Saturday, 26 August 2017

I do not consent to the deletion of this data

Everyone around me seems to fit,
they seem connected to something,
something I’m not.

It’s like I have no past.
Nothing I have is real.

This is where they took us from.
We used to sleep right here.
We had nothing except each other.
They took that from us.

Your name was: considered disposable.

We never needed your consent.
Yours or anyone’s

[Un objet trouvé]

Thursday, 17 August 2017


Our father of suffering,
we thank you for your gifts of pointless pain;
we all of us are worthless.
We blame ourselves completely
for all the mess that you made and put us in.
We hate ourselves in your name:
bestow on us all your wondrous works of self-loathing,
fear of success and crippling insecurity of spirit.
We praise you for your poverty of kindness.
Raise up our crosses, Lord,
and nail us to them in your wise benevolence.
Accept the contrition of our pain and anguish
as proof of our devotion.
Maim us, torture us, kill us
as sacrifices you created to suffer in your name.
Send us down to Hell where we belong
with all your countless sinners,
while you survey the catastrophic heap of your creation
from your throne on high in highest Heaven
where only you can sit
in perfect isolation: a smug, conceited, condescending, patronising
version of love
which only you can know
or even understand.

Where to Now?

Let’s force the sinners into Heaven,
for happiness is overrated.


Fill every day with dumb distractions
which ride the falling waves of pointless.


No memory could match those losses
found in my unknown father’s grave.


Your table laid with food I could not eat:
I ended up both starved and poisoned.


Reality viewed upside-down was
no less confusing than my latest poem.

Sunday, 13 August 2017


the job is difficult and skilful
pull intellectual face (glasses)

intense demands of being handsome
stare into distance (point)

some days I have to leave my stubble
laugh at nothing (big jumpers)

it’s not a job that everyone can do
to look nonchalant in pants (not mine)

I have no words to speak but silence
legs on catwalk (Paris)/face in catalogue (Argos)

Thursday, 3 August 2017


making sense of the impossible
the rage of years channelled into verse
defiantly fucked up

the magnificent catastrophe
the majestic disaster
on the glorious occasion, of this splendid defeat

and it all comes back
the drama
the horror

the cruelty

to live in the wrong skin
with the fury
and the anger
the compulsion and catastrophic thinking

defiant against the travesty of the past
the people
the evil people

and so today