Monthly Archives: February 2019

Pipe Dream…


Maggot always gets his man…

Wherever they go.

However far they flee.

However cunningly they hide…


Maggot enters the Ol’ George:

legendary menagerie of care-worn dreamers.

This evening’s vibrantly clad gathering part to allow him to the bar.

His ‘thirties’ hat and summer rain-coat are still the heir to respect even in a place of ghosts.


‘Curious location for a meet.’

Maggot never questions his sources: the food and drink of his success.

Maggot takes a corner-table.

Out in the street the night is glowing gold…


Later… when moved,

a dart of tiny pink-and-blue feathers

drifts from his neck.




The Gift…


It is possible to box almost anything.




In this way a whole life may be compartmentalised into secure, bounded segments of much more manageable proportions.

Bite sized pieces.

Or even, ‘shots’.


As everybody knows it is even possible to box one’s ears, so that only those things which compute are actually heard.

This is the way Spirit dies.

Blinkers, are boxes for the eyes…


In fact, about the only thing which it is not

possible to put into a box…

Is light.


This is strange…

But only because light,

is really the gift of a turning-year.


Brain Fog…


Months it has taken.

Months of meticulous research…

Meetings in the darkest of disreputable corners where conspiracies are born and take fevered flight across stormy nights.

All roads lead to the lair of the Black Beast.

That fell apparition has stalked a thousand and one fetid nightmares…

But no longer.

Somewhere in that fog she lurks.

Poised and ready to pounce.

Her eyes like red saucers.

Her yellow fangs bared over a snarl.

But I have a secret weapon.

As I lope into the grey my fingers curl around and clutch, the luminescent fuzz on…

The Ball of Power!




Did Turpin’s Troupe

Drop him

Deep in the Soup?


That Devil’s cast of scallywags

and wild haired, grinning hags…

who still adorn the plastered walls

in Glory’s glossy prima-face.

There now to tease and please

the local populace.


And tell their tales of times much less genteel

when stench and reek

roamed every wayward street.


But how, to climb up an’ out

the grime of fetid mire

where every winsome wench

would rightly kiss and tell…?


Black Jake, alas

went on the make…

and now he’s hoisted higher

than ol’ church spire…

where they watch him fry in hell.




As the narrow-boat’s snout tickled the under-bridge,

Black-Jack cut the engine and peered through the white gloom…

A landing-official waved his stray arm in greeting, the lights beyond him intimated warmth and festivity.

An Owl screeched!

Black-Jack turned to see a huge moon crest the tree-line: he re-engaged the engine, pointed the craft and leaped onto the tow-path.

The barge, its cargo of Alpine-Fur and Lebanese-Spice secure, slid off, a long-snail on its trail…

The official ran towards the way-ward craft, hollering…

Instead of Black-Jack?

A plume of Blue-Smoke hung,

like a scar across the face of the moon.




From the corner

of my eye…

Through a keyhole…

half seen


Beneath the door…

Behind a crack in the curtains

A shiver of tree leaf

gurgling-silver over brook-stone.

Musical spheres

The beat of wings on high

fractals of sun shimmer.

Moonshine in stone

Soil sparkle

Gem loam

Song under foot…

Flashes and snippets and shade between formless shape.

Part intruder

Part guest

Host of no-where and no-when

Never here always there…

but still



La Chapelle Verte…


All stands hidden


At the heart of the cavernous world.


All lies sequestered

Black but comely

In the cavernous heart of man.


The unseen green within grey rock

Wielder of Psyche’s Axe

Looser of her Emotional Block.


Our animal soul crowns the summit

Inanimate intimacies call

‘Drink deep – Drink deep’…


Don’t merely dip a doltish finger-tip

Like felt for freely-gifted gold

or spawn of devil’s bloodied-blot.


Not sentiment nor sediment

Can satisfy

Such cavernous yawning.


Drink deep of Night

And wake

To Day’s Dawning.


All lies hidden


At the heart of a cavernous world.


Troll Bridge…


Black-Jack-Davey had been on the road since sun-up.

As twilight descended filching the last of the colour from his day he came upon a village.

Up ahead he could make out a little stone bridge and what he took to be a garrison turret.

On the far-side of the river were lights.

As Black-Jack approached the bridge it started to rain.

“Who goes there!” cried a gravelly voice.

From under the bridge lurched a hideous troll who leered at Jack and demanded, “Be ye friend or foe?”

“Oh, I’m definitely a friend,” laughed Jack.

“Yee’ll still ‘ave to pay,” drooled the troll eyeing Jack up for size and licking his…lips.

“What if I’d been a foe?” asked Jack.

“Why, then it’d ‘ave been double,” replied the troll uncertainly. No one before had ever asked any questions.

“And on whose authority do you demand payment to cross this bridge?” continued Jack…

This was too much for the troll. He needed back up.

“Lycretia!” he hollered.

After a small space, Lycretia, lumbered up from under the stone bridge looking distinctly nonplussed to have been disturbed…

“What now, Gore-Tax,” she complained. “Can’t a woman leave a man to do owt reet these days?”

If Gore-Tax was a big, fat, ugly looking troll, which he decidedly was, then Lycretia was bigger, fatter and uglier. She was also decidedly meaner looking…

“It’s this little fellow ‘ere,” said Gore-Tax, looking down and then hastily re-adjusting his gaze, for in all the hullaballoo, Black-Jack-Davey had walked onto the threshold of the stone span… “‘Ere,” said Gore-Tax again, quickly retreating further onto the bridge.

“What about him?” said Lycretia, moving behind Black-Jack…

“He’s asking questions,” said Gore-Tax.

“What sort of questions,” said Lycretia, moving in on Jack.

“Wants to know about authority?” said Gore-Tax following Lycretia’s lead.

“We don’t need any,” laughed Lycretia…

As the two trolls pounced, Black-Jack-Davey hit the deck, rolled to his left, leaped to his feet and dashed across the bridge.

The two trolls collided head to head in mid air and fell to stone concussed.

Their combined weight, falling from such a height, was too much for the little stone bridge. It cracked and collapsed into the dark river where it was washed away.

The trolls went with it…

But what of Black-Jack-Davey?


he lived…

a number of other tales…

…to tell.




…That night the world took on strange colours and my dream-girl became a tree.

If I were a Druid I would say that I had fallen under the sway of a wood nymph, a Dryad…

She is certainly very beautiful and pulls me¬† away from the busy road where traffic endlessly flashes through the ever screaming air…

She always wins.

I always turn from the road and allow her to take my hands in hers.

We roll down the embankment conjoined…

We roll together

for all eternity

but then collide with the bole of the tree

and she is gone.