Poetry

DREAMS FROM A LOCKED ROOM collection available now!

My collection ‘Dreams from a Locked Room’ is available now here (or navigate to the shop tab on this site)

I am as brittle as a pane of glassshuffling down the same streetcreaking like a scarecrow come aliveas I stoop …

The maw of the old mineshaft reminded meof the stove-in mouthof an end-of-the-line lush,left gaping there glistening by bored kids, …

The fire escapeis a raggedy spiral thing –a rotten tin box of ribs,have to climb it in a half crouch …

I heave up another lungful of gulped down stars and margarita moon (behind: a guitar plinks and ripples and twangs, …

At that moment in the long grass, or weeds, or whatever they were – but long, long, two feet at …

View this post on Instagram 'Your Relationship' poetry reading with video. Missing my typewriter so knocked up a few shots …

I watch you working the body with a boxer’s predatory rhythm, ravaging that tin box like werewolf a fairytale maid, …

She took her things that lined the shelves, they left holes in the dust like buckshot in a stag’s flank. …

You cling to my finger like a newborn.The same weight that clogged your engines and draggedyou down to drown now …

By the seathe urge to screamdrains awaylike the tidefrom the rockpools. Of courseit will return againbut for now you can …

Machines liftyour hulking massweightless, O wingless angel slityou giveand give and give. You area huge and creakingoaken tankof red grape …

I know what you’re thinking. Poetry? What a goddamn snoozefest. You’re not wrong, but you’re in the right place . …

I knew it was wrong but the allure in the starling sky that spring evening was overpowering – the same …

You there swan-like, blonde, bowed at the neck knelt drawing in charcoal on the dusty garage floor with great swathes …

Great bronze bald head mawning like slow laze lion always tan from endless village loops delivering letters, bills and birthday …

When all seems hopeless and the wind howls its lonely song and the ocean, once a friend, burns white each …

And here’s my old shirt, blue and green with busted holes two, three, no, four buttons blown away – bounced …

The leather brands the hands when you’re pleading with the reins atop a rush of boiling black your years thunder …

How many of us are going to slip out of here like oily eggs onto breakfast plate without a whimper, …