• A Day In The Night

    When we were one
    Under the sun
    We sought many destinies
    In the flower of eternity.
    Through rivers of shadows
    And tortured tomorrows
    Down by the valley
    The newspaper alley
    We spoke with the gypsies
    And fairies on pansies
    Through the golden years
    Of corn fields like yellow spears
    We wandered the fiery furnaces
    Like Greek gods on Irises
    And I saw in your eye
    The horse of Babylon fly by.
    I tucked you into bed
    When the day's words were said
    And leapt into gladness
    Dancing in madness
    The dandelion daisies
    Growing wild and crazy
    In the land of the dead
    With the world in my head,
    And now we are over,
    I see the beds of clover
    Where we used to lay
    And I hear the words you used to say
    And the tears scold my cheeks
    And my tongue chokes to speak.

  • In Memory Of My Father

    Rivers and trees, and bumble bees, and mountains and oceans, that offer devotion to the planet of people, such beautiful people, in the meadows and fields, the buttercup yields, and down in Orleans, the men of great means, down pints of beer, their loved ones so near, to the truth of the lord, in the psychiatric ward, where the patients make chains from daisies remains, and the knight in his armour, the shepherd and farmer, that stand by the fountain, the twelve misty mountains so come on and sing, let tomorrow begin to the girls and the women, and the tadpoles swimming, for the cracked grass windows and lonely old widows and the priest and the thief and the Christian belief in the factory and the canyon, let good ones be big ones, I light the fire, I get higher and higher up the ladder I get bad and get badder, but I somehow survive, and we all will revive the feelings of bliss, dear madam, dear miss, let's make the world rock, on heaven's door let's knock, goodbye I must go

  • Transpire

    Poetry spreads poetry,
    The more we think,
    The more we know,
    Then we descend in rabbitry,
    Before we know it,
    The less we know,
    More elemental but less elementary,
    Then the whole thing starts to blow.

    'Poetry makes nothing happen'
    In the words of W H Auden,
    But what do we want to happen?
    Are we happy with the boredom?

  • Mental Hospital

    Slamming doors, huge thumping sounds; Prison officers standing all around Medication that fucks the psyche, Tracksuit bottoms by Adidas or Nike

    Day time television blaring out, Psychosis is the removal of all self-doubt, Global telepathy in our heads, Psychic sleeping in our beds

    I sent a poem to a magazine I take my Depakote and Thorazine Permanent cigarette and cup of tea Shaving mirror reflecting me,

    What are those mansions of the mind? What sort of people do we find? Within these walls, sequestered away, No one's going home today.

    Threatened by high security, Medicated mental purity, The purity of raw violence, How about some space and silence?

  • Cafe

    The flower garden at the back of the tea shop, Is sickly-beautiful to my hungover eye.
    Sunlight punctuates the dotty petals of begonias, Blue and white china vases hold roses, Screaming out piercing loud blinding red. Daffodils too, lemon yellow that shudder in orgasm. I raise the cup, take a sip, Gaze round the room at a man With grey hair reading a newspaper, His face is purple and he is built like a bull, Must be a solicitor, eats a lot of lobster and crayfish. His eyes roll up to meet mine fractionally, An expression of interest and disapproval, The usual response from men with efficient brains. I look again to the garden, still intensely clear, The roses, sentences uttered by angels, The daffodils sweet hymns, rhapsodic, clandestine. Such insane beauty, designed by God, Makes my life worth living. I catch the solicitor looking at me, Probably wondering if I am a drug addict. I don't believe in Peter's denial, What is in my head is my secret. 'Flowers look nice?' says the solicitor.

  • Zenith

    In the rains of the running alphabet, wizard trees stand temple to see how flint and spoke can undermine the lascivious wind's crossfire in the vengeance dark, split from the universe wilderness. Guitar strings pluck the mire making mad quadrangles, the ocean self cleaves to the crest-shaken houses where the football farms link gigolos through the Mars bar sun. Crucifix citadels craven convention climbing frame colours collide condensed and cogent as the flashfire of flying time releases the planet's horrendous flood and I am cut of a life. My Julia plucks the embers where once grew flowers urban like liquid red I now praise in ecstatic world's seven words uttered. Crucifix daisies like limpets sing soliloquies, Spanish gypsies feed in fields of centimetre puzzles, litanies of excuse me slowies and lobsters. In the tattooed sun, by raven black postcard sea, the seventh daughter from the moon, in the valley of breaking glass. World people, happening on pavements, speaking to the world, in loud checked suits eating bright orange hot dogs.

  • Sorts

    I was in it for the cigarettes, Writing little poems, Feeling like Dylan Thomas, Writing in mental homes.

    A world famous mental patient Stoned as a prune Pacing, manic, energy latent, Wired to the moon.

    A poet smoking himself to death, As at the hungry gates of dawn, Hates with every mortal breath, And wishes he were never born.

    From the barrel souls of the London pubs, Where the literary lions nurse their cubs, To the Ipswich carnivals and music venues, Flash Turkish takeaways with dubious menus.

    Miss Miggenses cake shop, She does a lovely walnut cake, If you're passing be sure to stop, Hot pasties - freshly baked.

  • Profile

    We are sexual, telepathic, word orientated goofs, We are nebulous, necromantic, prehensile, We are roaming, reared and romantic, We are benign, bovine and bizarre, Our residencies are eclectic, Places, like time, happen anywhere. We have free will yet constantly fight our own destiny, And cannot subjugate matter over fidelity, We are born to remember ourselves, Holding statue in the face of volition, The road is fraught with danger, We are superauminaries on the stage of the world theatre, Human life is both precious and dispensable, The societies that have occurred are meretricious, Tribal chaos veneered by bouncing colour, Adult schizomania rages, civilisation's final stages, We are lumpen incarnate, mind-altered, The world is a representation of our complexities, By computer programmed serendipity, And we are myriad, scattered, running,
    Peopled by a thousand continents,
    Jolly on the hop, a multi-faceted being.

  • Poem 3,604

    Rent Asunder
    By dozening coves
    The many speckled landscape
    Barks an angry hand.
    As Demon Spotted berries
    Pupil out from under fat buckled bushes,
    The Dewlark makes a black hole in the
    Sky and serenading dawn breaks like
    a bugle through the bleeding countryside.

    And I in the middle of my universe, representing several echoes, out of a dream comes my dozing LSD mind to crack the truth of love over a glistening cup of tea.

  • A Night With Clara

    I had her but didn't see anything. A one night stand in a drunken stupor. Whencesoever smarts the dragonfly, everybody loved Sally, the police found her trying to buy a cup of coffee from a tree in Hyde Park.
    All communication is a reaction to obscurity. By short steps beleaguered
    the wild scorpion will dance,
    Hello, goodbye, goodnight, god bless,
    welcome to the wilderness,
    life is a trick of the light.
    When I die the clocks will explode,
    when I die the angels will hit the road. The breaking leg of truth
    beckons the Daedalus myth
    out of his cut glass grave.
    Into the singing world I fling my words.

  • Mental Patient

    Sitting in the corner in a mental institution After years and years of retribution, We want normal behaviour here Because our lives are ruled by fear, We don't want mad poets clogging the well oiled wheels of society, We want devotion to the cause, morality, piety, Not anarchists tripping on MDMA, Just law abiding citizens waiting for payday, We don't want middle class rebels, The social machine rejects misshapen pebbles, We want people who won't move, Not staying up all night listening to some groove, We're concerned with rehabilitation, We never mention menstruation, We punish the animal until it is controlled, Whilst at Glastonbury in the mud they rolled, We get people controlled and mentally well, So when they are discharged they continue to do well, And take up a profession that is noble and fitting, Sit at home on tablets basket weaving and knitting. But a leopard never changes its spots, So you'll find me at the hedonistic drug squats; A lot of discharged schizophrenics commit suicide/homicide, The ones that escape leave the country to hide, I'm violent and mentally fucked, In a mental home I've been chucked, How can you get mentally well if you're unemployed? You don't know how to act, you become paranoid, I've made a record, I've written a book, I've painted paintings If my record hits the top of ratings That will put a cat amongst the patients, At the moment I'm ignored, a patient, latent, Potentially . . . potentially . . . but locked up. Things are fucked up, I'm fucked up, I don't know what to do, think, feel or say, I might end up driving a tractor one day.

  • Toad

    Walking down the road,
    I came across a toad,
    His eyes were bright as berries,
    His horns were green and smelly,
    He burped and croaked,
    Lit up a smoke,
    And sat down in front of the telly