It’s like
I’ve done in my life
To this point –
Everything –
Has simply been
For the occasion of,
My turning


Mlle Shrodinger

She’s the cat.

I sit watching the box
Not knowing if, when
It opens, she’ll be there
Alive and warm
To me
Or cold

I don’t know.

But she does.


Dreams Die Here

Dreams die in places like this
They gasp and stagger
And collapse in writhing

These dreams once were
Free to run through
Forests and meadows
And to bask in the dappled light
Of the late morning sun

But ambition took
Those wary dreams
To a place called work
Dreary little hovels with polystyrene ceilings
Strip lights
And carpets of pure function
And not form

And in these places
Greed, malevolence
And hatred breed
Like bacteria in the dark
Recesses of the toilet bowl
For a beautiful dream

Slowly the poison takes a hold
And the dreams die.


Twitter Is Killing Me

Time was
My mind was free
To roam
To choose delights
Upon which to settle
Free to contemplate
Deepest mysteries
Of philosophy
And our world

That is
Because she had
She was the
Mistress of her own

She might spend hours
Pondering the meaning
Of a single word
Or a fleeting instant
Dismissing the collected
Works of Immanuel Kant

I lament.

For now, in each moment
Where she begins
To ponder
Where she settles down
To contemplation,
As if on a sofa
Before a fire
With a good book,
She is interrupted
By the persistent
Whine of social media
For attention
For her attention.

The noble
The trivial
The mundane.

Ironic therefore,
That she has chosen to use
This medium
To share this rare
Example of considered

But she’s only trying
To warn
Those of you
Who use it most
Before it is too

Dark Cloud

Looking back,
My life was daisies and buttercups
High jinks and delinquency
Drunkeness and laughter.

I would have had it
No other way because
There was love at the
Heart of it all

The skies were always blue
Except when it rained
But then we simply inhaled
The aroma of musty earth
And waited for the clouds to clear.

But what now?
What apocalyptic mushroom
Is this? Casting an ominous
Umbra across my meadows
Of joy.

From where once the sounds of
Laughter and music tinkled –
Even from the playgrounds
Of my adverseries – I now
Hear the strident roar of
Unreasonable rage.

The daffodils are being trampled
One by one. The daisies and their
Modest beauty are invisible to those
Now blind to such things.
Hard serrated metal replaces soft
Verdant lawns.

My playground of simple things
Has become a theatre. A stage on
Which I fear ever darker deeds will
Enact themselves upon.

Just Enough Brown

She is, admittedly,
Elegant and thin
A face which
Exudes humanity
And grace.
I imagine calm
Intelligence and modesty.

I notice also,
The tan.
Subtle and understated
A hint of mediterranean
Olive and
Just enough brown
To enhance.

Too much,
And one slips into
Darkness –
The funky fathoms
Of black.
Of late nights
and Jazz; dub-wise reggae
Poverty. Oppression, dance.

It’s a little too
It floods the cortex
Of middle England
With sensions too great
To bear.

No, my beautiful
Sister. You’ll need to stay

Just enough brown.

Dancing is Freedom

For the late-night dancers in ‘Lunched Out Lizards’ & ‘Molly’s Bar’, WOMAD UK, July 2017.

I have always loved music
when I was younger
I loved it so much I wanted
To possess it
Drink it in
Own it and know it was mine.

I’d always ask
‘What’s that tune?’
‘Who is it by?’
And rush out and purchase it.
Or so I thought.

I’d watch the boys and girls
Who could effortlessly create
With something like
An envious rage

I would try to emulate or replicate
Musicians, singers, DJs
But my efforts would be a pale fail


I’m older now
And have learned
That possession was a false path
My role was never to own
Or to create music

I love it just as much as I did then
But I now know that my role is
To let it wash over me
To caress me with its beauty and power
Until I reach a point where it
Releases my singular purpose.
My talent.
My destiny.

I dance.
I shimmer. I reflect in movement
What music says in sound
I open my love organ
And breathe in music
Then breathe out motion sheathed
In blissful affection for the world
And all alive in it

Touch me while I move
And I will show you
The kaleidescopic possibilities of love

And joy

So no.
Me, you –
We’re not creators, curators
Beatmerchants or such.

But we dance

And dancing is freedom –
Dancing is love.