starlings / winter time

It is winter now and I’m passing a lot of time looking through glass. Sometimes seems like everything only exists on the other side of the glass. These poems are about what I’ve seen, and this is what I’ve wondered.


O simple bird, in summer, squabbling, wretched
  Are you the ones who fly across my skies
at dawn, murmuring above the pier at dusk
in winter teaching me the signs
of the weather, and of time
  I come to live my life, look out for you
Desperate, at such times for the vitality I need
In you – is this the meaning, reason for your summertime greed?

  Are you one, the same?


ocean / sky / man

Ocean silver light and peach
Sky blue reflecting ocean
Shining is a mirror of the
Sky alive and moving deep 

Ocean living mirror and the
Sky a plate of life upon it
Starlings like sails in the
Sky above the crying gulls upon the 





 Ocean watching on the beach
Man wonders by the railings
Staring at living seas is only
Man watching living sky.

 Ocean silver light reflecting
Sky upon the surface life
Moving deep below where
Man alone is watching life.



(poems for the summer)

Brighton coast / Photo by Rachel Silverlight

Night (summer).

 In the stillness of the night I hear
Some car pass down some road.

Or is it the sea? That roaring rumbling
Sound is so distant and so faint.

Or the wind that whistles down these streets
Between the buildings like channels to
The sea?

No matter; the laughing gulls are up.



The sea belongs to me.
The sea belongs to me.
Three times I have swum now
Three days in the sea
And three makes it true
Don’t it?

The sea belongs to me.


(after Camus)

I will die not happy not sad
it will come to me just as it is
and it will be everything
I will feel some trepidation before,
but no more than any man or woman
at any other change coming.

After all it is fixed
like pain is fixed
and joy has its limit
and cold is fixed
and so death
from the moment we’re birthed
and before
played out in the lottery of the stars
in the light of any distant sun
still playing out forever.

four lovers

Frida Kahlo - The Two Fridas - 1939

Frida Kahlo – The Two Fridas – 1939

The lines

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love for me.

are from Sylvia Plath’s Tulips, which slightly inspired this. Although I’ve been intending to write about the vagina for a pretty long time.


Four lovers


Heart you’re the best part of me.
Your simple desires, your blind bloody stubborn love.
Oh all those fancy others on whom my favours fatal fell,
whose wills bent to the world
What are they, what are they now!
I understand your pain now

When mind grabs & takes me running, mind fascinates
On journeys to strange places I meekly followed in delight
To elope with a vision of us walking side by side.
But mind you got me lost and
Your contemptuous impatience waits not and
You think I hold you back;
You care more for your adventure than for me or for your safety.
Mind travel far, leave me watching far behind. 

And you gut, who swells with each next great thing
Swells with each swallow, Seeks and eats great joy,
and when you are full, gut it feels so good
That I believe you might be the source of love.
But gut you are not:
you were made only to receive
you digest love into particles, and gut that’s not the same.
And then so ravenous insatiable; hungry again so soon!
So no great joy or love lasts long in you
O greedy gut.

 O and o, Vagina! whose charms especially excite
Whose company so brilliant I want to be with her
All the time, she shines
Intoxicating like being on drugs
When she’s there you worship
When awake she makes the world
Incredible – I love her!
But love and worship for her leaves me spent.
I love her, I love her: she is in me, a part of me, but not me, she is not.
She is a cunt
who desires only to consume
She only desires; a self-obsessed destroyer
She loves and lords her power laughing.
She cannot, does not, love me back, O alas.


Heart, you were so quiet
How could I have known?
Your sweet simple desires, stubborn bloody love
Wanting only to be where you are, inside
Strange comfort, your quiet regular love, inside
Wanting only to keep me alive
Even if it were against my will, you’d try
Your one demand
I don’t mind that.
You know me best
Heart, my heart who
opens and closes
your bowl of red blooms out of sheer love for me.
I realised then.
Forgive me.
Heart, o heart,
I understand your pain at last.

bus dreams


the seas were fake and made of plastic

Over the hill see the stars of the city red green yellow and a faraway peach coloured crescent of light glowing roman colonnade

 the comets bus window reflected lights

 Coast past handsome Georgian town houses like we’re entering the Mediterranean only not quite like they’re braced: against the weather, grey waves no gentle blue.

 huge halo dandelions of  streetlights rain-blurred

 Sudden bus smell something who knew you’d missed or would/could miss: musty, sweaty smell of someone once’s bed– gone.

misty on a runway in space.

the rattling road
the crumbling pen

A palace of light, signs where cassette lord reigns and fat man crossing road flaps his arms left right like an oversize duck attempting to take flight and stars approach and fade, a memorial, a memorial, a hall of strangers:
it is the City!

It is the city.

(peacehaven to brighon, last bus)


a poem about being a writer


Smoking at my desk,
I ash into the whale.
I have a cup of tea
And a glass of water,
And the whale is in between
In a ceramic sea of filth
Where the cigarette points at me
Filter up, and I pause,
To smoke it; it glows,
And then I put it back
And write again (like now).

Sometimes I write and smoke at the same time
The cigarette dangling out the corner of my mouth,
This makes me feel like a real writer
I’m doing it now, (but not now.)
It’s hard though.

structures of the night

After celebrating the Jubilee (or something) on an East London rooftop, meeting the early morning sunrise and fooling around on walls and ledges pretending to be Jim Morrison, trying to impress the boys, eventually, late, I made it back to Brighton, which I barely recognised through the fog of rain and exhaustion. I love summer rain, though.


Structures of the night
foreign city light landscape
through the drizzle fog
train rushing through.

Rain is good. Once the
shock of it is overcome
gleaming darkly telephone wires
spreading out, like webs

Strange familiar country
The rainy night brings its own
scent of lavender, delight
trees wetly rustled through.