SMOOTH YOUR FEATHERS

Unruffle your plumage you geese people

You hissers

There is room enough upon this pond

We squawk from positional privilege

Declare who should belong yet

Short of space and memory span

And attentio

AND WHAT'S A HOLE TO PHIL?

.






























.

TENNYSON NOT TENNIS TWO

A thousand suns will stream on thee,

A thousand moons will quiver;

But not by thee my steps shall be,

For ever and for ever.

Tennyson

SINGING THISTLES?

BURDWURK

Lead us to the berries

For we have only bones

They use us like floozies

They smoke us to the foam

They bleed us wet and juicy

They try to clip our wings

Yet we fly all day

Raw with luck

And still the syrinx sings

Lead us to the berries

HOLLINGBURY JUNGLE

YOU DON’T NEED SANDALS IN HEAVEN, APPARENTLY

If you come into town by train

The dome of St. John’s Catholic Church

Is the first thing that you notice

The huge silver blue curves sit

A little incongruous on top of

The right-angled redbrick structure

That nestles the monster

It has always looked

An occidental accident

A mosque in a mask

To those who knew the pre-Pakistan

Days of Tweedale Street

When they remembered

The Paddies raising their buildings

Not just drinking curry

These towns have always needed

The onslaught of labour

A too hotbed of industry

That went global before you were born

Ghandi’s white dhoti was made in Blackburn

Now Dutch soccer balls

Are stitched in India

But blown up in Oldham

Go through St. John’s wood-heavy double doors into

Byzantine pretension and Victorian sheen

A brilliant mosaic dizzies the mind like optical frankincense

Covering one half of the interior of the dome

Above the altar

Is a scene from the apocalypse

The four Evangelists loom in gold leaf

With a dangling lamb like an offering

The human

The lion

The ox then

The eagle

All winged

And barefoot

Two-dimensional giants

Who have outgrown their tetramorph

Dead eyes ignore the congregation

Unconcerned with little people beneath

Apostling homage

To the Pantokrator

At last seated on his throne

Christ too is passive

And a little Eastern of aspect

And very foreign to an English child

Of six in 1977

The boy sits in his pew and is entranced

To him at this time

As holy as the dome itself

And with just as many evil thoughts

In his golden head

They are Harryhausen creations

That could turn their creaking necks

And stare directly into the soul

At any unwatched moment

But then Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger

Is playing at the ABC in town

And for some reason

It is the saints’

Naked floating feet

That frighten him the most 

THERE IS A CHASM, AVOID

There is the space

Between forefinger and thumb

Where I sat

In expectation

Of some dark pressure

Whilst in this place

I heard a raucous call

There is a charming voice

After all 
These years
Have depth

Like light 
Like yours

CLUB SILENCIO

HEXENVERFOLGUNG

ADAM LYGO

YOU CAN SEE THE END AT THE BEGINNING

I met her in Canada

We were soon at a wedding

The second night she invited me

To her hotel

In the morning

I had to use the bathroom

And that Ontario toilet

Was not ready for me

I tried but

I just could not unblock it

She said it was fine though

LEPRECHAUN BUD AND SPOONY FINGERS

THESE ARE THE THINGS

These are the things

That you think about

When you think around things

That don’t make sense

When you have lost all balance

They are the things

When that’s all there is

Like a cup of tea

Or bacon and eggs

And a walk

On the hills

And little else

WAKES AND WONDERS

I wake and wonder

Where my dream has gone

Wonder why it should be

Odd to hear blackbirds

Two in the morning

Even as they repeat

Your all is not lost

It did not exist

Love is only want’s need

I have to crack on

Relentless like dawn

Late it will come to me

ALPINE YELP

I love you

What does that mean

Does it mean more than

Why are we here

Or where the hell are we

And all the old jokes

And wish washy philosophies

To stand atop a vantage point

Yodel ‘You’ll do!’

Is that what we are about

Us men 

We women 
Seeking an echo

Is that reason for our insanity

MIDDLE GLASS BINOCULARS

And when all feels lost and night becomes the mood

You can look into the deep blue from the hill

See the evening stars burning out

If you are blessed

Forget yourself for a while

Without the need for a drink or company

Listen to the rodents in the walls

Scratching out an animals existence

Put on some Louis Armstrong, what what!

If you’re fortunate enough

Forget yourself for a while

And think about the distance between all of us

Take a bath and draw deep record-shattering breaths

Underneath fathered feathered lathered suds

If you are lucky enough

Forget yourself for a while

Whilst you dream on all that has gone

Regret that you are here in peril

The instant is the thing and there will be more to come

SIALIS

It is cold

Bluebird flew again

From the shallow south

To New Work

Where the song rings true

Or at least loud

And independent

It is cold

And skeletal trees

Leave us coverless

Here in an old country

With only tradition for comfort

It is cold

Now that she’s gone

And I pray for snow

For a difference to life

To blank it out

Or smother like a duvet

It is cold

With no warmth

From her mouth

No wit now

Or no kisses

UP DOWN

BILLY IN THE MIRROR