It was begging for a flask of tea.

Some friendly grief to ease

competitive tears,

pomp and fallacy,

clip-clopped concrete.

Not another curtsey, criss-cross

2am Catholic duty.


It was dying for some hot and sweet;

warm to whet collective whistle,

char to shuffle,

not like cards,

the Queen of Hearts in Carroll’s hand.

No rabbit, black, plucked from hats


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Simon Said


Part One

Simon said

Resistance is


measured in

futile meaning

directly proportional to

equal to

futile meme.


And I thought

has he

gotten back to you

got enough money to spend

got a car

feelings for me

a girlfriend

a passport assertive sentence?


Did he really use

birds to send messages

the USS Missouri in Battleship


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is not

a ‘resting bitch face’.



is the face

of a woman who has done a full day’s work.

She’s tired, doesn’t need your little smirks

or daft asides so just be quiet.

After work, she fetched food, made tea,

washed up, watched TV, fell asleep.

Her electricity is steep. 

She’s back to Sunday baths,

one day a week to keep clean

with a strip ...

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I’d really like to write an angry poem


but I am on the path to spiritual enlightenment.

I am supported, square, girdled by self-care

and the knowledge that the now is ever-present.

I am centred, level, and I never give an inch

to unbalanced or irrational aggression.


But I would really like to write a ranty rhyme.

Perhaps an incandescent ballad, a vicious villanelle,

enraged acrostic or a livid limerick.


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No one could believe that our sun was really gone.

Was it us? Something that we did, or hadn’t done?

We felt numb. Then rage

against the dying of the light.

Facing endless night we tried to conjure it with candlelight,

but tallow only goes a certain way and that’s down.

We fell to the ground in despair

where we stayed, thinking

morning wouldn’t come

so we’d better...

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