sundown sinking


sundown sinking ( 24 lines of read )

sundown sinking

bowing heads

going down like

flasher's kegs


endgame shite

dead swan star song

bright twilight

mrs wilson

come & see

golden kisses

slobber trees

bits of carrot

in in their mouths

too polite to

spit it out

thrushes fluster

in their roosts

impatient owls

start to hoot

hallowed be thy

shit 'ot rays

the night is nigh

t'ra day



death by nice

it's all quintessentially 

picturesque & quaint

warm brush strokes

the lord doth paint

thatched cottages for villages

lush meadows all around

a light breeze & birdsong

are oft the only sound

every reverend cycles

on the green - wicket keeping

cake sales & ginger ale

a chocolate labrador sleeping

inevitably green hills

generically idyllic

begging for mass murder

or failing that

a picnic


offerings (how to try)

offer your plans

to the warm blue hands

of confusion

let it nurture them

let them feed off its odd

let it nestle them

let it be their god

then put this faith

in the obscure things & the details

like moss & lichen on a post

an opaque stain on the dog-shelf

the many traces of utmost

& the rest should look after itself


(author notes; dog-shelf is slang for floor)

weekend witches

Weekend witches & Beltane pagans

once yearly-nearly ramblers

& blue moon dabblers.

Wedding drinkers & funeral weepers

occasional tables

the occasionally unstable.

Hy-Brasil & déjà vu

a solar eclipse

or the Phoenix, of course too.

Brief glimpses of HELL & scarlet pimpernels

plus fuck-it-that'll-do rhymers

- bloody part-timers


new strangery who

You aint from around these here be parts

have you come to steal our donkeys

our carts

& rustle our sheep

then murder us in our sleep

with a musket to the head

or rusty tent peg through the heart


As you aint from these vales & hillsides

have you roamed over dales

far & wide

under various aliases

assumed - lies - disguised

to come for our daughters

our tractors

plus wives


As you aint local-yokel

it's true

if you were we'd all recognise you

so we'll keep our close eyes

on new strangery who

whilst silently praying

that you're just passing through.

"Go on, fuck off"


prayer poem

Dearest Gods of the Air

then of course

Jesus & the other 1 Lord

please ban vintage steam fairs

nasty dreams & all wars.

Bad smells & smart cars

the cult of celebrity

glove puppets jumping on their own

from opened cupboards

& the piss-take annoying vagueness

of brevity.

Plus can we have more Butterflies in January?

Will I go to HELL

if I prefer dirty-sliced-white over granary?

Are grey squirrels really a species

or just that little bit older?

Alleyways nice 1 4 glistening-listening

& lifting these chips - in a bit

off my shoulder.