Something rather than nothing (short post)

An infinite number of universes
with an infinite number of truths
Where the inconceivable is rendered everyday 
and stable, a paradox never be to be proven

‘But we are here, so that means that can’t exist’

Inconceivable as we are to the possibility of them
Neutrinos, fairies,
the social contract all swerve and sway.


An Artist must die (shy party)

An Artist must die (shy party)

The room is quiet

save for low anticipatory talk

gecko cliques cling to the walls

shadowed against the cracking  web of tributaries of the Ox collection 1989

Tonguing Merlot

almost ambient like whale calls

who’d rather be at home; a 200 year leisure

for finishing that pile of top 100s

Drawn together by desperation

just one room of lost child stars

with coffee island in the middle

Lichen, mossed empires of cheese on sticks and hor d’oeuvres

Communist gymnasts, climate deniers and  Bloomsbury bum-fluffed adolescents


in NHS specs

and those old words, burdened words

Fragile yet impenetrable

once packaged and perfected in inert fibreglass labs

by lexicographers somewhere

No one falls down the stairs, no Stoppordian stumble

No light shades as an inversed fez

No dancing and there’s no male gaze for Iris

Everyone leaves without a sound; she

Might not exist.

Ekstasis (1894/1994)

Possesses all the untrammelled lack of rhythm of a text message or a  quickly written email before you blur out the door.


Ekstasis (1894/1994)


the glass box
imposition of alienation
the gavel – ‘Your very existence is an imposition to equality boy’
His baritone wheezed

Peaking before he’s already begun
Your birdsong is sung
Get out of the colony
This is pure folly – no vacant space
– and into another.
The deck is theirs, destined for diaspora
That bastard Brunel, I’m not there
the century of beautification to begin
‘We live as we dream alone’
crackles on the mechanic’s boombox
One-way, nameless: ‘Is that a book?’
Liverpool to Melbourne 
in 60 days, with the imagined community
Cross-quartered, among the bunks
Robbed, stripped, penalised
The night, thick
heaving with possibilities 
against the ostensible fine-tuning of
Orion, headless
Hercules, legless
lost to the sextants, the bitter night trailing them inside
a faux-cerebral deckhand, quite literally
tearing up like sandpaper, quivers quietly
in six dimensions 
whatever he meant
‘His place wasn’t booked’
and spotting a psychopath in the 
first-class bathroom
A firing range for the existence he spooked
the century of the self to come





This morning, full of promise

This morning, bequeath the Earth

This morning, blow it up

This morning, disregard a pinning to 

an axis of cosmic debt

Paying the non-coercive eruption of connection with nothing but time 


This morning, the five quadrants of an island corroded by salty sea

curled in a way

‘most uncouth’

by Jersusalem’s contours of clay

Spaceship Brutalism

‘most unbecoming’

Bucky-balled Bluewater

Luddite Shire country 

Docking Vogon Blocks in Balham 

Radicalism escapes

through Willsden vents

Weaving between the morning quad shadows

Between the pillars – last night a Bullingdon card game

overlooked by tumbling dried fungus 

under a metastatic bulbous bark 

from which the new social contract  is written 

on a wager, 



Grace be to the gnarledgarden

 and the 12th century ruins

and Stalin’s Sunday stroll

While the cream of the TOWIE intelligentsia 

are sent off to undisclosed 






This morning, no earthquakes

This, no Earth.



Pointers for Mortals, Screen Watchers and ‘Deep Readers’

Fragmented, multiple influences, multiple plagiarisms (well heavy nods). See if you can spot them. Or bother reading it at all. Perhaps the most unecessary thing and challenging (i.e. boring) thing I’ve written.

The avant-garde’s forgotten its job is to seduce. What better seduction than that of words?

‘And I’m starting to see how as time gains momentum my choices will narrow and their foreclosures multiply exponentially until I arrive at some point on some branch of all life’s sumptuous branching complexity at which I am finally locked in and stuck on one path and time speeds me through stages of stasis and atrophy and decay until I go down for a third time, all struggle for naught, drowned by time.’

David Foster Wallace, A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again

A peek of rubbing legs

Script software synonyms for:  passionate

Fumbling, arrhythmical

Learned idioms from screens, Being there

Bed sheets, friction

Rewrite your affliction

150ft cruise liner

for the dead, the decrepit

For the  ‘Sellars’


For  Peter, Profits and my agent.


A perverse pride in destroying every relationship

For acclaim

On a barge of amusement

Clarifying literal emotions for those searching for water

In 500 years


No hand behind the glove of Dr Strange Love

‘I didn’t know what sadness really meant when I was young man’

‘I don’t have role models only plagiarisms’ 

A socio-Plathic disinterestedness

A confused buzz in 500 yards

There’s a chapel and undertaker below deck


Silence, stony-faced as default state

‘Could I ever make her laugh?’


An overgrown  golden meadow forecourt

threaded by weeds and speared cans

A grey fingernail on the horizon

To touch down into a terminal of embracing

The heaving breath of being there.

A wet patch between the times and the tides


Wind-up and watch it creak again

and again

and again…