Looters and Lambs, Mixed Up.

Smart street lock

Stopped out from

Passers by who may

Or may not pace off

With an arm full

Of pulsing lung

Chasing every beat

Round the ribs

To neat blood

Sweat through

Polyester mix.



Park trees trim

With silk flame,

Waving to

Black eyed shops

While skipping,

Nomads bleat

For snacks and

Chew through wire,

Shit and eat

The last soft

Blades of grass.



Lunch with William Killingsworth

Homeless in New York

2:10 was late but

He waited, knowing

I’d said ‘If I don’t show,

Consider me dead’.


In a bistro we

Drank wine next tabled

To secure couples,

Tangible assets

Hanging from cool ears

He misfortunes told,

His grandness thinned to

A grey T with black

Cotton rough-rimmed to

His dry throat and wrists.

Fading from his eyes

Down; stolen, buried

And forgotten, left

Drop bruise scratched, kicked up

By a fox or wolf .

I finished quickly,

He sipped his slowly,

Kept it real, fitting

Calm along lines of

A life that is thin ruled.