Having never really shown anyone the poetry I write, I thought now would be a good time. Why not? I love writing... not because there is any kind of virtuosic raw talent here. Just because words are lovely and I like putting myself into them and seeing what comes out. It'd be nice if others (strangers) could let me know what they think. If not, well, at least I faced my fear of having them read by others. Sort of like letting pigeons out of a cage. They are just winged rats, afterall, but it's nice to see them free.

These are a few that are most recent. They are my copywright, but I don't think anyone would steal them, copywrighting is so bloody conceited!

‘Below, below.’

The heady baptism, heady birth,
neither ceremonious nor godly. Finding
me, chin-bruised Ugly, kneading the
worry; thirsty and shiver soaked. The
clenched teeth tremors. A virtuosic

spill of unease. Pacing the oak-dust-filth,
the passageways in the farmhouse, a
wooden foot tread, rasping floor. And
clearness in the sky, unlocked door.
Surveying faraway heavens and bed-soft,

green turf. Brightly, brightly, rebirth.
A warm foetus swigging back Nature
and on her feet, towards doors and
lightnesses and Suns like grins and life, life,
life. Downwards, now, into stream-paths

with river-trails. The thoroughfare’s
salvation, cushion feathers, goose-down,
so gently. The man’s hands, a mug in which
I’m held. His lines and bramble-scratches,
I remember the gristly skin and light

breath. The Heady Baptism I gobbled up,
with words and ritual, the mouth beneath
water, the pushing down, my body. And
awaking into a new waking. Watery lip-kiss
welcome-home, a voice lost to divinity.

‘Swamp’

Unitive, lithic urge, a powerless
surge, an all-over-everywhere busy thing in
the fens and mire. Torrents’ downpour,

a grim Lush of squashed sludge; wet, flaked moss.

And the perfume of wildflower grasses
swooping beneath his
nostrils, yes, the fingertips of a lover across his lip,
the lightness of space, of nature’s air

and memory.