Sunday, 31 July 2011


You have drug problems, and some pretty good pubs
You have beautiful woodland and back-alleys of grime
You have Saturday night chaos and Sunday morning bemused tranquillity
You have discarded heroin needles next to graffiti about love
I grew up in you
I have walked your surface as many different people
I am a drop in your oceans
I can feel the rhythm of your tides
My tears have often got you wet
In ecstasy, I have performed clumsy handstands on your withered grass
Clarity and confusion run into each-other nightly, and dance dialectical in the space between your citizens
I have skipped through you at 4am drunkenly shouting half remembered lines from Ginsberg
I have thrown countless pebbles into your sea and felt calm
I have kicked a pint glass at your coppers
I am one of your very few Leninists
You have provided everything that is important and beautiful to me
I have felt your rain pour over my face, and perhaps
Something of me ran into the water
And soaked into your pavements, as past generations have
And will continue into the air of the future
As new feet walk over them
Living strange lives
Like you and me.

Thursday, 14 July 2011

A little confession

I reall am a raging homosexual


It had been a dark and confused winter, and the authentic mind was hiding. It was as if the cold had seeped into our homes, and closed up our mutual spaces. All of our contact took on an alien, defensive quality. But in all the uncertainty, she was there. One night in November we stayed up, drinking on the sofa. I looked into her eyes, her face warm in the lamp-light. Rested my forehead against hers. With hot mulled wine on our lips we kissed and kissed and kissed, messy and wonderful, giggling, sighing, hands exploring, fucking and cuddling to sleep, as if with one great burst of affection we could shatter alienation forever and be free, and for a while we were.


Michael was lying in bed, bored, when it began.
Lucy was downing her 6th shot when it began.
Greg was climbing a tree when it began.
Lucinda had just been mugged, and then it began.
The guardian had just gone to press, and a storm was brewing, and the unions had gone on strike, the day that it began.
It took most people a little while to realise what had happened after it began.
They were wrapped up in world-blanking kisses, screaming black howls of despair, hot with lust in high-wire fucks, kicking themselves in realisation and quietly contemplative as it began.
At first only a cracked and whiskered old tramp, drinking white cider with grit in it, noticed, and that was an hour after it began.
He muttered to the shoes walking past him that the shadows were missing but it was too late, because an hour earlier it began.
Above all of the ordinariness, at the top of a bell-tower, silhouetted shapes danced noiselessly and blended into a hellish myriad - and smiled as it began.

Monday, 4 July 2011


There was the sea again with its sounds. A wave slowly lifted him up. It came from afar and travelled sedately on, a shrug of eternity.