Anonymous party
Guest list
Where the 'slebs'
Wear hats and
Shades.

Just need
To live my life -
Some privacy

A photo for my
Family?

Net worth,
Social capital,
Media personality,
Standing at a
Party in a 'world'
Where they have
No responsibility

Owe nobody
Nothing

Modern Air (selection)

Where angels
Touch the past
Open fields
And flatbeds rust
We still the night
Till future sends
And revel in
The murk
Of must

=-=

Alight under
Diesel real sky
This is Britain’s
Midlands
Where taillights glide
For leisure
Complexed eyes
From the ravens
To the Herdsmen’s pie

=-=

Cathedral sisters’
Uncertain ground
A retail prospect
From Madin’s mound
Pram, buggy
And credit
But for Chamberlain’s
Vistas found
Where history
Shows us all

=-=

In concrete shelves
I breathe the dust
Of universal welfare
Student grants
Full employment
Bright young bearded things
By birthright
Making modern
Fast
Paper files, telco wires
Technology hands
50 miles from London

=-=

Compare:
Then to now
Pamphlets, fax.
Welcome to the sky
Clad station
Who wants to be
A million squares

=-=

Red brick terraces
Snot green garages
Mobile Oil –
Some things never change
Lost in eighties industry
Cold war legacy
US-UK nuclear
‘Hegemony’
And the jumpered man
In Asdas stores
Right and alone
Forever

More than a person (died)

Margaret Thatcher
Dead

And the left
Held its tongue
For collective
Good taste

As tributes were paid
To a ‘conviction’
Politician

And people stirred
All ways,

Valid emotions
Suppressed:

‘She may be a grocer’s child
But she was more important than you’

Death of the Undertaker (4:26)

A short film produced for the London Bridge Festival 48hr Film Competition

10-12 July 2009

THE UNDERTAKER played by Lucy White

MAN IN SMOCK ONE played by Benjamin Hunt

MAN IN SMOCK TWO played by Merlin Fulcher

Photography by Rachel Aggs

Direction and screenplay by Merlin Fulcher

URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=16py7HePgiw

TRANSCRIPT

THE UNDERTAKER

Come about

On these Great Plains,

Smelling salts?

It was 1880

The great day of the Undertaker.

Our method was to institutionalize

The dead, I suppose.

But not that any means matters now.

(sigh)

Things were so more

Complicated in my youth

But now we never die

Young, and the Princes of the Blood

Re-arrange themselves for curry,

Cash, and all the dying beauty in the world.

‘My digital forecast and rain-checker

Will outlive us all’.

And O but for the mercy of

My profession we let the

Bodies lay where they fall.

Undertaking became a fraction

Of the over, making trouble

And the mob –

Mercenary fever swept upon

The dusty flappers of the poor –

And by no means was anybody rich.

And that left me

Of all of England and the Thames

And Walbrook Stream

Open to the Gods of fortune,

A Survivalist, or scion

Of Recruiters.

A little chapter in unfurling times;

Walk with me and learn the

Dying rites of kind.

Looking for a job?

Lovely; you’re our kind of guy –

Almost like the one I envisaged.

No! too strong, … too strong.

Re-arrange the template – debris –

I saw it dispersed to my displeasure.

We’re looking for a team player

One who can muck-in,

Lend-a-hand with this

Poly-satin ribbon faded dream.

Prospects, education, fractionating columns?

Do you love multi-tasking?

Freebase?

Are you reliable?

Tell me all about yourself.

(sigh)

There’ll never be another,

Not in all of who-knows-where

Lamentable,

The world turned

But I’m still searching.

Let’s see,

He’s a little brusk

Charlie and cheeky too;

One step over the broom,

His friend with a mop –

Straight down from the fields of heaven

And into my municipal trap.

‘Ello luv’ says he.

A right charmer, we’ll see!

Walking about the plotlines

And novel twists of time.

For undertaking he’s a mercenary fellow –

That’s right.

Taking hers and mine and

Getting our Red job done,

Not death – becoming –

We discussed this one earlier.

‘Not me’ says he to the

Taxman, the stranger.

His eyes beam green

At anonymity –

How pitiful we never meet

Exchange glances, my

Life chances – and the

Shriveling of his dreams.

This peaceful fellow’s a rest;

So I’ve got to snare him

And out with the trade show

All over again: darn it

Where’s my specs?

Like all professionals we expect

A good rate of return on

Our investment; we learn a

Business or a trade and

Maximize the output or largess –

The opportunities for advancement

Being manifold – and with times’

Chance – we became the

Working man’s Dalit – the

Trade to beat all others.

Employment or die!

Or life-like gnome:

You decide.

Trade show: The Bonanza

Ladies, not the butterfly

Come closer, yes,

This will revolutionize –

You’ve heard it before?

Rubbish:

Now this here is living

The undertaker way;

A sharp glass of porter

And the Thames in your face.

Say good-bye to air-flow

Filtration, central heating

And the sterilization room.

Self-employed?

I’ll tell you now;

We’ve got more than the

Healthcare-come-military complex

Could offer:

The unending tyranny of self-discipline,

Nah, just kidding!

Life is work plus leadership.

-         Or Leisure whatever way. 

END

Take me up

Take me up
To the air I breathe

Ozone so precious
It’s hard to believe

Bathe me in the natural light
Of Sol Invictus
For my warriors
Layed in fight

Wash my ears in the warm
Sound of England’s birds
More knowing then man
Of our fear filling greed

Hold my hand in love
Like a living meme
Free to be 

Next year

Next year
We’ll tell them all
But for now
There’s a riddle
To despise and enthral

Nuisance thinking
So hard to control
Not least restless tinkering
More threat to our ball

Go home to your bedpost
Your lamp and your wall
Switch off to the discourse
Of man’s rigmarole 

There’s more to be learnt
From the flocks and the geese
The uniformed creatures
Whose history long ceased

Wake up to the bus stop
Your coat and your hat
And challenges we’ll throw you
Till you’re old and your fat

And when they rise
And are unhappy
We’ll lay a twist
In the fall

Cropstar

Cropstar
For the mind
And lonely
Paw
‘Two pounds
More liver
Until I’m 64’

And the hunger
And the want

London’s ploughed up
For next year’s harvest

Freshened,

The cropped livestock
Intake the floor

2012 was more competitive than before

Nature Tamed

Nature tamed
Then untamed

In the avenues of
Versailles

Me worker by
The fluorescent eye
Set down by man made brook
Lizard’d by the westward Moon

Bigger birds
Mate with
Arctic terns

And the paths keep churning

Bronze leaves wind me back
To the sad departure
As man and beast look on

My thinking space
My Sabbath

My mind is in cropstar

Beautiful springy deer
Off to the drying
Mossy leaves
In wood

As curious people's
Eyes the human
Path to none
Of hurting love
To find

In
Feeling hooves
The light is
Sweetly nut fell

The monster function ball

Welcome to the monster function ball,

Left past New Pimlico on the Lea,
In our 21st century rat-house
(For one year’s London budget paid fully).
A merry land of delight and doughy eyes
In Europe’s latest hemisphere,
Thrust up to public skies.

Tonight – the gilded flesh is reverse falling!
As gowned dolphins – and the Mastercard masque –
Redoubt in nature’s, nocturnal unfolding.
Pre-digital delicacies recast our superior prime
And swing replete, above
De-salvaged thresholds,
Where gonged worthies creak and shine.

Aye, it took some time to get here
Past the r’established outlands.
Because London’s legacy’s a gas!
The 100 metre finish line:
Forever in our hearts
For angels.
So hydrophobic now, this broken Britain.

Still there? I’ll take you by the hand between the stalls:
Here’s our London mayor,
So brave he defeated Jason for the fleece.
There’s Irvine Sellar
The man who built the Shard,
Singing: ‘shardfox homage’
He’s such a card.

To the right, Lady Brooks resurrected against Medusa,
Monsieur Breivik’s reprogrammed mime
And a fresh faced Blair40,000 (thought to be asinine).
London refound its feet, alright,
As the world’s wealthy forsook walking
And everyday since we’ve been getting stronger.

Homo sapiens, we’re nearly there yet!
Only 20 per cent in prison.
Yes, total law enforcement proved a tad destructive
So last summer we armisticed the dyslexics –
Hence the creative underclass…
Don’t you love the smell of plus fair justice?

It’s Forty years back to the race
When nails grew sparking

For the gun’s blast 

And shop worn trivialities turned holy
Between the Volkswagened Sabbath chat
Of London’s mortgaged class.

Visitors, are you happy?
We’ve learned so much from you
And each day refashioned ourselves less human,
Barring our sacred, infernal
Murderous flaw
To be one day reunited as cosmic flotsam.

Sport! Now I must rejoin the night
Leaving life in your hands more light.
Thanks, that’s very kind.
You’re welcome

But for me:
‘I don’t pay for water’ 

The Straw Bale Jubilee

Public neurotoxins

Oozed from every screen
‘Yes it was appropriate
To celebrate the Queen
But no-one was forced to’

Moms and pops
Cried for the girl
Who lived their dream

1.5 million thronged
The piss-streaked streets
Of London
In stone, silver, diamond,
Gold and straw

The broken Knights
Of thinking freedom
Sipped to salute

The Royal Family
Shape shifting across
The Universe
Since 1693

Reconstructing a dynasty
From mineral
And human
Fragmentary

Unfailing in its
Collective mind
Set on slaking thirst
For next world wines

As cold droplets of reality
Wiped away the fantasy
The United Kingdom
Shivered back to austerity
And secrecy

David Cameron (Living the dream)

At 7.15 pm
I unlock my bicycle 
On Horse Guards
And look up to see
A child-like purple octopus
With hands gut-wrenching
Anguish from its mind

Once held in every debating society’s dream

Too many cold eyes interrogate his wake
Captured
Behind a military-grade Jaguar screen
With Land Rover’d entourage
Signaling hopes mangled to the machine

The Birdcage Walk
Trailed into September trees
Remembering childhood autumns
Where neither of us
Will ever again be seen

The sun
Opens wide
For Earth’s first
Man of the moon
Today died

Neil Armstrong

First to open
The ring pull

And taste man’s
Most bleak frontier
Two steps apart from
Couch’d America
Yet to boast
O’ lunar fear

First freeman
Of Lagholm
Seat of Clan Armstrong

Spokesman for
US businesses only

Decliner of autographs
And one time Barber-litigator

A deist, believer
In the
Expanding void
Of reason

Born 5 August 1930

For heaven
Here we sleep
Bestride the junkyard stars
Made of Earth’s
Eternal creep

A warm up and for those who weren’t there

Closing ceremony’s got a Stakhanovite twist

‘n’ Pet Shop Boys’ pointy hats t’ can’t be missed
One direction past by anti-clockwise
While Waterloo sunset brought a tear to my eyes

Many nations, many flags
Earth’s athletes pass 80,000 fans
Ben Ainslie ’s our champion bearer
The highest decorated GB sailor

Shoulder to shoulder, no spite, no war
USA, China, North Korea, Singapore

Smiling, waving as audiences clap

Shepherded by volunteers in electric blue light bulb hats
Cyprus, Guatemala and Granada at last
Celebrate a break from metal-less past

Kate Bush’s running uphill cubic boxes

Slow time zigurrat tribal performances
Marathon medallists take the stage
Uganda and Kenya wait an age

Bohemian Rhapsody’s sine wave
Followed by Lennon’s Imagine costumed imaginatively
A deaf, sign-language choir

Sing to assemble the late bard’s face

Freedom sings George Michael
As audience pixels graphically equalize
Athlete’s pound the air in might
For Games Makers once again celebrated tonight

Mod-ley, The Who saves us from George Michael’s wailing
Pinball Wizard the Kaiser Chiefs resurrect
Mind bending for David Bowie

British Glamour ‘fashion’ escorted by fascist space cadets
Entombed in cages, the models dance
Campbell, Cole, Moss, no designers

Annie Lennox rides the black pearl
With bustled masquerade entourage
Wish You Were Here flame cover welcomes
Russell Brand to hippy mania

Norman Cook’s Right Here Right Now
As the giant vampire squid coagulates
Sexy policewomen and cosplay ballerinas gesticulate
‘Money money money’ squawks Jessie J

Tinie Tempah passes to Taio Cruz
In Rolls Royces circling the crop

Cast back to 1996 with Spice Girls Wannabe
Cam, Sam Cam and Boris jiving
Wonderwall’s Oasis recalls Thatcher’s Cracked street legacy of wont and grime

People say ‘The British are mad and this proves it’

Cannonball Lee Evans became Eric Idle
And we Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life
The Romans upstaged by Bollywood dancers
Plus operatic trident wielding Britannia

And a Romanic chorus line with bag pipes
Forget Muse for a moment
Larger than life Freddy Mercury sings from beyond the grave
And Brian May riffs to Fox-Badger arms

Preparing for an apex climax with Jessie J
Mounted for the electric blues now groped by athletes
‘We will, we will, rock you’
And we all stand for the Ptolemaic anthem of Greece,

Britain’s Olympic jackets are made by NEXT
And the Welsh glugby choir is drunk?
Military men march off with the Technicolor rings
Bojo gamely passes the tatty flag to a Rio bloke

Brazil colours wash over the tired eyed Rogge
Their gift to the re-ignites the working man

‘Samba samba samba’
The ocean passes majestically

This is my world of culture, beauty
It’s contextual, historic, haunting
In pursuit of GB’s game changer
Mega-sid techno priest and a pimp daddy

No slavish pop music
Tricolour beauties embrace fluorescent man
On the ramps, women undress
Then incognito Pelé reveals himself

A mega-ripple for Coe:

‘Thank you to the people who built the stadiums,

‘Who built a new community in the city’
America’s costumes going back in time

Rogge: Celebrations to continue as we admire
The prowess of the paralympic games.

‘These were happy and glorious games’

I call on the youth of the world
To assemble in Rio in four years time
For the 31st Olympiad of the modern era

And Heatherwick’s cauldron demounts
To Take That and a phoenix
‘The UK’s favourite boy-man band’
Darcy Bacon descends to the Royal Ballet’s 200 super spikes
Reverb cut-off punk remony

Ember-like phoenix presides over
The extinguishing Olympic flame
And Baba O'riley by The Real Who

Marks then end of 16 days of fantastic sport and emotional mayhem

Transcribed exactly as it came to me on the night of the London 2012 Olympic Games closing ceremony, 12 August 2012

Neil Armstrong

The sun

Opens wide

For Earth’s first

Man of the moon
Today died

Neil Armstrong

First to open
The ring pull
And taste man’s
Most bleak frontier

Two steps apart from

Couch’d America

Yet to boast

O’ lunar fear

First freeman

Of Lagholm

Seat of Clan Armstrong

Spokesman for

US businesses only

Decliner of autographs
And one time Barber-litigator

A deist, believer

In the

Expanding void
Of reason

Born 5 August 1930

For heaven

Here we sleep

Bestride the junkyard stars
Made of Earth’s

Eternal creep

Little king

The little king
Sweet with his retinue
So happy to reflect
His shy outward eyes
And warm inward tongue

Apart from worldly
Bitter fights
And safe in courtly
soft delight

Home

My threshold

Home

Look at me

Looking at you

We are in this one together

And O but for the love of madness
She was to be mine

Where were we in this town?

Battersea

The scenic route to Clapham Junction

She took

In black

The widow

Whittaker

And thighs

Out the window

Over cold glances

Against the passing

Passenger

Reluctant interface

Before I bite

And them and me

And the bizarre path

Left me floating

On the 19:23

Faster past the tabloid
Maker and man
Eavesdropping eyes

My pains to be

‘Blockbuster’

‘Tiramasu’

Love me and collect
A coat artfully tucked

As the train takes longer

But the carriage is warm
I am glowing on the reverb

Chasing skirt

Chasing skirt

Another open day
For the world
To pass me by

My shop
My work
My flower-like
Existence

Waiting to be caught in the swirling imagination of your mind
Purchase me
Purchase my gristléd eye

And the Pret A Manger pie
Or pint of porter

We are making Britain

Everday

For the high street
Rejuvenation

Happy upkeep
For the plucky
Or working agenda

Keep my cogs spinning
Better new than old

When the man with the bargain has passed you by …

Flex another.

Who likes London
Like a man from my empire?

We are the foot soldiers
Of our father’s fate

One from another

Taken to be
To shape the best

Making for another
The laid
And to rest

Worker bus

Where are we
Now in the 1995
Freeform upbeat
Tributes to the Words
On Wandsworth High Street

I am free
Like the worker bus

Having discovered alcohol
I discovered
Alcohol

My worth
In lines
In grinning
Cheeks
That passed
Me by

Happy girl
In
My
Vectorised eyes

Overbrook

Exceptional
Yellow
Currents
Found
Oscillating
Around
Public
Right-of-Way
Markers

And National Trust
Enclosures

Your world
Lost in a drawer-full
Of matches

Railways
Happy days
Building a boat
In a room

We marked out
The eighteenth century,
Red plastic
And Polycement

I touch at it
In the signs
I will never
Recover

Past Martlesham

This deep-water
Colouring
From Virginia
One day
Made
Mindful

These are the photos
From then I
Could write

Hydrogen Boy

=-=-=-=-=-=-

Hydrogen boy makes good cried the newscaster. Rained ribbons ticker tape over a television snow sky – ‘It taste like pixels’!

Pounding with the drub of sneakers and tearful eyes, the wakeful horde of emancipated youth took broad walk to welcome the surprise.

Back from a batter with alcoholism and the worlds in the sky, war-fair Jones Casci propped quiet satisfaction to the crowd but with post-traumatised light shouldered his wry twin hide. 

dillusional, misguided  or dangeous

'the sinister artist whos materials are men'

Broken robot

Feline

Remembrance

Up from the birth

Underground

Tunnel

Aborted womb

My weekend

My worklife

My working fix

‘I don’t want a job’

says Robot one.

Lights & disco

Restaurant, bra

Last night’s protest

Major disruption

Between

Bank and

Morrgate station

Interventionist

Propaganda

On the Bakerloo line

There is a good service

On all other

London Underground lines

Due to civil unrest in the

Victoria area

Services on the Jubilee,

Circle. District and Victoria Lines

Are facing severe delays

We advise all passengers

To seek alternative routes

Souvenir bag

Cherished

The moment

Me beam

And the rights

To my childhood

Dreaming

‘It was our day off’

And the meek

Rose higher

To the stars

Smile

Oxford Circus

I know exactly how you feel

7:45Am
Escalating
Warm words
On the
Rails

To Oxford Circus
And shoes

Wheels of public

My escalating
Cold breeze
And dreams
Dead cheeks
Poised over beauty
Carving
Governed realm
With wheels
Of public

Hatfield

The lost cow
In the city
Brook
Water by its ankle
Close to a foaming
Broth of
Chemical ‘soup’
This is a safe place to play
And rivulets of dust
Were good
For cars

The mule was absent
But a thistle
Marked path

Two minutes to air

And we’re

Looking

Seating there

The iron

The bleach

Take me to

Better there

Above

Abroad

In golden

Shades

Of dreamward

Void

Warm

Words

Colours

Broad

Two minutes

And Archie’s

Bald

The world’s censors

Got em’s balls

But ark

In Eye-light’s

Got Wickered

Boules

Were out

To worst

The rain’s

Called

Out worklite

Dead mile to

Brawl

Electronic wails

And she’s leafing

Thru Monday’s

Pales

Chatter-luck

But there aint

No man

Here to hear it

Hit the tracks

Rolling

Bigger than fails

And he’s the

World of hot-young

Grails

Hit the tracks

Rolling

Hit the tracks

Rolling

Chatter-luck

But there aint

No man

Here to hear it

Chatter-luck

But there aint

No man

Here to hear it

Eyes past the better

Of life for caring

My seat

My ride

But there aint

No man

Here to hear it

But how, Buck Pal?

A sign, the Mall

In a
Basement
Which could be
An annex to
London Transport Museum

Uncle Joe,
Learnt

Strand, St Martins' Lane
Turn this way

ASDA eyes

Past me bye
The boy with ASDA
Aisled eyes

Look at me
Look at me
With the camera
Documentary

Cry away the bitter whys
Of liberal investigatory:

I’m too shy to
Look

Regenerative

Stem cell

Growth

She glided past

In warmth

Close

The image

Of Angel

Down from

A City

To roost

Spliced onto urban decay,

Set tooth against

Empty male unemployed eyes

Far away a battle is fought

To contain the spirit of Erbil

Frank Geoff Fulcher

Born Birmingham

1920

To the City

Outward

Seafront

Town

Woodbridge

Melton

Hollesley Bay

Sailing

Radio Row

Corner Office

Mark Devellish
Past mine
Pro consumer
Construct

Up-work
In mind
After the lines

Take time to learn
The rythmn

And chance
Of a windswept
Swide swipe
Read: career advance

Time spent
In thee
Bread basket

Pizza feed

Greedy eyes

Of artistic ambition

My colleague

Branch

And observer: Adversary

Walking past my crippled

Entrance to your world

Arch in breathe to the

Reminded nose

Of hope

I can see the image

Consistent in majesty

So sweet

Beautiful
Technopark
Gliding on my wings

Newham
Norham
Gardens
Wool

So fresh
She forgot
Leafy days
And tired eyes
Yet to know
The working haze

Forward forth
Into my dreams

And treasures

Memories of the past
Unrealised

A tumbling cascade of
Familiarity

Rushes of life
Enhance my mind
Up to oblivion

Up stairs
Last

Reverb

Reverb

Reverberate

To rate

Reverber

Verberate

Take aplate

Reverber

vErberate

The plate

Insate

Reverba

Verberate

To rate

Veberate

I am

Relatively speaking

98 per cent

DNA

Transferred

Between

I am

Relatively speaking

Speaking

Your mind

Back at me

And

I am

Relatively speaking

Your mouth

Your eye

Speaking

And

I am

Relatively speaking

Taking apart

The

This life

Construct

A meaning from

My

Reprising

Eyes

Constant battering

Each time I rise

Listen to your

Voice in mind

Your wrote these

Words

Ecophone

Ecophony

My relative

‘This is relativity’

Standing on

Regerneration Row

Too early

This is summer’s eve

‘Move faster’ passed

My dreams on

That train

Just past

This latests project

To stare

Out a window

Indefinately

I am dramatic

Two feet

Away from my head

Three

Four

Fifteen

400 metres beneath the sea?

Not really

90 at Charing Cross

Plus some sold-off books

Lost in the space

Between your bar

And a hungry eye

The menu of

Having Nothing

Riled me for a while,

That I miss

Late payments for those

Endure

Enough to

‘Fuck em All’ 

We know

We know
Of the man

Who kept all his receipts:

He drank a bells whiskey
At company of cooks

On
27 December 2009

At
20:23

Poly-saturated

Container

Carton

Spoon

Spork

Found to be

Source of trans-genderism,

In polar bears

After the lunch

Bell

A mechanised

Onslaught of faeces

You don’t know

The industrialised nature

Of excretement

Said my mind

To a commuter

Propping the

Floor

You don’t know

The industrialised nature

Of your food

Said Jonathan Meades

In some way

That lost him

Credibility

At last

My market
Rated
No advantage
Existence

Harsh and
We made
It in the
Big Smoke

Don’t like that?

Is there an issue
With this one?

Journalism

‘Because, you’re the sort
Of person
Who should …’

And I say
Fuck ‘em

That’s how I got here
With blurred eyes
Naked

The Artist

Screaming either:
I'm different
or
I'm normal

--

Avoid embarrassment
Sometimes.

It is better to google
Than to blog

Bury your antlers
Deep.

The land is ours

Directorate/
Secretariat

Beige ironies
Unfold before
The Stage:

Residents
Squaters
Activists
Reporters

This is our land
Our history
Our culture

Play un bel di
To the nocturnal Fight

This is closing
Time

Bas-relief

Shake history
Limestone
From the marky
Gravehead

This is the legacy
Of the 19th home
Built environment.
Century - Golden
And the steed of
Mechanical progress
Twixt skin:

It looks like a cruise liner
An alpine lodge;
Nothing I have ever seen
Here

Roman, barbarian
Huguenot, trader.

I am eyes

Warmth

Over the barrel vaulted
Eaves, sink deep
In the vested
Come street-lined
Fields
Endeavour

She whispered back at
Me from the
Crenelated tier
Of the causeway

Gasometer
Thames Reach
Cadogan pier.

Something's right

Something's right
We're in!
At the centre
Of ourselves:
Merchandising (even)
Apart of upkeep
Or request.
It just makes sense.

--

I (fabric) feel wrong
So stuck outside
Something to learn?
Literature to teach me?
Always looking for attention
Approval, and scared
Of approbation.

Happen

The serrated spies
Aren't naked
Like my thoughts

Nice rainbow;
But
Does it have planning permission?

Some people dressed their stalls
And others
Just left their clothes
And made a pile
Lucky dip (£1 a go)

Everything must

August in London

The Lord is passing
Freedom
I look up to see his wings
Lord Balfour
Plan me a river that sings

The children of BBC
Lament: Great Culture
Is left to Edinburgh

Everyman's arabian nights

Furtherance
Lost out of
Words in Time

Eighteenth
Acrid
Century
In Latin / Greek

And a murder
The first opening
Of a crow

Baby don't hurt me
No more

Seen

I am:
Beam in the bunds
Golf Course
Lost in Roald Dahls
Bucolic Dream
Sink
Tonic
And the scrapings
From the rust

Tin cans
Alley
By the rail road
Tracks
This is 1970s
Attitude
Towards
tear drop
Peels and early
Pepsi coke cans

Deep breath
Everybody's free
But im loving
Inside out
Lick me in the cloud
And dream

STOP

The Media

The Media

Sounds freindly
Like Greywater

Not sick building syndrome


One day the
Staff
At the Black Cat
Will become
News writers

No more stones

No more stones

Life is magical

Saharan Rugby UK

Caught in culture

The wind and the river are one

Never to rise

The path

To human

Past

And satisfaction

When freedom reigned

Blister packed

Solutions like

Acetyl salicylic acid [Aspirin]

Thank You for letting me know

And such

Death

can we make a website?
can we?
can we make a website?
can we

But who can bear to be forgotten...

Recycle

Recycle the charts of
Power for better days:
Envious met
Competitive.

This is how I want to write
Different from other people
With clothes,
Sticking in the shower.

She took a gasp from
The refill -
It wasn't her child.

In the Spartacus lobby
For ascending minerals
I felt the soil
Come purposeful.

I live in the common
Transaction
Called barter.

Made difficult by the need
To own your name.

Don't

Don't be definitely
Now.
Departed in the parting
Cornice,
Pathway Artifice.

Lively?
Take your veiled
And curious ambitions
From my mobile hearth
I loved you once
Smiler

I want this to be
A coincidence
Joining
Present experiences
To past.

You may need me to
Express
Myself.

It is not pleasant.
Love.

BBC

Creature!

'You've got to be in it
To win it?'

Or a life spent desperate lonely
Bashing a pencil hand
Against the monolith

And the nation
Beams at the teet

And the writers and intellects
Rest in the cleavage

Happy between
The bosum of tradition
And the void of art

A Nursing Home

Resting my eyes upon the lilies
And my tired mind
Projected forth
To the end of human suffering

Breathe deep with me reader
And feel the warmth
Of a life spent
Whilstling after
Art

And the pretty girls
Between me and
Absolution

Hold up my crown
Merlin Fulcher
And the tracks spelt out
Between me
And destiny.

Exit

Tired of iron
And the industry
Extremities
He fell faster
Past the throbbing
Friday lights
His dust caked
Boots, made a star
Beside the wheel
Of ochre toil,
His resting place

Our Flock Are Sheep

Dear wartime popular consensus.
I took a bough and stated: historiographical controversies
Dear pillars and stones;
Dear childhood in a library,
Childlike for a school.

Please excuse my absence and accept my kind
thoughts at this time of sadness for our family.

Four portions in the oven. That is family.
Like the uniform duck: we will all be fathers,
Or watch surreptitiously our friends on the grass.
There are coffees coming, or, 'Please help
Yourself to a soft drink'. Go on.

Dear Lion & Unicorn and mustard sandwich.
Here's making hands in the air (making hands in, the, air).
This summer will go on and on.
It will go on and on and last weekend, it was to go on.
Ice may be harder to come by?
Why just lie and with your hands back let the
Wind blow over you.

Dear Sir, I watched you in the woods gathering stones.
I, watched thoughts, reinvent themselves in bones.
I found my children, eating ankles.
My ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to my home.

On marble floors our flock are sheep.
Indian cottage, where shall we sleep?
A great wind blew across the world.
Come hither, help me with the map.
All of this is good and bad in equal portions.

Your Mouth

Fireburst over the horizon
An open window full of dust
Youth on computer: aged.

Horizon dust and fresh cut grass
Dusk and mother time
Upper time.

My brother, my freind.
The woman who lived below the stairs
Two of them:
Drill pigs.

Mother in the air
Fences for the rich
Father in the air
Fences for the rich

I, never trusted:
Opinions, statements,
Thoughts: your mind
Your mouth.

Thank you for listening
If not

Steps

I used to be nostalgic.
One day I will be hopeful.
I will always be pessimistic.
Optimism will come.
There is nothing but despair.
I'm too scared of fear.
I can't bear this discomfort.
I'm troubled by this anxiety.
I'm concerned by this neurosis.
I think I will be thoughtful.
I'm not sure about apprehension.
But I have faith in my trust.

Arch-Up

Arch-up
Kid

These words weren't learnt
In a day.

Take solace in
Correct spelling,
Punctuation,
Grammar

Up-beat
And salient
Traditions
Of the past.

Be kind to
Associations
Or 'opportunities'
For life
Is a tireless Road.

Cycle Path

Cycle Path
When I'm on it
It's like we're
All wearing the same hat

I feel lost or betrayed
When
Road Markings
Lead me astray

Sometimes I take a diversion

As I grow older
You become more familiar
But I still feel
I made
The right choice

(Etc.)

Etc said to me
'Things won't always
Be this fun
You know'.

Thank you
Reiterated the
Point

A Hello
Said
Gratuitously

This all made me
Question
How I felt
Which in any case
Explains the
Joy

Daylight Saving

Summer rain
Caught the eye
Of a passing stranger
At 5:25 pm
Angles to the
Ascecnding municipal skies.

At a dark-made-light
Staircase:
Two minds elapsed
Looking backwards
On a shared past of
Phosphorescent
Twilight youth encounters.

Our man up-high
Took a deep breath
And welcomed in the
Warm becoming day.

An early evening light
Caught his mind
As it stretched
Across the months
To come.

Photographically images
Fell in rain
And blue flaking leaves
Of spring
Set expecting.

He shook the future
From his mind
And whispered back
'come again: homeward friend.'

Stank

Again being unfortunate or unusual
In taking
A sound word
Into properties termed
Explicit

He was a pioneer
Of unusual feeling
Among dissatisfied
Urban rate payers.

Feel the fabric
Said Clive:
It is enough.

Sticky

Sticky buns, Sticky buns, Sticky buns!

…

She sat
On a shared chair
Called a sofa
Resting her legs
On my crotch

And teased
Ice cream
Out of the pot

Iron Out

Iron out the iniquities
Of sweet Thursday mornings
Spent unemployed
And sipping empty
Coffers
At the Starbuck’s Hilton
Level 2

Undressed I saw the creases

Took a moment to familiarise myself
With: charming lady
Of Oriental dispensations

In a back street in soho
Where someone I once stood next to
Wandered off

Chasing the words of my dream
In her heart.

Peterhof

A heart in pounding progress
On the morning of our dreams.
Seduced by sights and rising
Schemes
-- she carried on her wings.

Agincourt

Sweet Agincourt
O where is love?
I look in heart
I look above

Sweet Agincourt
My love, my time
A bead in hope
I seek to find.

O Agincourt
O where art thou?
On prisms dreams?
The minds of sow?

Sweet Agincourt
Sweet Time, sweet now
For peace in Love
We wonder how…

NHS

A Mouse!
In the post-room

Little fellow
Don’t send him up
To endoscopy

Afterlines

After day work call line
On the bus home
She cries
About her boss

And life
Franz Ferdinand
Corporate communications

I tell her to join a union
She has
None of it.

Sin

Not particularly inspired thought:
George as he watched the doorway to the stairs above the room,
Nathaniel as he mopped vomit in the men’s room,
Jacob as he lifted another crate.
Not particularly inspired
And Jesus sat in the corner of the room
Gently opening beer bottles with a pocket razor.

British Genius

Febvre: Nigel Kennedy.
We all want to
Say things about
His aftershave
His afterthoughts.
We thought a man couldn’t have an ‘appearance’
That is: we thought a man could be controlled



So there is a picture of Nigel Kennedy in every home
Now.

Say

That in-the-street library and phone box.

That wet wall on a London day.

That limestone brick and wet dark grass.

Toneless like a telephone or office filled with glass, and leather.

That man, stood there in a room with little more than darkness. Starkness un-availed.

He stood there like a dove, peaceful, in a land where no-one knew his name.

Calm and without people; he went there everyday.

And when fog or glass misted the aperture; he took a deep breath, buttoned his coat, and his heart burned.

4pm it’s very dark and people are scurrying home. The day has ended early – for everyone – there is no rush hour, just aromatic bushes on shepherd’s heath, mock tudor public lavatories, a smell of disinfectant.

Nobody wore raincoat apart from he.

He trod back on a clean pavement, not wet, but imminent with dampness. The door was dark, not in colour, but in tone. It opened swiftly and without a noise. A corridor, full with a sense of damp dust; a paste-like warm effect, an acrid cold reek.

Stairs with carpet so fine it could be wooden boards, but silent. Wind blowing on the panes. Two steps up and one step down. A coat must be placed on a peg.

Up the stairs and into a darkened room, lit quickly by deskplamp – an important friend. There is a typewriter, a telephone, papers, a pipe, a chair, two windows – this could be where Harold Pinter lived but it isn’t.

He sits down with his thoughts alive. Un-ties one shoe, takes off his glasses (for a moment).

‘There isn’t much I wouldn’t say to a telephone with half a glass of brandy.

‘It took, three miles and wind blowing off the Thames. It took it all.

‘So then I – in the bookshop, under new architecture windows saw making photos for myself, in October.

‘I saw the view of London. But all I felt was my youth.

‘I saw Limestone in my self.

‘I routine a day and kiss.’

Closer to the window, an empty street. A phonebox, more darkness and wind. Dark houses and apartments, lit-up by square windows. Equally interesting people place their elbows and watch.

Aldeburgh

As I walked
Along the broken line of pebble stones
It broke; an orange crest of whitéd detail
Like a bone finger carving
Scraped against a rest.



A deep breath under phosphorescent skies.
I had survived this land to find another:
The Coast.

Siriol

Moving at a high velocity
As though my mind was filled with other thoughts
Than you and conversation
On the train from Ipswich
To Liverpool Street.

Two

And two old homos sat at a desk
Old homos of the sort
That didn’t make it out much
Watching 'shows'
At the National Theatre.

Two old homos eating lunch
It’s not a date
Late at night
In a room
It’s two old homos
Not on a date
Not on a date

Two old homos
In the park with a dog
They're brothers
They're twins
They're friends
They're gentleman friends

Two old homos
For all their lives
At school
University
Clubs and dives
They've been two old homos,
All of their lives.

Chivalry

I saw a knight
An order of the garter
Today on a bike
Like a lord
Of the roads
With beard,
A red Honda
And fibre glass aero curve.
A True King.
Real men don’t smile.
Real men shag wome.

'Pidgeons in Transit'

I believe we are in High Wycombe. Beautiful.

Dreams a bloon.
Do you want a bloon?

Breasts.
Big breast
I have never seen.
What do you do with them?
Are they yours?
Do you share them?
Can he..pinch?
Breasts.
I like your breasts.
Breasts
You're breasts
Can I...pinch?

I saw beautiful mounds of earth with grass, I saw formations in brick and stone.
Towering steel serrated spikes, quite motionless mechanical monsters.
I saw them. All.

Your car is shit. Thankfully I don’t own it.
Ownership is man made kind.
Ownership is bliss and torment, entwined.
It gets better or worse everyday.
It exists in terms of numbers and lies.
I am objectless, one day in the future perhaps.

I have never seen such a beautiful thing.
You smell of cheese. and vomit.

There were hills.



We did good things.
When we were young,
on roads

M40

The pylon is naked like my thoughts
And pain I've caused.

I like you naked,
More than with your clothes on.
Original like Adam
or e.,

I MIGHT NEVER SEND A LETTER 'GAIN

In time I will collect
The ashes
Of my face
And the endless photos
Of sheet glass
And naked breasts.

And everyone will say
I loved her.

I time I will take her grace
And like a tall
Glass fill myself
With colourful explosions
And distasteful replicas
Of plastic aeroplane toys,
Marked foliage
Or leaves.

And everyone will say
I was not for her.

Or else I will mark time
And take each changing object
As sandstone

The industry
Of thoughts
Or houses


And everyone will say

I might.

2006

The sun goes down on another year,
Two-thousand and six.
The light is soft, the sky is flat
And now it is raining.

Seaside Yesterday

seaside yesterday
love on the currents
warm mist blue
with beady fire lights
men in tall dark green
and satin on the sea's sheen.

the crashing waves
were music
for the morrocan pipes
and lilting rythms
the haze
of summer nights

coastal like a rock
on a tidal voyage
through twittering
concierge
and sex

Reading of The Mounted Pond

The Crow didst bless the slated fringe
And rest its sooty crest, upon the slant.
And upon its sunken gaze our eyes did dart
Forthwith its pitched surety didst depart.

An obfuscate haze dusted my lips and hand.
One beside himself, sat Eastwards in memoriam.
Paired in pairs, across the oily undulate -
The taloned duck in May-ward quarry set.

My ears the adopted audience of wayward tape
From whence fell into mine pocket open gape.
Dispersed, my senses urged to waxly coalesce,
And shadow out, the prating clamour of excess.

I shared their reading of the mounted pond,
Without glance of name, scripted e'er so fond.
Etched sans breath, the ditty echoes promptly,
Our earthly response fevers outward courtly.

Beside the Heron's crutched twigs and rows
Of silken geese. Amid the dewlets darty
And hopping, not proud but inwards dropping.
His sooty breast so lent clawed & cropping.

With perceptive eye it unfurled - the Crow -
Its poised, knotted digits parleyed sorrow.
Cycles erred trepid, as the wakeful likeness
Emerged my mind to symbiosis - now I know!

The Studio

Peach radiance and fresh gum hue
Quick anxiety doth vanish from you.
And this is it no mock no other:
No shamblesome cliche or hastiful blunder
For here is assertion, authority and flair,
The mission to sow twice the fair share.
Conveyed with profession, whimful and calm,
Portrait of knowledge: eve's mind sooth'd like balm.