8:07 Saturday Morning

by Poetry

tesco express
Piccadilly red wings
dripping from my fingers
a crumpled suit stretched
hung by the neck
my guillotine body
shaking & nervous caught
in some long-legged storm;
a self-service machine drags me
from the eye
what dreams that night
all wine & worse
my shame comes spitting
with the receipt
& small ribbons
squat in my pockets
as spoon-holes pattern
beneath my beard
my skin is raw
torn by silent songs
I never knew I had to sing

Free eBooks



Spear-shaft strength and a priest suffering metallic inspiration – the taste of copper in his fingertips making him itch and his flesh ring; he scratches with blades and scratches foreign skin, for daring to touch his own like a rash he takes inspiration from stock...

A Very Gentle Suicide

She was smoking by the Irwell when she decided to kill herself and I couldn’t stop her.She decided to buy a house in Marsh Green – in that part near the factory where the locals say they’re from Orrell and not Kitt Green, and take their dogs on long, noose-like walks...


You’re in my fingers and I can’t get you out; I can smell you. Warm & wet & dreaming - every time I push a key, you come curling out smoke in good light given form – not human, something else; an angel, if I believed in angels; a devil if I could believe sin...

Upon the Poet, in His 25th Year

Let it be no calmer in your hands; time enough
for the calm, the warmth and the cold in the grove…