Under the family banner
talking about my nana
who was not fat,
I would say more rounded than that and
a Victorian lass
pince nez on her nose and a tin of snuff,a pinch of
which went.. but that enough..
Did I say,she was not fat?
she was grounded in the roots of
cotton mills and rolling hills
and hobnailed clogs and miners boots,she’s now long gone but fair play to her, she lived a good few years after reaching ninety one,I guess it was the Mackeson that helped her to live so very long.

Grandad,dad of my dad fought in the great war which brought him bugger all except a medal from the military for being outstanding in the fields of bravery,he battled Passchendaele each and every day until like all good men and soldiers he faded,faded slowly,slowly,slowly and marched quite vaguely somewhere far away.

My dad was a great dad a wait and then we’ll see dad,a make your Sunday tea dad,but you never see the greatness when you’re stood upon its shoulder,that only happens if you’re lucky when you get a little older and I’m older now,able to look back and see how this family handed down to me,that look back into history…..


More broken


Acts and Romans follow on


Detention in the ministry
this school of life will finish me,
kill me or diminish me
and polish me until
I shine like gold
and wealth brought up from underground,
pounded into greedy eyes,where
everybody dies to be, trapped into
the dynasty of chains.
Links forged in the furnaces
life until it finishes,
burnish me until
I shine like gold.

The barrel roll


It’s always midnight out there,where
the somewhere meets the nowhere
and the screams begin,
where the gin never fixed it and thinking
I should not have mixed it,
it’s always midnight out there.


We jump through the hoops
looping the loops and scoop the big prize.
We thread lies through the eyes of needles and
stitch falsehoods on silk,sour milk for mankind.
We sell futures as if there’s a future to sell and the hell that we’re left with is all that’s left to give and who gives a damn?
The fisherman did as he bid nets to cast, knowing full well that still waters held fast to a feast,
at least that’s the story we’re told.

The bold and the brave will become the old and a slave of the young and the new and then what will they do with the future they sold? will they
try to hold onto it as they flit through the hell that they made? swapping silk for brocade is a poor mans solution,the problem that’s posed is, suppose it was you in the spotlights,cramped in the headlamps and nowhere to go,when the wolves are bearing down on you what do you do,when a smile doesn’t cut it and you’re told to just shut it,so do you swallow your words,choke on your tongues?
is this existence
have we designed a new plague, is this the eleventh pestilence to rain down on us,is this the future we wait for,the last bus to Hades?

Ladies and Gentlemen there was a time when,
when the forests were glades and we were just ‘babes in the wood’ and the future looked good but we turned away from all that,learnt the world wasn’t flat and what goes around comes round,we poisoned the earth,the very ground that we walk on and yet we still talk on and on as if it hasn’t all gone and will come round once again,but you don’t need a sermon from me,you already know
that’s why the family silver’s been sold,that’s why we’re old before our notes fall due,that’s why the new have it all.
The fall of man will come not with a bang but a signature on a mortgage foreclosure and at the end of it when we’ve bent all we can and are as twisted as only a man can be,freed from all doubt in a boat somewhere out on the sea,
we’ll cast nets and catch fishes for tea.

Under and out of the carapace


Down the needle point I see
a field of dreams that wait for me
poppies waving gleefully
a community for those who
semi comatose would seek a peek into
the afterlife,
and before the afterlife, before the seed,before the overpowering need,before the point became the point,
after the smoking of a joint,after the wanting one more high,after the roof blew off the sky or was that in the afterlife?that being the point as memory deceives and leaves me undecided as to what occurred and in what order.
Where the order was no order and all was in some disarray and each day was another night,when the needle point became the light.
when right in at the deep end, when one more step would send me over the top,
I stop to look around and in the silence of a greater sound I see another pin to prick,a pick me up,a loving cup,where dreams are heaven sent and very different.
I see the point is no point at all,no point to fall from grace,no point to send me racing on some long forgotten highway,
and day becomes the day.
The light’s okay

Waking wreckage


The fragile mind
a fractal lined with broken glass
where broken people pass in broken lines.
I tread warily where acid in the eyesight bothers me,where
washed up words are the emergency and 999 is something
that you see while watching your TV.
I move carefully
disturbing nothing,this community does not welcome me or anyone,
blink your eyes and they are gone but linger on the late night breeze
and in your memories,
the fragile mind at ease
the sleeping giant.

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