shorts from the piss-stained streets of Soho

Seven continents, five oceans, thirty-three dreams from death

Four fields away, the sea
Dreams of suffocation.
Stars fall on a field that never
Takes the same shape twice.
We live with this:
The lovers, always walking
Closer to the water.

It Aint Over till Sinatra Sings

Until the world’s last song lies in requiescat
On the brow of an evergreen nuclear hill,
May pocket-gods stitch My Way on the
Lapels of my very best mo(u)rning suit.

An Ode to a Charmless Man

His contribution to the Karma Sutra
Is a mere wank stain on page 69.
Not deliberate you understand –
Irony is a foreign country where
His platform shoes never land.

The Last Threads of Summer

Trying to read the braille
Of the years between,
No clear sign, but conjured
Back and fore by sun streams,
Their faces firm in mine.
Eloquence of eternal sleep
Slips her tongue across wet
Blades of Autumn rust.


The Lonely Misanthrope

One day,
He will be as lonely as cancer.
Dying wide to receive.

Was it Tom Taylor Who Shot the President?

Did anyone ever care to ask,
“Oh Mrs Lincoln, did you enjoy the play?”

“poets could earn money by writing inscriptions for tombstones.” W H Hodgson

They harvest souls
At the rectum’s rectory.
Charlatan Gods sodomise dead arse,
If the flesh is still tender and
The price is always right.