It was just a tragic tumble-

fourth place

foetal position

falciform, indistinct, pink

grazing, draped in darkness.

uncertain shapes

In deep, Oedpial space

‘You’re late’


An alien womb loaded with soft digits

Mother Earth divested in a town house

never a simpler time

A chimeric town car to be had

Two parts investment banker

three-part sectional love seat

In the middle


Smooth leather seats-

Membraned by code

Soft, dissolved

Diktats, digits, deceit

Inebriated, dozed

Soon to be loaded

with the temperament

with simply

‘the idea’


the moment’s historical inevitability

in the mind of the board maker


Everywhere dustless

Laughs cut like glass

on the very fantasy

That alternatives exist.


Green Screen Dream

This blog is the ends, not the means. A small poem for Saturday.


Green Screen Dream


Black marble matted with midnight swirls. Suspended, shimmering 

Insubstantial, holographic

Plotted upon green screen. 

All that there was – Don’t wake me for pixels or continental shifts –

Puzzle me not for Putnam’s pickle 

Creating new idioms and the vanity of metaphysical rifts

Small tears in space

I don’t remember

Kissed sweet and twenty 

Squared by twenty twenties 

‘A grain of sand’ on fifty miles of poetic obsolescence

Love and forgetting 

Falling through a torus

and back to Brimsdown.

Back to the anthropocentric   

No One Listens To Poetry (Last Poem)

Following a broadly nihilistic, Pinteresque poem entitled ‘Vacancy (Inevitable Paradox)’ though I can’t post here (or anywhere) due to Foyles Young Poet submission rules, in which I deconstructed (or at least attempted to) the underlying emotional aspirations of the poet to insufficiently allude to the feelings that inspired the work through the inherent flaws of poetry and perhaps language itself (Wittgensteinian, almost?). Furthermore, that the ‘border between life and art must be erased’ as Ben Lerner cites in the video below, ‘that the only meaningful poetic gesture would be to get rid of poetry altogether.’ Admittedly he describes this lofty (or not?) sentiment more far more eloquently (hence quotes) and, although this is no excuse I’m currently mentally purged, ravaged from exhaustion.

This video from Ben Lerner speaking at the University of Chicago greatly coloured my current state of mind, though not entirely:

I just want to write something. Something else. That’s all. And perhaps these ennui-ridden ideological-ish reasons only serve to cement such a feeling. This poem, if I can still call it that, or effort ultimately puts the nail in the coffin. No more poetry for me.

I’m not looking for the scale of my ambition to match the scale of my notoriety, because, there is none here. Honest. I want out.


No One Listens to Poetry


Fear is a prison

Can’t write prose

Can’t be with those

That I adore

So I’ll write some more?

No one listens to poetry


Escape like canary

As I explode the mine shaft

May these words find you

Humble as they are?

No one listens to poetry-



And the street sweeper called Jeff-

No one listens to poetry.


Unaccounted countenance-

Faceless faces at the station

Only one remains

(And it’s not mine)



Is resolution facile-

Poetry is a failure?

A windy, tumultuous day-

leafs the pages of the notebook.

Nobody listens to poetry.


The White-Trash Experience/Never Let Me Go

The White-Trash Experience/Never Let Me Go

Foxes nose needles
As Squirrels run back to trees
I gaze
Out of the window
Averting emotional blackmail from within
The inability to escape the urban
-13th floor
-Will the squirrel come back?
The urban landscape’s irreverisble change
But an immutable smile remains-
Sandy hair and Verelstian flowered bag
Bottled in memory in the shutroom of psyche-
Never let me go-
Pacing up and down the cell-
Waiting to be released! Crying-
Never let me go-
Without language or education I crawl back
(I can only stand alongside)
Back to the estate-
Never let me go.

Lost myself on the New Brighton Peninsula
Lost you and I’ve lost everything
The Mersey waves wash over my head
Will squirrels come back-
Failed with fear-
I mumbled without language-
-Lost all sense-
Lost everything-
Never let me go.
Language and peninsula erode-
Empires rise and fall-
Dazed and dissociated
Stumbling without word or smile-
Grey vistas save street parties-
To cuddly oppressors-
Within or without-
Never let me go.

All day and night
Save Winter
Every Weather
Never let me go.


‘That’ Estate

“I am somehow less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein’s brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops.”
— Stephen Jay Gould


That Social activist 

(The one that lives in Hampstead)

The echoes of the chattering classes in gentrified neighbourhoods

Sprawls away

Sink Housing and Working-class Youth

Seduced by Heroin

Unremittingly bleak paired with the unsophisticatedly nihilistic  

Shooting up over the limescaled kitchen sink

The disparity between the felt and the observed

Grows glaringly and unsettlingly obvious 


And the thrill of the chase

And the thrill of the chase


And the Sociopaths

Confronting the crack house on the corner

30 seconds away from the Library

Where the cokeheads congregate 

Evidently vacant 

Intestines destroyed

Cancer works slowly

And dealing adds a modicum of order 

To purposelessness 

With anabolic steroids

Grows the gross economic inequality

I want out.


The New Totalitarianism (A Neo-Samizdat poem)

“(…) I myself create it,

edit it,

censor it,

publish it,

distribute it, and… 

get imprisoned for it. (…)” 

Vladimir Bukovsky

The New Totalitarianism (A Neo-Samizdat Poem)


Working on themes handed down from above

We don’t know what they’re for-


As inhuman-

The frenetic race of fingers

That seems to speak the mumbling cacophony of

‘Don’t pick me!’

The Party is over.


The stiffness of the Worker’s fingers

There’s nothing but mist outside the window

Illuminated by a hovering helicopter spotlights

As black-clad entities drop through the roof of terraced homes

And 1930’s Hackney flats.


Everyone dreams,

When thought is terrorism ‘distempering worst calamity’


Ignorance is strength,

When Kitten photos maintain hegemony.


Streets and back alleys

Become Black light theatres

When Black light-

All light-

Is contraband.

Decreed by a Corona of Control

From the virtuous leaders.


To be mentally purged and purged

And purged again by a carbon copy of corruption.

The enemy of the People.


Poetry and the people

A new meme of

(Destabilisation; Decentralisation)

Planetary Bureaucracy.

(Dissemination; Dissent)


‘One twenty, three-quarters empty’

As the dissenting dwarf dwarfed

By Canary Wharf

Read Larkin

Where the real Refuseniks

Read The Financial Times


-Glassy facades of towers

They came to take him away almost immediately

Nobody saw anything.

But paradoxically they all did.

Fear is a prison.


Popping bubblewrap ‘til Doomsday

Will I ever take a plane-

A train-

Your way?

Black listed.

I never heard to which centre they were sent-

Where did they go?


Popping bubblewrap ‘till Doomsday

Has become the new apathetic motif.

In an empty West London studio-

Hotel linen piled high-

Coloured with fleshy oil smears that belonged to an artist

London is empty-

Desolate except-

For flies feasting on faeces.


Popping bubblewrap ‘til Doomsday

Don’t want to say

Curl into a default foetus on the floor

And stay


As they break down the door

Deluded to envisaged a better day. 

Popping bubblewrap until Doomsday.


Nowhere, nobody.

No neutrinos, nothing.


Ecstatic Disorientation (Ad Infinitum)

This one contains near saturation of sincerely felt cliches and platitudes.  I thought Bright Eyes’s ‘First Day of My Life’ was an apt accompaniment.

Ecstatic disorientation 

Eyes azure blue

Skies azure blue on the 11:03 to you

The first Friday

Coy glances

Heart dances.



Diaphanous white dress

(with flowers)

A guide to a London address

to circumvent distress

I confess-

A curling desire to kiss

And caress


I profess

To cease the rhymes of -ess

This is somewhat terrible so far 

(I guess you could guess?)

I’m doing my best.



Softly surrender

to a Life present and tender

The inability to live in the moment is crippling

Succinctly sliced snips of my own silence are delivered

Accompanied by smiles

(Why didn’t I say anything?)

Hand on train window

(Why couldn’t I say anything?)

I love you.



Chasms that keep us apart

Chasms away

Behind train windows and instant messaging windows



Unsure if I’m selfish

For I want one thing

And it’s You.

And Time Ad Infinitum.



I could only think of the end-

The sadness- 

From the very beginning-

Brevity clamps my smile.



(an unpoetic 209 miles away)

Run away from this estate-

This unreal prison of melancholy-

Fiscal and physical decay-

To light ad infinitum-

No delay-

To something marginally-

If not-