POETRY

I do not ever want to leave this world. I always want to know the human race and leave the ship of death with sails unfurled. As the surfaces of trees become gnarled with age, I will show an enduring

If I were to be honest all I need is what I am. So why do I long for her, her taste, her touch her sex? Simply knowing that I could… ought now to be enough. But I do not

We live in the middle distance we experience the immediate past, our now has already happened. When I begin to smile you have already laughed. When I dream, you are only playing with the neurons in my brain the ten

When you are no longer the fastest walking to and from the station When it comes to the end of the week and all you want is a couple of pints When a pension suddenly seems important When a quiet

It is in our veins, and yet we have not said, not shared enough of who and what we are of how we came to be – to be conscious – not enough of soul, of spirit, what it is that

La Mairie Scarlet. Rarely spoken, the name, this colour out in the open, blazing – her bodice, hugging the cream dress, shaped to her waist, raising her breasts – the perfect bride! Him, broad in his cream-white suit, his arterial-red

Difficult to tell the cared for from the carers except where scars of razor cuts hash the lower arms. I remember the day she came up to the window stared in at me from the garden then battered the panes with

Their breasts and thighs are clear masking a sixty watt bulb and their fleshy tones seem real. He stands at the entrance switching the light on and off to watch their shapes appear and disappear. He is drunk. Very drunk.

The world is more than greets our senses. There is salvation in inner peace, being mindful of the moment. Sometimes the greatest changes come from the most subtle leverage – think of butterflies and hurricances. We are bound by the

A film – no videos then – to demonstrate how the beat of a lamb’s heart, unconscious, chest cavity open, is governed by the Vagus nerve. Watch. See. By cutting this thread we stop the heart. Sure enough it stopped.

Selected poems from a men’s rites of passage week organised by Mandorla In the presence of men High on this Welsh hillside among scraggy moss covered oaks, moss clad rocks, boulders, stones I remove my glasses to see up close,

Flayed heads hang in rows, spiked on metal racks, ready for inspection. The technique is to hold the tongue, long and thick in one hand, and use the knife to separate flesh between the cheek and the root of muscle.