We trade in handshakes
of ghostly currency.
Spectres melting into
leather office chairs,
£1000 shoes propped up,
hard-heel tapping mahogany.
99% scrabbling at chicken-feed
pinching news items between their fingers,
screens harbouring wipeable perspiration,
when long before it disappeared,
between pages of law and righteousness.

We’re told its empty:
The comfort of the Euro feels
nothing like the £’ing of heart
against heart with an embrace.
But clammy and desperate we
compete to live for techno-respite,
sharing our global position
through social media machines
and laughing at funny tidbits;
something to disengage the brain
when you start wondering why
your bank account haemorrhages,
and your neighbour has two new cars.

We trade in misinformation,
skulduggery to chug
the oil and gentle fucking
of the 1%.
£6 shoes propped up
against IKEA furniture
and the age old question
of free-will.



No chicken.
I am afraid there’s a poultry quarantine.
Hen pecked and dragged by their necks
through disinfectant, feathers matted
into a blonde and gold hazmat suit

clucks suitably fowl,
(gargled) when up to their wattles
in bleach and corn bile.

Birds can be replaced, but I’m a unique
one of seven billion.

Just swill it and serve my fucking
coq au vin, no imports.


You fought to line the streets
naked and unflinching under
car headlights and cat calls.

Stars and Stripes draped over your
most Godly sons and daughters
and still your stomach curls
into itself and you reach for the
good-time pipe.

Brothers and sisters sit fat in their
cars, convenience shopping at Drive-Thrus
and you sip the dregs of leftover coffee.
Children shake and splutter towards
morbid squalor, the American Dream of ripped out windows and being
crane lifted to the floor.

You fought to line your streets
head bowed in silent prayer
to social media Gods.
Fingers patter $$$ but you pay with health and social commentary.

The divide of death and life
and survival and flourishing
evermore present.

For Jack and Allen.

For Jack and Allen.

I’m hallucinating spiders.
Cracked benzedrine haziness
smoking and supping ethanol fumes
from cracked glass, dirty frompaw prints
and titted & cocked filth.

Jazzed up and panting. I’m listening
to the other room; the other world. I can
hear smirks, whisperings of zips
and ripping of buttons.

Soft piano titters;
bassy cello and 50’s limp wrists
flail to the Beat. It’s all there,
the visions of the Road, howling & gnarling
& begging & cavorting up through my back
and into the base of my skull.

The Number Four book sits slapped
and curled waiting to the bent and used;
thumbed and flicked by children & childrens