Short Keats Poem

i can see fucking infinity from here yo
my brother owns a plantation in america
but i can see infinity


The Backlists Poem #5


At the border-house, halfway
up the wall, unexploded Lebanese
devise new harmonies > our singer
flees his lover’s moustache
{&} summer’s disorderly gasp
in the right direction < oriental
melodies raise wallflowers from their beds;
throw pop to the wind, fashionably
alive because there is no elegance
in waiting for strings of pearl
to light a room > if I was young
I’d still love (your exploding face)
entirely, we’d raise apples under
a waterfall of TVs / dancing
strips of sun inside their peace
{&} no freedom but these temporarily
complete partings of sea >^>^>

carry on


The Backlists Poem #4


This man has a stuffed mouse taped to his head.

The lobby’s ever-changing guard of attention-seekers
click into focus:

These fashionable diagnoses keep chipping away at our penchant
for the accurate: here is a clump of badger hair, bathing
in a pool of neon. Here is the invisible man projecting films
of his absence onto a wall.

Other convoluted gasps in the rosy dark of a fontanel:
A dreaming surgeon strips the skin from his thumbs.

Having already broken, rebuilt & enshrined the heart
in a heart-shaped estuary, Maddy will charge Japanese tourists
£15 apiece to admire / ridicule it using kaleidoscopic goggles.

‘All art tries to swindle death.’ The drunken doctor hands out
freebies: charcoal, pastels, massive blank X-Ray cards
& sends his ladies trundling off, nursing delusions of artistry.

We are informed of the season’s whereabouts by
a series of effective illustrations. We are quietly influenced by
the distant quack of a car alarm / every single thing
we see

The Backlists Poem #3

Two Step

glad to indulge a hefty drinks order the lady pays in kind?
judging by her trail of disregard climbing window {&} pen
I assume wetness evades fat {&} heads tally tails moving
in circular diction I replenish friends of online strangers
approach waving glass models money counts for less in
trash talking of isms my watch forms a basic accord polite
{&} repulsive equally she wins > clap hands > light switch


The Backlists Poem #2

Parkin’s Rooms

Our town kips
under a pall of pie-smoke. We’ll both be eaten by
hours, by mislaid flowers, my northern caff.
Cigarette butts, Olbas oil, blobs of porridge.
We’ll both be eaten by flowers, by mislaid
hours, my northern town. Town,
the old front-porch
after lectures; the rush
of water-light tips over carried books, held hands, idle
papers below high windows; faces, tossed
in all their oceanic thoughts. These rooms are proof of
bachelor fog, cigarette stubs, Olbas oil.
A spyglass, overhanging
the quad: damson, pear-cider, tangerine.
One boy trips over
another’s tongue; every sense trained on
the juicy stall. Cashew,
tissue. Gently, at first – Miss King rinsing her parts
in the bathroom of my mind. Ribbons
tugged, bruised knees.

She kept her blouse intact. What a cheek.


The Backlists Poem #1

I’ll be posting a poem every day this week from my new pamphlet – The Backlists, which is available now from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press.



Honey-spoon {&} dry cereal no milk
he always had less hair does that mean
something the paediatrician said
humming the 20th Century Fox theme
{&} spinning in a circle prevents
fingernails / teeth / eardrums / limbs
{&} all the other children can stop
eyes rolling back in sockets rolling
back the fingernails / teeth / eardrums
other kids understand horses
trample if provoked > now play fire
engines / helicopters / NORMAL
all the way happy > sad to adulthood
expect the worst nothing > best
maths you do the maths {&} tell teachers
murdering the 20th Century Fox logo
American / no he pretends to be
too much television yes overstimulation
idiosyncratic > words are supposed to
mean the 20th Century Fox theme
Eight NINE Ten ELEVEN Twenty
TEN in the dark, build a forest of toys