Friday, February 05, 2021


I have a spare island if that helps
Yes, I have big feet
The various conjunctions of our disparate lives

Hugh Drama on British Rail
The bare floor, my father crying
Picnic in Potters Field

Like a gendarme drinking a cognac
Buses full of the dead
Love squeezed down to drops

That kiss was only flesh and you are fled
A fire breaks out on the line
The casual vulgarity of a Tory MP

Waiting to become barbarians
Would a red swan be beautiful?
The room smells of old dope and ghosts

Trees grow from carcasses
The street empties, then fills with soldiers
My mother knits straitjackets

Prose, but spoken better
Jibber-Jabber, Jibber-Jabber, marry-ing the Pope
Mr Chalk and his wife, Mrs Cheese

My great-grandfather buried the hanged
Dram on the Bung Mr Spooner
Like clock-don’t-work

Polish the glasses, put out the linen
The unremembered boys of Abersychan
As Green waves claim us

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