Rumble

Making
Stop
Stop.

A spattered phase
On the vine

The berry’s pulse, after everything,
Is ninety over one hundred.

It will stabilize
In a bowl with double cream.

The man
On the scales is unnecessary

in the time it takes
to disagree with him

the comments stir
in their pokey cages

they rustle up
a godsend for power.

Tom Clancy's Love Supreme

Weapons-

grade

chakras

may

confiscate

science.

Tourist Wanted For Awesome Comeuppance

The dead call collect by
running with the brake-lights.
I am not all here once more.

You guessed five grand on tick
would smooth out love’s feathers
over the course of one spring.

Are you dancing yet? No-one can tell.

Angels make you antsy.
You tramp across their wingspans
                           throwing
caution open
composing exit-wounds

in the absence of updates
for all the world to count upon.

The sun is a clenched riot.
It chunders           arrives
one cannot speak of
easing
in its presence
realistically.
It happens to rank with birth.

Advent

In dreams pursue repairs.
The grave has status. Pre-

approved galore
we flock
to its alumni, nakedly

chthonic. In mating with hokum
I make my own brunt.

Don't It paint Your Red Mist Blue

Your placard is up in the air.
It leaps to its crèche, a sheriff on paper.

My bank reads me my particulars.

I transport it
like
everything does

through the threat of less ones and noughts
(they will not dignify this estrangement).

The moment’s weight
intones velocity

like an axe-swing

tied to its down-stroke

or a
g
host with tadpoles’ legs.

Palace of The Pomegranate (Coal Torpedoes)

Her future was sawn off at the launch of Chutzpah
Stowed away below deck
Set to work on those reflexes
That suggested expertise
And made a Powder Keg of time

Later
She cremated the ship's furnace
By stumping up a past
Of resinous yesterdays
Comprising of moss-green flames
Apache trickramps and A killer marquee



The poem above is taken from a short cycle entitled 'The Everyday of Irma Kite'. This is now available in printed form from The Arthur Shilling Press for a small fee (Thanks again, Harry, for all your efforts).
To coincide with this publication, there'll be a reading at St George's Bookshop in Prenzlauer Berg on Thursday 1st October at 8.30pm. Here my voice will be ably complemented by two others - damn good ones - belonging to Bjarte and Jeroen.
You can buy copies of this offering at said event and also put coins in a cap as we pass it round insouciantly as if money is neither here nor there.

In Bed With Arraignment

A quantum foundry
of
vacationing familiars
throws its being
over distance at once. Tilling ubiquity.

In this city, as in most cities,
fire loses its rag. It
falls out with the forest.
They
combine in their entireties
and haggle with speed
over death by cinders.
The grave is deep cover. Its

agents are landscaped
inside the pounding soil.