06/01 Direct Link
At one the wind rose
and with it the noise
of the city's other side:-

along the train tracks
in among the rubble and rubbish
where foreign bulbs grow

among those forgotten
sleepy times to and from
other places and appointments

in one building or another,
they are beautiful and almost
identical, there pushing through

the rubble and rubbish
and the breathed condensation
on the window, those bulbs those

people looking out and those looking
in at those on their way,
holding hands with a child, waving

at another train passing
on another cold morning
where clouds and breath meet.
06/02 Direct Link
See --------: stood in the park, arms limp by his sides, feeling the spring sun on his back, thinking of nothing and smiling; smiling, surrounded by the things he has for his memories, nothing else, every space carefully filled with careful things; in the street looking up at the windows, dreaming about climbing up to the highest ledge and knocking to see if someone is home; asleep in the hospital, filled with dreams of long walks along the river with a fishing rod, looking at all the fish jumping excitedly in the water; in the night covered in moonlight.
06/03 Direct Link
In the lightless pre-dawn fields the grass clings to the dew of the night. Inside we are boiling kettles, toasting bread, and boiling eggs. Some, the late night ones, sit at the table, rub their eyes, and look at the clock asking ‘is that really the time? Why are we up so early?’ Though we wake at the same time each day regardless of the sun’s movements, they ask the same questions. Others ready our bags, our daily supplies, little packages arranged and left out by the night time ones. The day is underway when the birds start to chirp.
06/04 Direct Link
I dreamed of an island in the sky
on it were all the parts of the land
and the sea that could be found
anywhere by anyone who wanted

to look. On the shores I crafted
statues of you leaving the finest sand
on the beaches to meet the sea
as it rose and fell against the land.

In the valleys were trees from all
forests down on the earth woven
together with ferns and weeds and
flowers and long strands of grass

where birds and animals could hide
in the shadows and watch us pass
as we explore freely.
06/05 Direct Link
The village of dogs howled into the night’s full moon, the stars and at any wisp of wind. During the day, when the they were let loose, any visitor to the village was met first by them, having been sniffed out as soon as they stepped from their cars. Stepping from their car they are swamped by dozens of slobbering smiling dogs, tails wagging. Some visitors, driving along, windows open on a summer’s day, would be found trapped in their cars, unable to get out for fear of the dogs, unable to drive away for fear of running one over.
06/06 Direct Link
Another Poem Placed At The Feet Of The Greats
(Philip Larkin ‘The North Ship' XVIII)

If grief could take off
Like a rocket launched,
The heart would soar loud,
The unrent soul
Would move as a whisper;
But I have watched all night

The sky remains silent,
The grey moon soft:
And I stir the billowed steam
Around this daybreak's fantasy of tea,
And grief stirs, and the deft
Eye catches a tail of a shooting star
And a reflection of light, and life
Through the window, where everything
Wakes and starts to move, but this
Heart lies impotent, still.
06/07 Direct Link
And now this is Dub Elements with ‘Tonight’

Move this floor, these walls, that roof
forward to the depths of the night
as we dance through the hours
of love, life, and death, and through
all those songs as one another
for a moment in the speakers,
but you stand out of the mix waving
like a long remembered lover
returned stirring up all those things
like flowers petals on still water, or
the wind through the trees on a moonless
night pushing away the warmth of the day
for the heat of this dancehall
night after night after night.
06/08 Direct Link
We wandered around the city looking for things to reminded us of home, little things like the view from a corner at sunset, or the way the cars sound when you are far enough away from the road. But the city held its secrets into the night when the lights flicked on turning this city into any other calling out into the night sky, calling out to the moon, calling out to the homeless, hiding its idiosyncrasy behind flattened building and the harsh light of street lamps. At night it hid away safely behind closed door asking us to knock.
06/09 Direct Link
Maybe this poem doesn't want
to be written. It wants to feel
something like life open and honest.
It wants to be left in the expression
of a face staring across a lake
at the people riding on the other side
or just looking at the way the sun reflects
off the little ripples that disturb the surface

Maybe this poem doesn’t want
to be read. It wants to feel
something like the wind as it blows.
It wants to be left in the movement
of things unobserved just heard
like all those leaves left behind
in autumn drying out.
06/10 Direct Link
Spaces Built For Dreams And Memory.

No one could live in these rooms anymore
than on the shelf of fantasy for a night. No

one could see the view through the dust
that clung to every surface and floated

in the air. No children ran and played
free for an afternoon from the worry

of their parents with all the futures
they had planned out and scratched

into the dust on the floor. And No
clouded dreams could float in the light

that managed to sneak its way through
(as it always does)
Into these room we now call home.
06/11 Direct Link
Every day you cover everything, so fine,
like those sheets of memory that flee
the desperate grasping of empty hands
and the desperate scribble of empty words
on empty pages. On the table you gather
dust, little pieces of everyone who
passed through this place and flew
in through the window, like that bird,
once, that came in, so easily, and stuck
in the top corners of the room, let out
cries of 'trap! trap!' to the other birds
gathered on the branches of the tree outside.
They looked like leaves, those birds,
on an otherwise bare and empty tree.
06/12 Direct Link
Peel back those strong, sure lines
forgetting that the first thing
a writer learns is disguise, and myth
and all those other things that are
taken away by steady hands
when approached by a smile that's
a little too sincere, and knows
all the things that will be thrown
the laughs, the alcohol, the words
to keep the writer hidden amongst
all the other lines. At the bar
you ask, again, what they are drinking
forgetting that you have a car
parked on one of the darker streets
near by where you will walk later
alone or with the other.
06/13 Direct Link
In search of a muse

Through the streets we moved, unable to do anything else, restless and hungry for the scent on our tongues of food on the wind and salt skimmed from a restless sea. Contained within cement walls, the city churned with life and music. They poured from each doorway like ghost awoken the night before during the party we never wanted to end, the party where we sung the old songs, and the fires burned till daybreak their flames licking the sky clean of stars. The party where we sung the songs that now fill empty streets.
06/14 Direct Link
It’s the ragged source of memory,
standing at the window stirring
the heat from a cup of tea,
hearing the spoon like and old school bell
as some children keep playing
in the long grass, screaming and chasing
each other from house to house
from one door, peeling paint, to another
and back out to the weedy long grass
falling and screaming, caught by the sun
like the uneven corrugated tin rooftops
and all those little creaks that old houses make
when there is no other sound
except the soft tinkling of a spoon
stirring a cup of streaming tea.
06/15 Direct Link
I felt happy listening to --------- talk. His voice had a way of taking over external noise, it dominated, and I went where ever it took me – through forests, to the depths of the ocean, over the tallest sand dunes, through the darkest streets, through all the memories of his life, and further into his imagination where I used to live as a child in the stories he would share nightly, out to the clouds drawing adventures in their fluffy mass, and past them to the stars and the moon, which he casually reached up and plucked from the sky.
06/16 Direct Link
People come to the city looking for the exotic things they don't have at home. They wander around, cameras ready, so that when the unusual happens they are ready to capture it, take it home and show the neighbours that it actually did happen, that things do happen elsewhere, in other places, that the outside world (the other cities) are strange and worth visiting. ‘You just never know’ they say, flicking to another projected image ‘what is going to happen, and it always happens so quickly that you are never sure it actually happened. So you capture it for memory.’
06/17 Direct Link
Among the wandering dogs, mangy, scratching around open bins for food, scurrying from pointy toe of strangers’ shoes, and humming fatality of passing cars, he just lived his life. Passing the lovers, cuddled together on benches facing the water (the river or the sea), holding each other against the wind, talking whispers of nothing much but all the secrets of the world, he just lived his life. He just lived his life walking against the crowds piling into trains, into cars, into busses and trams, into the city each morning as he headed out to explore the ever emptying streets.
06/18 Direct Link
------------ suggested that it was a good time to set camp ‘before the only light available was the moon’ so we stopped, unloaded the bikes, set up camp, and lit fires while the sun was still on its way down. We sat watching the flames, unsure of what to say, shifting occasionally to allow another face of ourselves be warmed by the fire. Nobody wanted to talk, but every time someone moved everyone turned hopefully expecting any explanation to start pouring from their mouths, or just a story, something to crackle into the night and the cold. Something explaining yesterday.
06/19 Direct Link
The Next Poem

How unbelievable it seems
in the middle of everything
like makings that divide the road
those flashing eyes in the night
those cat’s eyes waiting to jump out
catching lights from passing cars
waiting for birds flying through the night
lost, swooping people and stray dogs
lost and looking for a safe roost
to sleep till daylight shoos away
those flashing lights those rays that promise
a new day but run away into the night
loud, grumbling, sounding hungry
enough to eat the whole world
and more, those engines that rumble past
flashing lights in the night.
06/20 Direct Link
And then I was left, thinking of another
time, just like this: the moon
in the afternoon, pulling at the waves,
high in the sky, confusing moths,
leaving the night, on the ground,
dark between the glow of street lamps,
letting the cold be born again; the room
in the morning, pulling on clothes,
filled with sunlight, reaching around
to wake you gently to show you the light,
to show you the room like it was never
as bright, you turned, smiled, and slept
on; the desert, at sunset, is everywhere
and is endless, and is nothing,
we drove on.
06/21 Direct Link
There was a tapping on the wall. Using some vague coded system it said 'never again, never again' and nothing else. I woke each morning (the time I attributed to morning) hearing the message. It permeated my dreams, leaving them barren of any symbolism, leaving them empty of all imagination, so that even in my sleep I was trapped in the cell hearing the constant tap of ‘never again, never again’ and nothing else. During my weaker times I thought it the voice of God, or the devil, or some torture the only thing life to me by my captors.
06/22 Direct Link
The only building in town without windows

Was the one where we met, like two
people waiting for an elevator, we stood,
side by side in the foyer, trying to figure out
where the light came from that illuminated
the place, the place where all people meet?

A sort of myth of bricks and mortar, a story
of tiles laid evenly, shiny, reflective,
on the floor that we could walk over
and mark with the rubber soles of our
black shoes. A place where we read
the newspapers carried under arms
as a distraction except on the day we met.
06/23 Direct Link
The dancefloor is starting to fill for the main act. People come from everywhere, and I can see them past the lights in my eyes, past the turntables and the stage, past the night. They are dancing, someone screams over the track, their lungs sucking in he whole world, and expelling a sound that takes the entire dancefloor to that place where the bombs are falling, she can feel it, each thump each drop, each life lost on the floor, in the liquid movement of blood and time, as more keep piling in dancing and waiting for the main act.
06/24 Direct Link
And into the night we send our voices
towards the callous glimmering stars
and the spiteful moon, tearing apart
the blackness, our rest from the lights
that blind the day, from the lights
on the road that sweep
through trees, and through windows
illuminating along the side of tents
catching every petal, every leaf
every blade of grass that sways
this night when the music was supposed
to be all there was, when music
was supposed to wake the world
to leave us free to roam the night
unafraid and free to be as one
and at once with nothing.
06/25 Direct Link
So, sunrise fell over the lip of the world, spreading out and taking what was ours, the night. Slowly the light of the fire was diminished to embers, and a faint trail of smoke rising to the sky and the clouds. ------------- rose before the rest of us, and placed the kettle at the edge of the coals to slowly heat up, and eventually wake us with the whistle of released steam, but when the steam whistled out into the meadow, we slept on, caught in our dreams and comfortable in our beds, not yet ready for the new day.
06/26 Direct Link
Long before the music, long before the lights, before the queues of people and the noise, we came in trucks with the equipment. It was a sunny morning we turned off the main highway and bounced along the dirt road. For years the road had been unused, except the occasional farmer and an occasional lost tourist, and it wasn't used to our heavy truck and the weight of dozens of men and tonnes of equipment. We arrived at the campsite as the sun was at its highest. We opened the trucks but decided to unpack them when the day’d cooled
06/27 Direct Link
Where do you go on the quietest of nights?
Under which moon do you dance?
Where but for the beauty of a shadow
does the movement of the world let us know
that for once, in the lips of a fire,
we are here, calling out the names
we have memorised, as the names of gods
and the elements we chase away.

Where do you go when the sun screams
at the begining of a new day, that
the world is not yet ready to be born
as an image of you, lying on the horizon
bare and stretched out.
06/28 Direct Link
What are we going to talk about?

Don't know. What did we talk about yesterday?

Can't remember. Something about the state of the world and the state of us in it.

Did we really? Sound like something someone else needs to be talking about. What about the weather?

What about it?

Silence settles into the sky like we are waiting for the rain before we can speak again.

What are you trying to be some sort of poet?

No, just trying to make conversation.

Well, stop. You are talking rubbish. Irritating rubbish.

If you think so. What about the weaether?
06/29 Direct Link
She had a way with words that made her seem older. While reading her writing I imagined a retired woman looking back on a long, happy life full of friends and family. Little incidents from over a decade ago would be recalled and written for all to see, for all to read. But over a dacade ago she was still in school, worried about boys and marks. Maybe it was the quiet that hung around her words, like everything she typed was typed like a whisper, not to tell a secret but to convey respect for those precious few words.
06/30 Direct Link
I shall go out into the cold
to see that the world is still there
begging to be let in, begging to be held
like it has lost all meaning except
for that of touch in the floating
autumn breeze. Taking everything with
a sway of its aging hands it moves
all the things that pretent to be more
than little pieces of the world
to be played with like those caught
by a swooping magpie or in the paws
of a dog or a cat, following whatever
passes through their vision like those
little dots we know are life.