The fullness of time

does not dissect

the rich tea biscuit

of lively conversation.

It does however

eat into the willing

program of light being

alpha numeric and

not particle. Proof

is the temperature at

which biscuit floats

when broken in




Well sister, it’s been a long time.

Once we were close

but now I have forgotten

the light in your eyes.

oh I thought of you first

when I thought I was going to die

I asked for you to be protected

when I would not be there

to watch your back.

It seems I was the one

who needed watching.

who needed cowering

who needed covering, against

the rape and pillage

of the universe of stars who

owe me nothing in recompense

for their rapture at being good.

I know not where to be


when so many are in between

the days rhythm and tomorrow’s

advance. I help not, for many can

see that today is the mystery

surrounding the look of many

Like you do. It is over there

where the look of many

Is assured against the following

wind. I asphalt myself against it,

tarred and not feathered light,

to be here where so many ask

why is it so in the morning

and not here in the day?


It little lasts

the passing phase

of a riotous assembley of man

and his woe begotten time

alone under heading

of being in all time

the welp who angers not

the audure about the right

of his own kind

to prosper.

In the vacant pact

it is ardently forseen

that no one can be here

without knowing who is not

a liar.


Can you tell the difference between real and unreal?

If not then I am writing to you

about psychosis and the difference between being the One

who isn’t and the one who is.

I must go to the Church today and see the one

who is in control of the baptisms of Bath

who asks not who is here

but asks when shall we notice that she


Who is going to tell you about

the birthrates of the City of Bath

and who is unioning and who isn’t going

to shul as they are preparing for incest

against the woman they know as Mum?

All it takes is cognition.

No speaking in tongues is allowed here on

the page.

No spoken language can tell the tune again

of the world’s end and how I held

it in my hands for you to say



What’s the procedure for this

the time is nigh for a muss with the head

and a fuss with the heart,

a friend by the doorway

and a sustaining look at a key

to the door of your head

and the start of the words coming through

the keyhole like terms of endearment

but not without the worry of times

spent in the loosehead mob

of the court and higher learnings

where they do not know how

to find an answer when all is about to see

that no one hears the words of the Lord

who asks not for the antiques but the real

named person who gave Him a bad name

for he is without killing and no one

can surely find the way to him in a bearing

like they use on the bookshelves for indexing

the author of their wares. For even in the world’s

books are there no use for the way in which

we see our lives about to finish without

knowing why.


He shoves it to the left

and wriggles it back to the right.

The ball dances on a flipper

then sinks outtasight.

Judge Dredd, Ace of Clubs

multiball and more!

She tries to regain level

maybe make the highest score!

A target sinks under accurate fire!

Another goes and extra ball is lit!

She’s sweating now, reefer and beer…

A crowd has assembled

crushing close, pushing near.

She lets the ball bounce on a rubber,

subtle fingerplay shows off

her skill with the machine

she’s pissing him off!

TWACK! Goes the machine,

again for Specials lit

the metal ball is glowing

the flashing lights are getting hit!

Bump-bump go her hips

as she puts her body in

Two free games, no more!

The targets are all a-spin!

Finally she can do no more

her control has worn thin…

Over to you she shouts

do better! With a grin.


I lay so long on the open lawn

I gathered dew in my fist

Peppered by music in my ears

A solemn vow to be kissed.

The trees above they shed their leaves

falling about my mouth

The birds were crying against the clouds

long on their journey South.

The few begin the hard won Road

snatched from undergrowth,

the use of machetes tore at green

in silence they cut with stealth.

No machine out here

Upon the verge, of latent falling wings

the chainmail mist hung with the urge

to sample a knight’s last fling.


There was a time

when all things were made

in Eden.

Everything we owned

was priceless

and involved long hours

of arduour and wealth

procurement. Nothing became

of those things, they rotted

and fell apart but

were never thrown away

as in todays world

where the dump

can easily be mistaken

as a haven for the

insanely collective.

it took many ideas to foment

a pile of rotting soil.

Too many ideas is against

the Lord, I say.