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The mouse

A little package of furry hunger

Scratching at the hidden

Corners of our lives, dashing

Between a fallen rice crispy 

Here, a popped pumpkin seed

There, a forgotten pod of arborio

Or basmati, no longer safe behind the stove.

The little patter of complacency,

A little token from the underworld,

The wide world outside, the

World of keen smells and  bendy

Eyes, scanning Nature for

Morsels of respite between the

Springs of my trap

Sorry little one, quick one

I am sorry and I hope 

You find another place

To call your own, you

Are not welcome here

Sink back into Nature’s

Raw Peace 

London’s bleeding, London’s bleeding, fetch the engines…

So many of us have

Noone but the people

We love. And everyone

Else, they, they are not

Loved. Loved ones are

Warm. Everyone Else is

Out there, there in the

Night, every day, night

In, night out, night

Owls without feathers

To flap over their empty

Guts as they spew spit

And cough phlegm into the 

Ruts on their palms

Long lines cutting round

Their thumbs, cut off 

Too soon, so the tealeaves

Would say, if they had

Tea, hot water and a cup and

 A spoon full of sugar to

Sweeten them into something

Warmer than blood

Am I? Are you? Are we?

What does it mean to be alive?

Is it a race thing? A sex thing?

An age thing? In that order?

Add place on in the space between race

And sex and you have a human?

No, you are forgetting Time.

Time keeps pace with all those

And throws in a few tricks of

The light. The lights.

Home safe, at last

The omphalos – the navel

This is my place of healing

This is my life in my

Navelbowl. I must not

Let it spill empty, I must

Keep it full, the seat of

My whole, the connection

That birthed me from

Ancestors, I tried

To exist without it,

It is the door to the

Home that is me, I

Was locked out and

Now I am in, I am

My body, at last.

Eat, Sleep, Work, Repeat

These feel like the end days

Of life. The sun, the moon,

The clouds that move, the

Train that stops at every stop

And then goes back again.

The cyclists in the queue

At the traffic lights, leading

South. How long it feels, this

March to death, this mess of

Locks and wheels and limbs

That we call civilisation. How

Vile the stench of sweating

Plastic and half-eaten sandwiches

Discarded in the wrong section

Of the bin, into general rubbish

Who are we?

As many ripples and visions

Of blueness as there are
Waves breaking

All loves,
Ever felt in this life
And the past and the next, 

A distillation
Of moments that flip
The guts into a vortex of

Deepness never seen,
Never heard; only known,
Only now,  no choice.

The force.

Claustrophobia

What do we do when there
Is no space to breathe?
When our lungs can’t hold 

The water in our eyes
And it comes rushing

Out amongst these
Crocodiles that bite

Us. There’s no such thing
As love, our limbs think, 

As our blood cracks back,
Retreats into our heart,

For home, but the door
Is locked and the ventricles

Glare back, blank
Windows harbouring the

Eternity of Death
That lurks behind

Every breath. Ready
To pounce out like

a cat released to go
Hunting in the bird-

Filled night that
Quacks around us in

A cacophony of quarks
We can’t decipher as

Our hands go numb
With stress and our 

Hips contract around
Our basal strength

As it pours out
Uncontrollably and

Meanwhile where is
The chair? We haven’t 

Sat down for so long
We can’t remember

What rest means.
Be still, remember

It is always there
However far away

It seems, if we
Just stop to reclaim

The space around each breath.

Approaching Yuletide

The season of shimmering bliss when

Earth rusks die down and the 

Skies weep their burden and the 

Roads sing with winds that break

The torments of the dark into tatters

Of thunder that lighten the lid

Of winter marching on towards the 

Final days of the year, where intentions

Meet reality and greet and light 

The darkness for a short strip of 

Life, the grey large silence, wider

Than the horizon, at the rise of new year

Night of dream storming

And so the rain beats comfy in the gut

Snuggled up in itself and rounded
Out like a loud joint creaking in the

Wind that feeds the curls of wayward hair
And births the life of thoughts that
Migrate like enterprising robins through

The ruts of energy that cool the livers over heated blood cells in a maze of

Wicked swirling craves that pace up and down the corners of the cell that sits in the final of the labyrinth seat of real truth

The collection of eaves that make up me that could at any minute exchange space with you or it or they that make up

You or someone and something else into a string of nothingness that is as true, although intangible like the feeing of a

Prayer soaked up on a day when pennies were raining, pitter patter, patter pitter, on the window pane.

Reality is not what it seems

Am I my body? Am I my pain?

Look back at a feint siesta

With nostalgia for a time
On the past that is living now but

Inaccessible to me

That is not a ghost but
A living thing as real as

The past was real at the time

Is now somehow breathed in the air of a
Future unsent but unsealed

That breathes back to me stranded here 

Constantly in the now that knows no limit
But can never be found as it 

Spins me round its vortex in

A hundred overlapping ways that cancel
Each other out in a loud crash as 

Silent as the big bang must be all these 

Years ago again in my mind eye.