we’ve shed neophyte this night


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