Knotted Castle

I made friends with a tooth,
for he was alone,
had lost a friend,
needed an embrace
For there are deserts
as well as canyons in our
mouths.

We are the Ossuary People, 

Inlaid with abalone
bone brigands with

snaffled desires

poached in vinegar
and lusting after tardy  

secular saints

full of joyous horror

Heart, flag and cross, 

God preserve us
endear us & enjoin us
In a waxen-blood franchise

Are people mad enough 

to call themselves 
this or the other ?
Reiterating, reconfirming

driving the knives deeper 

I must believe myself for 

I am not lonely,

but a whole.

idyllic remains by a river, 

Gin soaked beauty 

shimmering like grey vanity
over early autumnal
domicile drivel In extended and
expansive bliss.

Candle light and rain,
looking for twilight in vain
shining across the
short-cut lawns 

dusky cadences 

long & glorious 

cast out like furnace coal 

by the dragging afternoon.

To live and die in Londis

One doesn't live in London,
one dies in London.

A Winter Queen of Bohemia in
our midst
Elsewhere lives too
dry Elizabeth Essex.
Dream of brimmed lotions,
quicksilver and
final, eternal rule.

The snail dance meets
the Stork's rising
to phoenix family
Oh yes, the praxis wheel
reccuring 'infinity',
shivering daggers of flame.


The more they have,
the more resentful they get.
Resentful bores
who, being ignoble,
in the end become
most soft-boned.

Atheism, pointless too,
because Nihil is also
a God
The Aesthetic preferable
to mere Ascetic. 

De Montfort

Gamblers, Marquesses

impious ridiculous drunkmen 
dawn duels attended 
by liveried heretics

Wanton cornucopias of privilege,
epicene, tragic crusaded singularities
passaged by bacteria

dessicated coconut confetti,
chalky wines of monks and Kings,
fine Colombusted snow-drivel,  the

sugarcane of Corinthian Gods.

In essence there are few

who reach attic tragedy 
as attainment

they are never philosophers.
Tragedy is impersonal nobility,

tragedy is a fiery dragon on 
a turning wheel.

THE ORGY IS OVER

Finally the orgy over

with macabre fiefdoms

to come;
A dark age rises,

civilisation breaks brittle as a biscuit,

crumb by crumb

Marching to militias

amid gloomy plastic meltdowns
the wires trailing nowhere

The sun has shone, the day

has come and gone

the evening was sweet and elegiac,

now the darkness soars

and the leaves fall

in resignation and despair,

wilting to damp and dissolute mud

Minor notes are struck,

the major has long faded.

Oh Fox, feline hound

saline foe, serpentine member 

Presently,

over a weary grey season 

the last dance of 

twinned redcoats

pert part prance

Unlike that adored 

rodent, the rabbit

You've earned your guise in the 

weft and wattle of this land

Would you see off 

the hoof smiths

horn blowers

horse chargers

Or is the hunter

as much in your heart as

you in his ?

Red flame-breasted brothers
the hounds, horns, thunder of claws

Co-authors

in each others'

imperceptible dream

Last free master of

mythical wiles,

and pitiless fate.

Will your embrace be ended,

your chronicle discontinued ?

Unknown muse 

of this land,
Scrutinized by
frivolous and benign bosoms,
extraneous mothers
Altogether a far-away steel gaze
pitifully projected upon fate

For it's a strange dance
on your pasture 

Beguiled, we remain with
your unwritten saga
Blinded by your bounty of wit 

Bound by your passion 
of war

I am a backdoor Mantis,

the people I know,

don't give a damn
and eat their lovers heads

He's a Wilberforce man

signed his own death warrant,

such is the gage of death, or

the devil's metaphysic.

hot trumps, hot suites, hot turnips, hot roots

hot sheets, hot toots, hot teats, hog rats

Im a back door mannequin, the

big whorehouses don't understand

but the the little girls prance 
after Mantis 

Because your father's love

eats you

because you drown your misery

in wine and french fries

We are all skeletons

and our flesh suddenly

gets tired of hugging the bone

Their heads follow their hearts &

their hearts are frequently misled.

their hearts..

follow their heads

and their heads..

are frequently misled.

Predators will put you out of

your misery,

humans will want to enslave you

She may wish to talk about

science

she don't know about religion,

God knows if shes heard of the

Cuban revolution

Disbelieving is for people

who fear death:

It is the expression of that fear.

Because the atheist is

looking to be free of the fear;

atheism is a faith that fear could be

overcome, but never feeling

it is overcome.

The fear of death is fear of nature;

fear is due to the separation from nature.

Chess is the will of the universe,

Unlike bland half-hearted  
sacramentalism in politics.

Greed is a freedom,

free-will to do wrong.

The moon is not a lie and

is not dead.

It is all we live for, spiritually

and materially.

The moon is a mercurial

mystery
striding upon silver clouds

Mocking all clear thought

and achievement. 

New Man Rotten hat

I met a desultory daydreamer,
Explicitly said out loud

he wasn't a fake
With an internet hotspot 
Bigger than a great lake
They took me to a new church
And baptized me with gibberish
She told me, "liquorice"
I am a new man.

Pleistocene Breakout

God does not exist !

you hear them crying

and they are not wrong.
But, as we suspected all along,


We do.



To Be


is different than

To Exist

– in the Latin etymology –

Exist comes from
Ex-Sistus,
the thing that gets out of


The (one who) is


/the one who sits (literal)



We emerge


from some
womb immanent


Ultimately,
like a
firmament,


Vastness that is

Like a skyline viewed

from the middle of the sea

or off the top of a mountain,


unbeknownst


to those in the valley

Thorns and manure

Old tree trunks in the desert
barefoot on the heath

Bleeding claret

on the clean cut
lawns

moody mouldy melodies,
resonant and groovy

Napoleon stands,

with unwashed hands

road full of

detritus and corngold

warriors and geniuses

amphetamine bulldog

roadbuilding

God is old fashioned.  

Grief is old fashioned.  

The world is old fashioned. 

Cosmic laws, whatever they are, 
don't do whatever they want.

disasters happen.  

What we do here matters somewhere else.

Ezra, Eliza & Euclid

Aubrey moos in blind drunk darkness

in violent perambulations

cobblestone reveries

Missed the daily service

attendance by pretty girls hath fallen

maids supply mouldy button 
sponges and 
hot english dirt water

construction sore tea

Puritan long shadows

windfarm nouvelle clutter,

The land of Jute

Beer, gin hophouse distilleries

Gabled farm yawns

whiskyplate famine harmony

One is sure Wycliff 

wanted to be a viking.

the false resurrection of the flesh

(..an ongoing merry dance...)

First world war was only
symbolic death

merely outward corruption

the carnage on the soul

was later

souls stolen 
from death

between and after 

wars
For if identity is 
an illusion
then death is nothing
to be afraid of.

Margaret Mcmillan

The Solemn Oak
handles with
pistol grips

Theres a dirty garage on the river Severn

very near Worcester

Where he keeps his Swans.

Never enmesh the soul
With material things,

and so too,

never imbue materials

with the seat of a soul.

But I don't want to be immortal-
Not here, anyway.
Would rather be away with the wine
in the cellar.

Meditiations on a burning bush

One feels one has 
less time when old,
that it is quite outrun

Whilst in essence
time is always the same. 
There is only ever thus 
a single time, and it's
the ineffable utters here.

deliquesce

The world spins on ridiculous pivots

mired in a myriad hazards 

like saxophone concertos
at Croydon Minster,

some slouching tonic for the soul.

Surety being,
the supposed applause of molten ancestors 

As I stand disintegrating, the

atoms flowing outward into morass
the great equivocal river

like memories, we replicate and thus, dilapidate

flowing down to a great sea of souls

palliatively soothful for 

what remains
enroute to the plummet-gate,

the coil must be rid of,
it is a brittle skin,
the journey of a skeleton.

Just as the genius has his mulch

the rose her manure

the pearls, 

the diamonds

also have their dross

to define them