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Dog Poem   Dreaming I’m Laika, the first dog in space,   In a great silver ball – no sign of my stick.   Guess I’m too old to be learning new tricks   So I’m playing dead for the whole human race.   No bones about it, shan’t see my home soon   And I ate the last biscuit that I’ll ever get,   But my tail’s still wagging, my nose is still wet,   So orbiting slowly I’ll bark at the moon.

Hatter A True Story He was not born Hatter. No parent had taken the cruel and unusual step of christening him thus. He had spent an entire childhood not being Hatter. Likewise, I imagine he is not Hatter now. No wife affectionately addresses him as such; no children whisperingly chide Daddy with his quaint moniker. Only for us was he Hatter. We made him Hatter, and for two years he was Hatter, and very little but Hatter. I attended an all boys grammar school in Buckinghamshire, an educational backwater where the tripartite system still reigned. Clad in blazers and ties, with little exposure to girls, ethnic minorities or the educationally

Creak-crack. Creak-crack. Sails slap slack. Pitch and roll. Pitch and roll. Save our souls. All at sea. All hands lost. It'll all come out in The Wash. Empty vessels make most noise. So heave-ho, boys! Crack-snag. Crack-snag. Hoist the battered flag. Ahoy! Avast! Ahoy! Avast! Raise an empty glass! A bottle of rye. A barrel of rum. Drink yourselves dumb. Roll and yaw. Roll and yaw. Batten down the doors. Flash! Crash! Smash! Bash! A sea of fire and ash. The rigging's ripped. The topsail's torn. Just another storm. The water's black. It stains like ink, But we will never sink. the sky burns. The winds moan, But we will ne

My Father's Clothes the time bell rings... ...the joints of his leather jacket creak as he gets up jeans with varicose veins don't walk as fast as they used to but his trainers are on auto-pilot they know this route so well dark tonight and his glasses are blurry and these days more than a little jaundiced round the rims but his socks are tired and sore they want their bed his t-shirt wheezes in the night air it's lost all shape over the years and it's stained and it's ripped and it's faded and it's gone saggy round the waist the way they do his cap's going threadbare thin on top it's seen its share of rain of sweat of t

In The Porch Of Your Affections "Oh, I could fall in love with you," she swore. I've heard it all before, but with that "But…" Which other mouths have used to keep hearts shut. She leaves the statement open, and the door. It hangs on hinges, swings in stillness, wide. Beyond, the darkness drives me back, afraid – But now the invitation has been made I'm pushed..? I'm pulled..? Compelled to step inside. Another door reveals itself to me And in the porch of your affections, I Stand wondering which key I ought to try. It may be dark, but even I can see The only reason I have got this far – Un-uttered \'buts\' have left the door aja

It\'s the day after Valentine\'s Day, but this isn\'t a date. Your jumper is testament to that. If this was a few months down the line, if we had a relationship, it\'d be the jumper you\'d wear on Sundays for walking the dog in the woods. It\'s a jumper designed for snuggling up to after the fire\'s gone out of something, not for kindling the flame to start with. It\'s the day after Valentine\'s Day, and we\'ve been to see a movie together, but this definitely isn\'t a date. Your embarrassment at the flower is testament to that. The rose I thought I ought to buy, out of some sense of occasion, may go in a milk bottle of water for a couple of

Celestial  Light from darkness.         Chaos tamed.  He gives you life with His bright flame.  You circle round Him on a string  Which I in turn am tangled in.  You orbit Him in love and awe  The same I owe to you, and more.  Concentric orbits in His sky;  The Sun, to Earth, is deified,  And so (His skilful Grand Design?),  Your love for Him echoes in mine  For you.   And though I know His light  Reflects so dimly in my face  I feel no shame.               I know my place.  And looking down on you tonight  At peace, celestial, divine,  I know what He must mean to you.  A satellite you are to Him,  As

Once, the crow was a bird, like other birds. His plumage like other birds\'; his beak like other birds\'; his feet like other birds\'; his wings like other birds\'. He lived on seeds and fruit, as birds are wont to do; he soared through the sky as birds are so apt to do; he sang as sweet as any bird might hope to do. Once, it was enough for the Crow to be a bird. One day, the crow met Death. he looked on Death with the eye of a bird, and the eye grew wide, and the eye grew black. He touched Death with the feet of a bird, and the feet grew twisted, and the feet grew black. He tasted Death with the beak of a bird, and the beak grew hard, and t

The Magpie I covet all that glisters An accquisitor by nature, But I can see your future - Just cross my palm with silver, And I\'ll tell you what I auger. A clever trick with numbers A rhyme to be remembered, You\'ll sing it now, I\'ll wager. Can I interest you in sorrow? Perhaps a girl? A boy? I\'ll not specify the day... Tomorrow? Or tomorrow? Or tomorrow? Or the next..? But remember what I tell you When it happens to befall you, And you\'ll know your fate is fixed.

Raven Without me your tower will fall. Your walls, your roof, your all. I\'m not making impotent threats - I walk, and you\'ll live to regret. A bluf? Who knows? Your call... I go, and your castle will crack. Riot, ruin and wrack. If I leave, then what would you do? I\'ve always been stronger than you. Bluff called.              Alone.                      Come back...

Swift Nick and canting crew on another gallant foray, piled in his motor - six dressed-up-for-the-soiree, tricorn-jostling, masked roves. Sky's already starry south of Hammersmith, wind's a demon, moon looks hoary. No bandog's gunna bone them tonight - no, sirree. Takes more than a rum bite to catch this quarry! Still, thinks arch-rogue Nick, better safe than sorry. So better put some distance between any adversary and us, or else the morning drop might stand in for the glory, or rather, give us one (he knows the morbid story of scragged men shooting their last splash of bloke-purée the moment that they go) - way to memento mori!

The smell of cakes, a whiff of bleach the loo rolls and porn mags are just out of reach. a screw faced assistant slumps low in her seat gold rings on each finger, hard skin on her feet. Then in comes a mother with her hooligan beasts they spread like a virus to find sugar feasts, I wander the isles with a lost vacant stare I feel claustrophobic I'm gasping for air. I make my way over to pay for my bread I'm greeted by screw face not lifting her head, I long for politeness her eyes leave the floor, "Want a bag?" "No thank you" I rush for the door.