Thursday, February 14, 2008


It comes and goes;
Sometimes early in the morning
When the sky looks frosted
With its new light,
Sometimes halfway through a song
And it all suddenly
Just makes sense,
Sometimes when you’re talking
And you nod
But your mind’s on what to note down,
Sometimes if you’re feeling doubtful
And someone says something
And there it is again,
Sometimes in the middle of the night
When the stars are in bed, and you should be too
And you scrabble for a pen,
Sometimes staring out of windows
Or looking out of doors
It arrives,
And sometimes,
You don’t even know when it happened,
You just know it’s there.


I feel so... something.
Not bad,
But too unsettling to be good.
Something coursing
Unfaltering electricity
Running in my veins
Running like a deep need.
Scratch my skin,
Pucker the smooth
The goosebumped,
And it would burst out
In streamers
Or screams
I'm not sure which,

What You Love

Count up for me please
The things that you love.
Is it the smell of other people's houses,
Or the smell of your own
When you go back home?
Is it the whispers that swim out
Of a second-hand book?
The shine of an LP
Scores of frost,
A first-hand look,
The taste of granulated sugar
Or someone else,
Playing cards,
Pin badges, buttons, bells.
Is it new carpet?
Victoria sponge,
New pictures hung
Old pictures found,
The crush of ice cubes,
Old territory, new ground.
Getting lost,
Only to be found.
Is it a compliment
Making blooms of a blush,
A bustle of backpacks
Or a library hush.
A bowlful of marbles,
Paper stars,
Paper anything,
Light on glass.
A turn of phrase,
A typewriter clank
The perfume or headline,
That gin that we drank.
Count up for me please
The things that you love,
And we'll make them into a list,
Just like this.


Sometimes sitting staring
Thinking out of windows,
And wishing out of doors.
Push up that sash window
And just
Just take it in –
There’s a city over there,
Rippled with heat.
Just breathe it in
And look
Where no-one else can see
Where no-one else notices.
It’s yours,
Just for a moment;
Just take it all in.


What do you call
A day without a soul?
I won’t weaken
And call it overcast,
Or romanticise
And call it balmy.
I feel like I’m trying to choose
My favourite brick from the wall
That my splintered window looks out on.


Thumbprints in dust
Hinges on a wall, bleeding rust
A lightbulb blown,
Crisp packet thrown.

A lock stuck,
Clock stopped,
Flat tyre,
Chalk-dust of ash in the fire.

The quick-slow pass
As smooth as glass,
The endless chime,
Then, now, is time.

The Colours Inside

They try to tell you what you look like inside.
Collections of organs,
Neatly compactly arranged around each other
Like the boot of a car packed for a holiday.
Strings and sinews,
Parallel lines of muscles
In a limited spectrum of red through brown.
Blood flowing through you in lightning-fast highways.
But in truth,
It only starts to look like that
The minute they cut you open;
That's when the spell is broken.
No what it really looks like
Is something altogether different.
Blocks of colour,
Every colour you could imagine
Make up the inside of you.
You're like a walking Mondrian painting
Of pulsating, vibrant shades, keeping you going.
When you look at something beautiful,
It's what's inside you trying to get out.
Real beauty,
That exists in an eternal striving to escape.

Metal Dream

The cars rattle along the busy road
The smell of February rises in steam
And as the tyres sigh into the tarmac
The sky is an orange mistake,
Burnt and victorious.

I see in the distance
Canary Wharf and its tall companions
Struck silver against the violent sky,
Like a child's impression of a city skyline
Only in miniature.

The white-noise hum of London
Puts pressure on my head,
The voices, cars, drills;
It’s mirrored in the sky
Which turns a clashing pink.

A split of blinding sun
Creeps through a snag in the sky,
And all the drivers
Pull down the visors,
And traffic moves
Like a choreographed metal dream.


This is just a selection of haiku I've written, going through a year.

This is what happens;
I could curl up like paper
Too close to a match.

Rewind the cassette,
Listen to what I've said now
And tape over it.

Craving that crackle
October's sheets of ice-glass
And hands in mittens.

Pearly spheres of cold,
Silver sky lets out a sigh
Tapping my window.

You under the sky;
Rain has never looked as good
As it did on you.

Stones are lost buttons
Torn from the shirt of the world
In sudden passion.

Caramel pebbles,
Granulated sugar sand
Lit by honey sun.

A Nice Change

I'd like to see
A well-dressed dog
Taking a man for a walk.
I'd like to see
The stars teaching their kids
The names of all of us.
I'd like to see
A carp laughing at the man
Who lies, hook in mouth, on the path.
I'd like to see
A house growing out of control
Over some winter jasmine.
I'd like to see
A bus driver running for his car
Who rolls down the hill unblinking.
I'd like to see
The newspaper reading you.

So Much To See

Some days it’s splintered glass,
Fractured pieces.
Saucepans boil dry
Curtains catch on the rail,
They won’t open from damp.
Pins of rain spark from nowhere
And you find yourself misplacing,
Or misplaced.
But then other days,
You’re awake and breathing,
For your soul’s barely born,
It’s not yet weary from the world,
There’s so much to see
And so much to be,
So the glass gets swept away
The windows let in light,
You’re wide-eyed from outside
Face with a honeycomb glow,
You’re not lost but found,
And there’s so much to see
That the dark disappears.

Photo Karma

I took a photo of that old hotel
And a month and two days later
They bulldozed it down
And now it’s nowhere anymore.
I took a photo of your antique clock
And just shy of two months later
The glass that shaded its old face
Cracked and fell away.
Note to self;
Stop taking pictures of beautiful things
(So cancel that portrait
You ordered.)

Piece Of Mind

A van just drove past,
Lightning strikes painted down one side
Claiming the company specialised
And it got me thinking;
What if that was a real service?
Inside the van, shelves upon shelves
Of different levels of happiness
Bottled from contentment to ecstasy,
Available via mail order
To be delivered to your door.

Metallic Brain

I am a standing, walking, waking engine.
A metal stack of time,
Each outward breath
A fine line of iron filings
That slowly make their way
Through the hourglass.
New thoughts encased in silver,
Old memories brass
Within my metallic brain,
A tap makes a tinny hollow noise,
Out fall a few more.
I can cut through paper,
I can withstand the knocks
And on I walk, shining
To the sound of the clocks.
If I catch the light
My skin flashes white, magnesium-bright,
Hinges balmed like new,
The strides do not creak but sway
As I walk through the days, and the time clicks on.


Perhaps I am not sleeping
Perhaps I saw what the sky looked like
Before anyone else was awake today.
Perhaps the shoes you bought me
Were too big
And I was too polite to say.
Perhaps I can't stop listening to a song
And the neighbours must be tired
Of me always pressing play.

Perhaps I wrote a message in the dust
And promised to be better
But then wiped it away.