It isn’t the door, it is the knock.

It is the time, not the clock.

Don’t let the winds choose where your ship will dock.

As one begun as though, and so,

The two and fro

And three and free,

And for something and against something,

Fists are five wrapped and trapped.

Let’s hear it for the never clapped.

Enjoy the silence when you’ve been slapped.

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The Last Bath

The bottom of her forearms rest along the sides of her bath.

The bottom of her tongue rests in her mouth.

Her bottom she rests in the bottom of her raft.

She’s overdressed.

This is no place for a scarf.

She turns on the hot tap.

Smoke says its long goodbye to the wick.

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A Fraction of the Whole

Mid-wank Nina realises she has never tried to remember the name of her childhood rabbit.

Names aren’t important to Nina, except hers.

Nina thinks Nina, sounds like a siren.

She pushes her confidence through crowds on a stretcher attached to a sauvignon drip.

Elbow’s trained,

Snowplowing through un-casual drinks.

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March Madness

Two Tuscan hares, lie back and wheeze on the Suffolk air.

“One day we’ll learn to fight properly”, says Alex after their annual sparring.

“I might move back to Old Country” says Tony.

Alex ponders whether,

if he saw himself hopping through this field, he’d see an immigrant;

He’s never been to Europe. Would they even want him there?

His ears stand up, like clandestine lovers who’ve been rumbled.


There is barking in the distance.


The Fraglie Potrait


Ink crawls out of its afternoon puddle and onto her to do list

The street spits its phlegm at the glass facade

Of the little gallery at 83

A special delivery scheduled for lunchtime

Well, “between 12 and 4”

It’s the fragile portrait

A framed opinion on reflection

It’s what she’s been waiting for.

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Second Shot

The little coffee shop bell, tingles down my spine.

Door hinges disagree with one another,

Squawking like angry crows.

The bored barista thinks about his audition,

When will they be handing me a macchiato, he wonders.

A moustached accent with an idiot attached says nothing. Loudly.

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Opening Night

Screen Shot 2017-03-31 at 09.51.09


(This poem was written for The Listeners Project where the brief is to respond to a space that is about be demolished or changed. The Adel Rootstein Mannequin Factory at dusk was the creepy setting for my piece. It had been opened 57 years previous.

Here is the link to video: https://vimeo.com/197206852)

The rusty hands of time stop,
As he enters the room.
Quin the man – the malaprop
In his party’s throbbing womb.
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Unfinished Business

Unfinished Business

The ice winks in the glass
Warm thoughts freckle my shoulders
My mind melts into my veins
Eyes shutter close
As nostalgia has a lock-in
Painted smiles chuckle around the bar
Filled with familiar faces of people I have never met
Bottles, who spirit is judged on emptiness
Line up, in front of an oily mirror
One is charged and taken for further investigation
In it’s place, a reflection of you
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Bar- See- Loner

(NB. This was written for my friends and is about the first weekend I spent in Barcelona away from them. Anything capitalised is a name or a nickname of a friend.)

Here goes this ode, I hope more than reviewing,
First Friday in Barca and this Teapot is brewing,
And although I am missing my favorite Mug
This electric city is the socket for my plug.

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