The World of the Spirit

With his head lifted up and all senses

six feet above his destiny, he seeks

the flights of freedom in the thinning air.


There he can dream of the ineffable,

pure wholeness of the imagination,

wings stretched to embrace the invisible.


Head and heart may merge in the clear sunlight

where the elemental truths of the earth

seem to reside, raised to the eternal.


How shocking then the world on which he stands,

shoes stained with dirt, place of defecation,

bedding for the expulsion of desire.


There he finds where the wholeness of the poor

drinks unholy waters, ingests poisons,

thirsts for blood crushed beneath his ecstasy.


Now he feels his bare feet clamped to the soil

and the spirit stirs not in the abstract

but in the arguments of connection.


Is it Art?

The Art of found things.

The idea of space as object.

Framing the worthless.

Subjecting the banal to display.

Chiselling the landscape.

Cementing impermanence.

Playing with absence.

The aesthetics of suffering.

The perfect circle of self.

At war with frames.

Painting movement.

Fixing the virtual.

There’s no such thing as a baby


A baby? No such thing.

Only the discourse with its blurred edges

and misunderstandings.


You may stand in the forest,

Winter bejeweling your breath

and a lone cry in the pearl vacancy


as you listen to the heart’s

empty rhythms. You may turn your eye

to the far horizon where the geese fly.


You may cling to the illusion

of transcendence, of a personal vision

but you are not there.


You are where the sounds of strife

make you shiver, where you lose yourself

in the exchanges of difference,


where accusation and affection

chip away your edges, grow scar tissue,

where you change with the world.

The BBC investigates the housing shortage


On the one hand

they are self serving

profiteers, careless

of the needs of the mute,

banking the land

in their back pockets.


On the other hand

they are pettifogging

bureaucrats, eager

to subject enterprise

to regulation,

gloating over power.


So there you are then.


Back to the studio.



All sensation boxed – a mouth,

a spool, a rocking chair

in an empty room,

buried to the neck in sand,

or waiting under the dead tree –

only words, endless words,

inescapable rambling words,

the ceaseless torrent of anxiety.


But the door has closed,

the tree is dead,

the tape decays.

All that remains is the beat

of babbling bewilderment,

the distant sound of laughter,

the hand resting softly

on the lips and

the musical lilt of words.

The Call of the Age


Are we past the age of lamentation?

Bemoaning the lost heroic beauty,

the fields of barley turned industrial;

farting full in the face of injustice

we breathed the poisoned air in helplessness.

Whilst faith has dressed in terror’s uniform

we turned the refugees back to neglect,

clutching our safe little world to our breasts.

The waste land has wallowed in disorder

for too long; we can no longer pretend;

scholarly elegance has had its day,

innocence has been wiped from our foreheads,

we have learned the full measure of evil.

So the time for beauty and truth is now,

to fight with tenderness and a soft heart.

The Writer


Thursday. The moving world

below the disregarded grey.

Everything familiar. I stay

for a moment, thoughts curled

aimlessly around the unmarked day.


So there, smothered by light,

stained by the ruins of yesterday

all idea of purpose cast away,

all shape and pattern wiped from my sight,

palely I grope my featureless way.


Having something to say

seems to be the first requirement,

however crudely the words are bent

to form some monument, to the way,

naively, my chance cards I play.