I wonder what it will be like to be 55. 

Each face will be known in time, relations and relationships formed

through viral videos, HD blossom punching through screens

to form a pink crust on smiling faces.

Steady lines etched on taut skin, (spiralling from 1999 to 2016

and onwards) until the inkings blur and stretch

foreshadowing wrinkles of youth.

Aristocratic histories, doling out death with a flick of the wrist

replaced with caustic app swiping and lifelong settlements.

Too busy being shadowed with electric lighting

to thumb laughter lines or pinch hair between teeth

and happy with flaccid VR, the modern person loses touch

with relations and relationships formed.


The Visitor.

I talk gibberish, waiting for the metallic red
shadow to turn in the crook
of the road. Ruddy cheeks and
long strides towards the door.

An outstretched hand from prior
decades clasped around my own.
Boyish intrigue replaced
with a firm grip.

Insular and small I would be placed on a knee
and bob up and down and up and down.
Smiles knocked off with glasses and chubby
fingers smudging against lenses.

I contort my hands into those of a magician.
Copying the gentle fist bump when your thumb is replaced with
fresh air. Again, again. Where does the thumb go?

You’ve got my nose. Taken to the car I imagine.
I scamper towards and anxiety is replaced with
A mint humbug. I put it in my mouth,
feel the sickly sweetness burst
into butter and sticky lips.

I hold out my hand for more
and receive a red lolly. Stick bent
and candy sweetness leaking under

I wave good bye. Limp hand
animated under duress. And there
it is. Another year.


Have yourself a post-modern Christmas
with wrapping paper dressed
ironically over bike shaped
gifts and TV sized boxes.
Ungrateful yapping
and the smacking of lips
with new lip gloss gift sets
(3 for 2) or edible currency.


Turkey, plump and bitter
rotting against sticky cranberries.
Dry, flaky flesh doused in that
gravy you like, goosey potatoes
and a fuck-load of trimmings.


Live pause and rewind your TV again,
and again and again. Watch Delboy
Fall through the bar.

                                 Only at Xmas.
Rip open those foiled chocolate and feel
the sugar crack in your mouth
and the fat ooze into the space
between your teeth and gums.
            Your stomach
                 Inches outward.
                         Churning; your face

gurning into submission and fingering
stained glass papers.
relax and watch the foppish haired
kid keep out the intruders
for the 1000th time.

Read the first three pages
of your book
And wonder how many wonderful, fucked-
up things you can buy
with long lost cheques.


Race your remote control car
up the road for an hour. You’ll forget 
That you had that, next year.



A chocolate breakfast waits

up for you in the morning.

While you pore through the sport

channels and look for the latest squad updates

for your favourite team.

Eyes are leaden and dilated.

Drink and watch and laugh

and swear and drink and watch

until you feel those eyelids




Wait for next year.
I’ll stay awake next year.


And so on and so on and so on.


With paint and fury the urban demi-Gods
flip solitude and make it trendy.
Splashing bi-polar obsessions onto carbon-
copied canvas. Sunglasses, bandanas
and all; surfing hype and the beauty of art
and temper.
Stop fucking reading, beating off to DVD’s of flesh
and listening to spoken word.
Watch. Art. Feel your muscle build in both
biceps and your spine tingle and tighten
to the synth and weed.

Smoke rings talk and talk and talk and talk
and talk and talk and talk and talk
and talk and talk
until chalk and talc and talk and talk
and talk and talk become tawlk and taulk
and lose all meaning.

I hear the scream of a Tyrannosaur.
My bedroom window is open:
It’s still screaming.
Chatter and anonymous voices
try to contain the shreiks and vices
and feeble pains.
The winds stab walls like cans
of spray-paint, shaking and clicking:

Stencilling Clowns onto the sides of
Banks and markets.
Burning money; green and purple and gold.
Dealing with white cheeks and wide red faces that
talk and talk and talk and taulk and tawlk and talk
and tawlk and talk and taulk and taulk.

And lose all meaning.


Listen carefully to silence
and feel the pulse of life
through beats and birdsong
and the throb of blood and guts.

That ringing in your ears

is past conversation flowing
straight through; manifesting
wonderfully and soberly:

Settling into your pores
and nothingness.

Listen carefully as you turn
the key to the engine.
And shudder with power
and creaks of up-coming

8.4 minutes

New and dark upon waking

the sun barely clipping

the horizon in the east

so far away from the earliest rise of


slowly moving around the aphelion

taking it's time

to be reborn again

day after day

coloured hues making a marvel

in the eyes of those around us

93 Million miles later and this

is the effect:

light, warmth and beads

of colour.

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