On the 3rd of November 1986 5 brave Dadaist’s painted a white line in protest along the colourful side of the Berlin Wall, this is

Bermondsey, you see, is like you, is like me, It falls it rises, a story within a story, it’s docks whisper loudly that we’re allowed

Written in response to the piece above, Sueño del unicornio, 1996, by Gilberto Aceves Navarro for an exhibition of his work at Galeria Hilario Galguera,

It isn’t the door, It is the knock It isn’t the time, not the clock Don’t let the winds Choose where your ship will dock

It isn’t the gore, it is the shock. It is the climb, not the rock. Silhouettes turn shadows loose as your hips unlock. Jazz drums

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

This ode is not to herald news of tomorrow,Wandering tales of colourful geckos.The future we are not here to borrow,And no yesterday’s am I here

Mrs. Frey, ageing supply teacher, Tuts, through her disgruntled coalition of teeth. Her lips part like sisters who never got along. She controls the gas.

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,

Spring casts off winters concealment, Apollo and Earths heady achievement. Plants wipe away their dewy tears, The larks they finds our grateful ears. Colours sing in loudest their voice, As

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

This is us. This is not the divine.   Caused, like the wars. By your hands, And mine.