I Forgot What It Was

I forgot it was Valentine’s Day.
Didn’t put it out of my head,
didn’t choose it ignore it or say,
Hey, why don’t we celebrate
poor single people instead, just
completely forgot it was here –
same as Easter, Halloween,
Christmas and the Superbowl.
I’ve been forgetting holidays
all year. I forgot what it was
that made people hang up tinsel
or get married or buy a car
and I moved to a new city
without stars, and changed my name.
Everyone else changed theirs.
Every day is mundane and sacred
and has some saint pencilled in,
and every day’s the same, but
is that such a bad thing?

The Scene of the Crime

published recently in myths of the near future magazine. the link doesn’t seem to be working, so here it is.

Leaving London I see a familiar name: Millbank.
It’s out of my way but, regardless, I pay a visit
and by the granite headstone at no. 30
release all the spit and phlegm saved up
since Parliament Square.

Where are the troublemakers now?
Safely in bed like I should be; drinking
in gardens and nine-grand dorm rooms;
keeping their heads down, and their hands uncut.

For When You Wake Up

I think this is the last one I’ll post in this style; having a voice is all very well, but even I’m getting bored

2km up a plane passes London.
You can see it in miniature from your window.
I can see you, in visions, rising
and groping morning from your eyes,
half of your face shadowed
by the drooping curtain we never fixed,
your glasses thick with morning mist.
You put on pants, socks,
slip into routine and wait
for someone to break the silence
and it takes you far too long to realise


that I’m not there.

Summer in March

adapted from something I wrote in march, when we were graced with a brief summer. still not sure about it might take it down etc etc

This is it, he thinks, stubs out his cigarette,
cannot face her so looks at the river rolling
bad coffee-brown. Summer’s come early.
The Jesus-fuck-me heat makes greenhouses
of the glass-ceilinged City towers;
the joggers sweat more than usual,
the businessmen drip ice cream on their suits,
which is funny in a distant kind of way.
She asks him if he’s listening. No –
his first honest answer all day. He was right.
This is it. The trees gently rustle.
She is truly sorry; and in his own way
so is he. They hug, awkwardly, say things
like “we had a good run”. She goes away
not able to bear it anymore, and the river rolls
bad coffee-brown after her, and people hang out washing.
It is so very beautiful here, he thinks, to nobody in particular.

Under London

This to that to that to this
A glimpse, a look, a lean, a kiss
Under London’s neon eaves
These subtle glances make us thieves;
This drunk staccato dance of skin
Wherever lust and beauty wins,
Wherever solitude beats remorse,
Wherever distance yields to force;
We pray, we slaves of flesh and power
Under London’s neon bower.

Just for Tonight

Just for tonight, let me make love
To your life, let me get my tongue
Around the shape of your days.
Just for tonight, let me take your hand
And give me what you feel today
As a canopy, and let me hang a hammock
In your routines, and dream of your friends.
Just for tonight, let me like a peeping tom
See the way you live, and, just for tonight
Let me in.