Summer city

Sky like dusted

velvet skirts

billowing into



trees scrape

against the

wind, begging

to be stroked.


In the garden

night owls weep

London expires,

heat laden.


Dark fades in,

tables litter streets;


beyond concrete,


sweet night billows

black velvet skirts

as stars search

for an entry.






fall from

broken shards

of lives

you’ve scuttled

in and out of.


Underlying peace

struggles to subsist

with the scream

of “I” leaping from

your chest  to

bite you.


We sit:

shadows of

your fear

squirm across

the floor

tie my ankles tight:

you bind me.


Angels don’t

come twice,

the message that

you seek

floats within

this space,

of lifetimes.


Fragments in

your smile;

years of swift

escape cut your

tired face

once beautiful

to me;


and I’m a

butterfly by night

wings singed with

your desire

melting into sugar

spun light,

to leave you.


Rooted in spirit



Morning raises purple

bruises from  the night

where the stars burst in my veins

you mutter your way through

my sleep, like an echo.



Clouds brood under a

rain soaked sky, heaven

can’t talk through crossed

lines, one to one  doesn’t

seem to be available.


Time marches into serendipity

clicking its heels, salutes the

fly past, raising ribbons on

old defeats, forever running.


I meet myself at the corner

of the street, flee smooth faced

oestrogen babes white skin,

clutching at my one last egg:

flicker of recognition passes for love.


Spirits rise with the wind,

riding mythical beasts, course

through red blood keep light flowing.

It’s the light that’s noticeable,

rising around me like a ballgown.


Old women haunt me

their faces gnarled with

use, I teeter on the limit

diving from my spider’s

threads, trying not to dislocate.


Betrayals cut too deep

only clouds to talk to

birdsong in my hair

throwing runes for breakfast.

Dipping into



It was nice

having you around, your head

spread on pillow, your body stretched

into the bed, the sound of early morning breathing

thundering in my ear.


Yes, it was simple

at first; my heart pounded neurones

my body swept with sweet surrender,

I became just what you were after

to keep you next to me.


Then my feet

began to falter along the street

that led to front door &I didn’t

recognise the stranger that you

seemed to be.


Yes it’s wild

being an artist: a collector with a bottle

to pickle damaged choices

& often bring them home

for tea


Here the hour

is getting brittle & my brain

is numbed with knowledge

I’m alone with insects buzzing,

I hear their voices churning.


Yes, it was nice

having you around, like

an iced cake on a Sunday but I

wouldn’t want  to make a habit,

of inviting you home for tea.