Friday, 23 April 2010


A billion dead,
A billion dead souls at your feet
Blood on your hands, smile on your face
For the punch and judy trick show
Selective Memory
Selective questions
From a selective source
Avoid the poverty, discrimination, the other world outside your bubble
Where the choices are black and white and red washes out so easily
Liberation by bullet, Liberation by Gas
Uranium and killer drones to do your bidding
And your consensus sits secure
Don't talk about the bodies, anything but that,
A billion dead souls, no body bags
Warmongers never stand in the line of fire
But mark these words
One day you'll burn, consumed by your own dark desire

Monday, 12 April 2010

(Autumn 2009)

You remind me what's important; no agenda or plan
Universal traveller, living Africa; values, family, time and love
Each little without the other
You're balanced, appreciative of the world within you and without
Wise enough to be frivolous and talented enough to learn
Paying your respects whilst retaining your liberty, free to choose the mode of your becoming

I picture you content by a fireside or barefoot on a windy beach, calm, in real time, and knowing when and if the universe intends it
Your love is there to be earned.

Sunday, 11 April 2010


Please never stop serenading me with the possibility of all to come;
Of motorways broken and buried under magic blossom carpets
Of peaceful men whose sinews no longer recall the shape of a bunched fist and
Whose withered trigger fingers are rendered useless
The metallic urge they once exercised
Smelted and crafted into beautiful worlds
Sing to me of attachment as a myth, a demon our forbears transcended
Of politicans as extinct
Because the demos flourish as artists of life
And the systems we build as expressions of service, gratitude and hope
Not of our mistrust and machine logic
The kingfisher breaks the surface without a sound and enters new worlds
The spirit evolves and forms a new across the point of departure
I love life, acting out these moments, the fruits of which are without master

The warriors of light whom you sing through
Embrace this flesh without caution or question
Even though my desire is not dead
And this flawless love, without reservation,
Overwhelms my soul, shaped by illusion
Television and alcohol could never prepare this being
Just as aceticsm and mantras are not my tick box remedy

The medium, the channel, the Kingfisher's beak
For this soul at this time in this body
Matters as little as matter material fickle flesh reality
Right Intention is everything, without need of attachment to a form or recipe
So in every kick, every ink stroke on paper
In every loving embrace, every gift, every question, every kiss and savoured taste
When you sing universe, and this voice answers
The note rings true, eternal.

Sunday, 4 April 2010

Easter Weekend

Tracks in the grass
Speed limit 15 on the path to nothing
Tracks in the dirt remind me of tractor rut tracks in Witchampton
Warm cola, cricket on TV
Then praise song Sunday perennials
Kissing cousins, late uncles, meadows and bee hives
The trip I'm taking from a marriage motherland to two mothers and their progeny
Curves in on itself, a mobieous loop
I'm wearing Blue with spiky hair whilst staring at depleted stock in the sidings
Whilst Gold rings and their homes on fingers float
above the ground, untarnished.

Vapour Trails
Tails telling belonging and dislocation tales
Behind closed doors we steam up the windows with the hot air of midnight's children
And now is that a sun rising overhead?
Or is our perspective skewed?
A meal and a prayer articulate a better knowledge
Where a watershed means more than just another scummy tidemark
Where love means more than a demographic push button
And cartography,Borders or no Borders,
Can't constrain
Queens posessing Universal Jurisdiction.