Tuesday 17th January

the cats sit on the wall
cold air sits in my lungs
heavy breath hangs round my head
fogs my window
obscuring worldly features
into an unworldly blur
I cough-
my throat does not clear
my fingers stiffen
my toes buried in thick layered socks
head mounted on green scarf
the luminous globe gives no heat
stands naked in clear sky
freezing to death
dims to the horizon
dragging the blue blanket
along with the birds.

Thursday 12th January. Back from Stratford

a letter to

ye morning maidens,
thy mind, 'tis poison,
thou dost love the tongue.
Thou hast become
an ugly war-horse,
thou hast become
a deviant of the writings.
Thus, the ghost of Stratford
howls among the earth,
wearing whoring leathers,
with Shakespeare
and Elizabeth in hand.

New Years Poem

New. New music. New visual experiential choirs. New ideologies. New dog on the new £1000 rug.
My ears enjoy the sound of Newly strung auto-harps.
My fingers enjoy the feeling of New Love's soft hair.
My old fingers type out new words. My old pen releases new ink.
Ageing mothers give birth to new peoples.
New apples grow from old branches,
branches of ancient trees.
It took infinity to craft the finite.
It took God to make man.

Old and new have an aged relationship.

Water

From the bottom looking up,
the ripples of souls,
the confusion and contradiction,
the splash and swirls
of a million lights that dance
and disperse
and echo
into a visual choir.
The essence of existence
and being
condensed into a flow
between the banks
and as a stream,
an eternal liquid
above and below.