I am a gateway to you

I am a gateway to you.

Come through.

It is a country park

Pathways through the woods

Thick wet grass,

Sloping fields, undulations

Some cows, a bridleway,


Kissing gates.

There’s an outhouse too,

Once whitewashed

Now dank stone,

Green turning black.

The skies have gone heavy grey.

The park is walled in

Forty acres are ours

We explore it once

And build a chapel or new stables

The park gets smaller

The outhouse colder

The paths wear



The future looks like a moving walkway

The future looks like a moving walkway at an airport.

But one rolling towards you,

You feel it will sweep you backwards off your feet.

You get on it and it is more of a hamster’s wheel,

Going at a human pace after all.

You even feel fast as the advertising flies by.

A child asks why the advertising is moving;

It’s a trick of course; devils push them,

To trick us into believing in the future.

The walkways seem to go on forever;

Until we rest and the advertisements stop moving.

But their future will come back again

And you’ll feel like it will sweep you backwards off your feet,

But it won’t. We keep it moving like hamsters.





My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? (Psalm 22)

How can it be that God

Has forsaken the world

To be ruled over by dogs?


How can it be that the world

Has forsaken God

To be ruled over by dogs?


How can it be that God

Calls to God

Why have you forsaken me?



And I call to God,

Or to myself

Why have you been forsaken me?


And God calls to myself

Or I to myself

Why have you forsaken me?




Future generations will proclaim


To a people yet unborn.



Work hymn

“Lucky you, you didn’t have to work today.”

“What were you doing all day?”


Phillip Larkin called it a toad at first

He wanted to drive it off with a pitch fork

But he loved it in the end.

I can’t get used to weekends.

It’s wrong not to earn a living.

For Adam work meant redemption

i.e. punishment. A day off today.

Remembering holidays makes it worse.

If it wasn’t for shit bosses it’d be OK,

If you could work peacefully,

I say. I’d like to write a book

And never work again, but walk.

Ans if there’s nothing beside work?

Is that what’s worse, Phillip Larkin?

Food and shelter is my purpose

And I smile sometimes as well.





I thought that they were looking but they weren’t

Once I tried to run off the stage straight at them

But when I got there I just stopped and said something

They looked a bit concerned, then carried on unperturbed.

I was left standing there in the middle of the auditorium,

Which hummed with people seemingly enjoying the occasion,

I thought, is it me or shouldn’t something be happening on the stage?




Goose’s wing is coming off

It flaps across sidewards

And falls, screaming angrily at itself.

I chew my nails, my eyes are sore

Blunt dead stalks stick out of a crust

Like the black trees of Hiroshima.

A prisoner is frantic behind bars

Screaming for the guard.

I inspect myself for black pores

Reach into my ulcered mouth

Yank at a decaying molar

Bite down on my bloated index

And hold it there numbly.

Beta boy in Manchester, 22.5.17

Four times Trump said “losers”

Losers, losers, losers, losers.

Slowly, into the camera: los-ers.

It is not as if they hadn’t

Heard it the first time

They heard it.

Trump heard it before.

He isn’t a loser: he won.

Hillary lost.

Macron is a winner.

Congratulations on your big win.

And America is gonna win again.

We are gonna be winners again.

They are losers.

Lots of losers.