Well-known member
heres one that i wrote when i was 19


I was born in the dirt behind the old mulberry bush that bears stones in the autumn.

And there they hang, like eggs that never hatch.

Sprung from the hardness of stones and the stickiness of fruit, I remember almost nothing.

- There were stars. A silent company of stars that lingered on past daybreak to greet me an then shimmered and wavered until they vanished entirely.

- I was born in the priest’s garden and he watched us from the kitchen window. He wore marigolds and had a faraway look in his eyes.

- I remember almost nothing.

Save for a horse which neighed as it was mounted and the lobster coloured lights that left sharp hooks in my bare hands.

My first word, inevitably, was DOG!


A pair of stray mongrels who happen to be in love perambulate through the grounds of the church. Threading through a thicket of angels, two dogs in love.

The sepulchres are in a state of disrepair and the graves are left untended.

There they go! Off into the copse of overgrown sycamores.

There they go! Off under the sycamores with the sticky green leaves.


I am balancing on top of a wall. A wide mischievous grin stretches my mouth. Giddy and exhilarated I peer down at the pile of broken bricks and bulging bin liners below me, that’s to my left, a busy road, VRROOM, is to my right. Hey look! A sparrow! By the bus there, look! Ah, you missed it. But first of all, I was born. Right here, on the bare, black earth, and of those events, I remember almost nothing.


- Those first audacious, disbelieving steps, do you remember? Oh, he had the blondest curls.

The priest walked up and down the hallway and his crucifix kept bumping against his purple chest.

Men of the cloth! Your lips are stained with the sticky juice of grapes, no wonder you smile so guiltily. But my secrets were kept inside a golden box. Exquisite filigrees, tantalising fireworks etched in iron.

- Poisons, harpsichords dismantled by suspicious Arabs, piano strings traded for lullabies. All this is circumstantial.


- No wonder then discoveries were made. In fortresses of soft furnishings experiments which determined the future were quietly conducted.

- Translucent tinctures and lurid pink medicines oozing down my inflamed throat.

Maladies, ailments of early childhood. Cold sweats and savage dreams.

Woozily finding my way into grottoes in which I become immersed in fevers.

- O! the slimy pond, the slimy impenetrable pond whose weeds and algae adorn my little red coat. A kind man helps pick the water snails from my thighs and hangs my sodden clothes from branches to let them dry.

- Jubilant crowds made noises like cockerels heralding the return of the sun.

Candles flickered in the wan, yellow dawn.

- The meadows break out and at last the field mice emerge.

The shattered glass sells enigmas and pamphlets.

Dawn. White hunger chiselled a perfect ‘O’ in my stomach.

- Exhausted but happy we wheeze up the staircase.

One step at a time until we reach the summit together.

Hooray! Let us sit at the top of the stairs. Holding hands we can be enraptured by the view.

The cuffs of my trousers are all wet with melted snow.


- They returned me to an idyllic past where spitefully I nurtured nostalgia.

I composed elegies for milk bottles, abandoned warehouses, trips to the supermarket.

There I tried to twist the tongue of fate. Now Look Here.

I became a visionary in sudorific forests and was disillusioned when bursting out into the tawdry light of the city. I stumbled onto a road and exhaust fumes gave me a fit of silent coughing.

- How melodramatic you are!

I thought I’d shake my ribs apart. My skeleton would slip into new shapes. Look! I’m reassembled as a rooster.


- Running fiercely to reach the willow tree all the old sadnesses have returned.


Well-known member
this is dunno, maybe 2017

"a pure screen. a mere switching centre for all the networks of influence"

Isinglass. Foolproof gall blabber. Ostrogoth by ascent. Phantasm doctored secret Santa knows.

Moonglass to tidebabble ritual romance rose.

In all her circuitous forestalling serpentine its many windings telling tales again.

Styrofoam reminder. Cockles. Coals. A handful of bright things. Gummy in the warm hand. Londonistan. Crescent Moon. Dreadful. Ululation from the minarets. The desert zenith/sand-storm/and the Tuareg raiders/rifle across the back/that lolloping camel gait/hump/hoof in the hot sand/ The Afrique planes of Picasso portraits/staring/from car interiors/shifting/in the act/of recomposition/plane of cheek/and plane of brow/plane of jaw and plane/of lips/o/lips/To be the target of that red eye/ Fear jogs the frame/a missing moment/and the imperative/to become invisible. Desiderata. The chip-wrapper tumble /wind-somersault/end-over-end/skidding/across the empty piazza. The fact is clear -- Satan rules this Earth as completely as you or I would rule our little garden plot. And, he sits on a throne somewhere on Earth!!

Flounder/in flour/ecrits/dose to critical/cathode hitch/the new register resists. The discipline is musical/Arabic jazz letters/in yellow paint/on black brick/the Maghreb/in cockney-town/coke/ice/perspiration/forms and drips/down the tumbler glass/old woman teeth kicked out/no-go warren/ratrun/spliced with chemical/toot chamber/fur lining/nu-mohican/and spiked dog-collar/the priest/day-glo congregation/seminal recording/fear fixes the horizon.

I don’t want you anymore.

sexsexsex/slender photo/reminder of procreate/perspiration/on glass wall/glide/to imagined satisfaction somewhere/other/fuck/the world has collapsed.

Abuse proceedings/boundaries bow-legged/touch/in a special place/I want it/daddy wants his treacle/taste it/Mozambique/trade-winds/toucan sailor/tippie-toes knows/teetering to a fall. The tribal rhythms/they’re different to us/hot blood in the dust there/the animal sweat/coming out the car stereos/loud it is/the jungle noise/acid-face/the eye burnt right out/ululating/in caustic agony/do it/you’ll be sorry/acid/you’ll be sorry/I loved you/toucan/in the creepers/in the buttressed trees/howling/monkeys/in the banyan trees.

Castration calender/Ringo Star cries over John Lennon’s death/anal perspiration/guilt/pant/guilt/pant/the face of mother then/on the television screen/a loop/is perpetuity/anal polyps/sedition/blank semolina/lies/disguising the absence of a sin/say it/it’s as good as done. Insist/no I/insist/NO/black polyester pants/elastic frazzle/time here/grows thin/splutters/gutters/goes out.


carnation kettle/antebellum/gristle to gogo

in tide of sentiment/tears turn tar.

white page/as mind-mirror/in which

( )

is made manifest. sees itself reflected there. vast startled eyes looking

into vast astonished eyes.


panacea/river-rummage/in guts of time-torrent twinkling.

take a second ( ) to reflect.

Narcissus/the 6 petals/about the radiant centre.

bright myth in buckets/The Fisher King

made whole.


Pandemonium. the city of black volcanic rock.

and pluming/piling smoke/black cumulus castles

cross black sun.

the subterranean citadel/with high builded walls/

and parapets/and roiling moat of red lava/alive-

devils for denizens/the principalities/of hell.


the eye of the serpent/sempiternal/seeing

from times birth glimmer/to dark vortex/

at times end/caught

in the frozen gaze.


prophets eye/in fine frenzy rolling

speech hurled/to deaf air-

and done.


Well-known member
Touchstone. Take it. Truth, they’d tarnish it

Sooth, say it, there’s wisdom within it,

awakening, it starts to glow.

All told, lo! it’s wordy

Prone to prattle,

A precis,

Calls it-


Plucked, picked, from pearlescent aether, saw it shining, sounding singing,

cooed it down to earth. Such voices! Hear, it’s heavenly, happens

it is hardly human, hearken, how unearthly, unbirthed and

unbegun. Barely herely, scarcely nowly, nearly unbecome

wholly free from fealty, owing no allegiance, under

no illusion acting on an idle whim.

Wind guessed it, gusted it

billowed it, bustled it

thrusting it


Heart bird in rib cage, captured, O it sings

sadly sobs laments and wailing woes

Soul, set, with ropes and pins

pines and moons, wanes

and nearly wastes



Woe wails

Vast vale of

Sighs and crys and tears.

Touchstone. Take it, touch it, Time.

Dust. It’s this tale of days turning, into years.


Well-known member
Baksheesh. The money moves through a system of pipes and tunnels occluded from sight and sun. To extrapolate from daylight utterances is untenable. The vector from cause to effect is obscured. Guttering. The man is cased in shadow. Slips silent into doorway. Upturns collar. The switch is made.

It slips off, into night murk, loses the tail in cats-cradle of doubling back and back again, feints and swift pirouettes. The quarry is cloud. It closes in. in getting to the heart of it

The argument falls away, clattering to concrete like gorget, cuirass and faulds.

Leaving something like a scream or even callous laughter. The diction is in the way.

And the syntax. Grammar.

Custard. Applique. Catch-all. Cruise liner. The directions you can go. Backgammon.

Gravid. “. Well, I mean sometimes it is but sometimes it's just not that, it's not dependent on that sense of a regular pulse at all, for a long time sometimes. My theory is that it's bound to be, that if it's not metricated, it's going to be related to the spoken language. It's naturally what you'll fall back on, I suppose.” And fire. And all the death of that and of babies thrown from windows. So that violence is done to the mind.

Making sense. Sentence slugs left to right. Leaves a trail.

Silver. Sense it. Sound it. the in and out. The in and out.

Modulation of same. Sense. Seal it in. Hermetic.

Breath echoing in closed chamber. Seal it in. The in

And out of it. How it resounds and echoes in closed

Chamber. The panic in that. Trapped that is. Without

Recourse to Outside.

Let it out. Wind snatched it up

Soared it away, gone in greater bluster.

The air chamber, and the wind pushed

Through the three vents


How sounds over the mineral

Of the teeth. The jagged yellow

Flints of the pink cave.

And saying, ah, well, this


Is what I can do

The best I can do

With the moment.

Literally, not 2

How to, fold into that/

Time and again, until

The trick is realised.

That is I

In an endlessly recursive swoon

At the boundaries of


At the point before

It overwhelms.

Alabaster. That thing that is aloof. That can’t be embraced though of course it can be held.

Those distances which are sustained by an act of will. Can be created only by will and the determination to stay separate.

And hard to love and difficult not to desire

The destruction, the demolition that is, of that distance, and dust and dirt

In its place, the shattered plaster, and the brief hollow exhilaration

Which so swiftly Is replaced

by shame.

And erases no distance in doing but layers it

So that that space is extended thereby, by guilt

By shame, by self-recrimination and remorse

And by tears scarring a cheek

With channels.

What exists between, wedged between

This stale regrettable thing, made of errors

And failures to understand.

Always insinuating itself, forbidding connection

Which is always

The erasure of itself.


Well-known member
Depends. The weird thing is I wrote it before I knew him. I think it is about him, but it's an example of time getting jumbled in the writing space


Void Dweller
so far these ones are very good. funny in places. nothing more interesting to say for now but feel like they're opening up to me a bit.


Well-known member
that's a question I don't want to give a facile answer to...but I don't have an earnest one to hand. WhT do you think it is? Is it something to do with putting things into perspective?


Well-known member
i don't do any thinking after dark, I can't even form a sentence after dark as a rule so I feel caught out here


bandz ahoy
I feel caught out
Dissensians yelling "OWS HE!"
All about
The final wicked of my talent
Like toppled thickets losing balance


Well-known member
ive got back in the habit of writing every day just little 2 minute flurries to keep my hand in nothing serious as yet

rust-gardens, bird-din, alternating with bird-silence, bird-lull, still feathers,
spiders, soapstone statues, stone-stump amputee,
a theatrical martyred look, blank eyes cast heavenward,
plea to clement heaven,
don't I deserve my little treat?
Handsome fox curled up on collapsed settee, moss-cushion, spiralling spring that
sly smile of wicked dreaming.
dandelion saw-tooth leaf coarse vigorous bind groping roots
banks of dusty nettles beers cans through
red crinkled dreaming
crumpled crepe paper petals brushing
soft gossamer
against the cheek.


Well-known member
heres another

Every day is a winding road I get a little bit closer. There is a pain in my chest
and I can't breathe. Pink flamingo casts quizzical eye. Frank sunbeam on the roof tiles on the
terracotta chimney pot. Escaping in a clatter of feathers.
Swansong, eke it out, terrified of big velveteen curtain and the lights go out.
Desperate as the applause starts to falter.
It could have been in a provincial town and a gratuitous assault outside the Costcutter
victim of corrosive boredom willed oblivion. Mudflats swallow up the dawn
bird-imprints, lobster-pots, broken shale. In the books
Angel-Intervention your lascivious soul-mate sashays up to you
startles you from frigid reverie
Hey You! It's time to really start Living!


Well-known member
That awful man
Lint and peppermints,
shoulder scurf,
odiferous breath,
wretched voice which makes bad opinions worse.
We intuit some science behind it all, implicit in the frequency range of it,
in it's mucoid blockages and nasal flattening,
in how artless it reveals itself
as excitement overwhelms it
cracks it's dull veneer, animalises it
to honk and squeal
in it's blind mole groping for approval, in the pleading implicit in it,
all of it corresponding to a
like congestion of the soul, to a vulnerability that
invites cruelty. We see it all laid out, as though we could plot it
on a graph, the shape of it, just where it is pinched and depressed,
where cramped and deformed by shame and fear.
Something sadistic rears up in us
Imperious and disdainful
Take this wretch away
And dispose of him!